Category: Angestaubte Anekdoten


Probably it is the cold weather that makes brains numb and dysfunctional – the average Austrian would definately never have the idea to organize a four-weekend long outdoor festivals during a time of the year where your spit freezes in mid-air. Well, the Canadians do have ideas like that.

Igloofest is the name of this musical event that is basically like a huge poolparty. Instead of a pool next to the dancing crowd there is the frozen river tough, instead of bikinis hot girls wear fat winter jackets and woolen hats, instead of Coca Cola the nonalcoholics tend to drink hot chocolate, and instead of lampoons and garden torches huge ice sculptures and homeless-style barrels with raging fire coming out of them are placed inmidst the chillout-section.

For us mortal people, the time span for chillout is short – as soon as you take your gloves off, you are done, and as soon as you rest, you will get cold like the ice sculptures around you. I try cautiously to lick them and am now a bliever too that you will stick to it as if someone would have glued your tongue onto the frozen iglu-like objects.
The only way to keep yourself warm is by dancing fast, a lot, and in the tight wobbling of the crowd. Minus twenty-two degrees. I spit on one of the ice sculptures, the spit dangles down – and gets pretty stiff before it falls to the floor.

I am there with Chris, my colleague at the KFF, and Stefan, the Austrian who works at the Montreal Holocaust Museum. They buy beer, I get a  quite hot chocolate. After five minutes my little plastic cup is empty and I am as cold as I was before. Chris hints at me to drink from his beer. This time I don’t just feel bitter carbonated liquid rushing down my digestive tract – this time, solid pieces of frozen beer have joined.
Five minutes, and you beer freezes from within. Another time, I get a coke with ice cubes inside – and the coke gets so cold that instead of the icecubes melting, the coke around the ice cubes becomes cola ice – an extra bonus to lick off.

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At some point everybody is dancing like crazy, I guess around 300 people (150 more are in a warm hall which is about 30 seconds from the outside dancefloor, and people start to surf the crowd. There is a guy with a sombrero, a guy with a pink afro-wig, some girl with an Austrian alpine rescue outfit … and then there’s some guy in a grey jacket, brown-blue jeans with ripped off bottom seams and once-been beautiful brown leather shoes thrown over the heads of the dancing herd.
I have no idea where I am flying, under me the warm breath and the body heat rising up, on top of me the icy air sinking down on us, in the middle, where the temperatures fight for domination, I get pushed and thrown. Crowdsurfing is awesome.
“Get that guy down!”, someone shouts, and I feel two hands grabbing my shoulders, pulling me over the bending bodies of a couple of people, and more or less softly, I hit the ground. Such a good feeling to crowdsurf, even if its so cold your pee freezes on the house wall where you painted it.

For the fine occasion, I of course dressed to impress:

  1. My fine pair of socks
  2. Another pair of socks
  3. Third pair of socks to keep the other two from stinking
  4. Boxers
  5. Karate pants, stuffed inside my socks
  6. Jeans
  7. T-Shirt
  8. Sweater
  9. Second sweater with hoodie (for gangster look if required)
  10. Fat snowboard jacket
  11. Ridiculously thin gloves

The day after the party, Michka and me ar going nordic skiing. We step outside, -15 degrees Celsius (roundabout 5 degrees Fahrenheit), frozen ice on the sidewalks, and we carrying our long skies. We take the warm metro to Saint-Laurent, and with a bus from there all the way up to Mont Royal, the mountain inmidst Montreal. My hands are getting red and filled with needles, since I walked about 300 meters without gloves, and the deep temperatures make your fingers first full of pain and then slowly dozing off into the numbness of a frostbite.

Michka rotates his arms, and first I think he would do warm-up exercises but quickly realize that he does that to keep his fingers from getting cold: When you rotate your arms, the centrifugal force is pressing the blood outwards, namely in the tips of your fingers. Your blood has a decently warm temperature, too, so your fingers won’t fall off. The only problem: If your gloves are thin, they will let through the wind thats caused by the fast rotation…

We get our nordic skis on und start trampling up the hill. It’s beautiful: Everywhere snow, trees have frozen branches, the light scatters through the light forest .. “ooouch!”
This is the sound I make when I hurt a muscle on the sole of my feet that apparently was only constructed for Nordic skiing, but nothing else. After 300 meters I think I will just drop dead on this forest floor, and am close to simply give up and ask Michka to finish the tour on his own. Before I find the right words, I hear Michka approaching me “Toby, want to go to the top?!”
“Aaaaah yes, why not! Let’s go!”

Sometimes it is the best thing to continue even if you feel hurt, to overcome this temporary strip of pain in the long road of training for a sport. And “going to the top” means to go all the way to the belvedere. Our route looks something like this:

After an hour or more, my complete thighs feeling sore and the cold air rushing in and out of my lungs, we reach the top: A monumental lunch hall, right next to a huge plattform which gives you the most breathtaking view of Montreal available. Nordic skiing with a camera is not very good when you trip over your own legs every two minutes and have a layer of frozen snow all over your pants as a proof of ridiculous nordic skiing skills – a camera doesn’t like snow that much. So I try to describe what you can see from up there:

Montreals downtown skyscrapers are right in front of you, each emitting smoke or steam at the top. The rtooftops of all the buildings are nearly black, contrasting the orange shimmering from underneath, coming from the streetlights. There is a distant noise, as if someone turned on a humongeous radio and were between two stations in the wide wooshing nowhere. On the horizon all lights are dancing in the rising warmth of the city’s radiators, and everything seems so peacuful, untouched, icy.

We drank two cups of coffe from a vending machine – the most waterlike coffe ever made – inside the giantic, empty hall (which I guess is usually an extremely busy restaurant). No doubt that I’ll come there again without skis on my feet but with a camera in my hand.

Actually I planned to see New York like the last time, just rushing from John F. Kennedy Airport in East NYC by public transport all the way to mid-Manhattan and make it within two hours, catching the train heading north on Penn Station.
Stumbling with a fat suitcase full of dead rats (some people would actually identify them as rotten socks), a camera dangling from my throat and a backpack full of classic American literature – what could be more fun?

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Four weeks ago:
On my flight from New York to Los Angeles, I had all three seats on my side for me, my laptop (that I didn’t touch a single time during the flight), my backpack, a book about poker and about half a dozen empty plastic cups which once contained airplane Coca Cola.
On the other side of the center aisle, there were two guys, seemingly knowing each other, chatting for ten seconds after sitting down and falling asleep before the airplane even started rolling.
Six hours later, approaching LAX, the airplane got into turbulences. “Fasten your seatbelts” was the command, and even the nice Virgin stewardesses had to obey this order. The two sleepers woke up, and even a blind person could see them clawing their fingers into the armrests.
I admit my fear at that time, but since it didn’t really help the pilot if I would suffocate my good shirt in sweat, I decided to feel joy.
“Better than a rollercoaster!”, I said across the aisle. Scratching motion and burnt armrest smell coming back. We started talking, exchanged emails, and since then I knew Andrey and Loyzo. Shortly before I left Los Angeles, Loyzo invited me to a film set in NYC, and so my plan changed.

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This time I deposit my suitcase at Penn Station and walk around with my camera and my backpack, planning to meet Loyzo in the early afternoon. The battery of my camera goes dead all of a sudden, and the reserve battery’s energy is sucked out better than the blood vessels of my neck. I find a camera store online and, may it be coincidence, it is three blocks from Pennsylvania station. Upon entering my eyes exceed the size of my face. I have never been so flabbergasted by the features of a store.

  1. B&H Photo Video is as big as a Store like Ralphs or Food for less. Maybe bigger.
  2. It is filled with lenses instead of cucumbers, reflectors instead of pita bread, and
  3. The majority of employees, I guess more than 75%, wear little, flat black Kipas, important head covering in orthodox judaism.
  4. The number of shoppers equals the number of sellers. You remember those counters where you get advice on what to buy, and how they have numbers, like one to six? In that store, the numbers go from one to about fifty.
  5. On the ceiling, there is a huge system of conveyer bands, crossing like playmobil railroad tracks, transporting green boxes filled with ordered products. Everything is moving, endless amounts of boxes sailing above your head. If you would replace the kippahs with green hats, you would have no doubt that Santa Clause himself runs that store.

I walk out dazzled and amazed, with a nervous blinking eye that revolts again my decision not to buy anything. I finally hope for the goodwill of the guy at the Amtrak luggage storage counter to let me take out my battery charger of the suitcase, and I hope right.

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Saving the city from fire: Batman


Nice lunch for a decent price right next to Penn Station in Jimmy’s BBQ., perfect place for male New Yorkers who want to talk business with some BBQ in their mouth.


3-man breakdance group doing a 2-minute performance in the subway including back- and sideflips.


A fake kitchen on the film set Loyzo invites me to; a couple of people from the neighborhood were already happily spreading the word that a new foreign cuisine had opened… too bad that its all masquerade


The holding area for the extras. Oh, how I love holding areas for extras.

Loyzo introduces me to the set, and meet Andrey again, and my hands grab as much of the film set food as they can hold. After an exhausting day (I spent 4 hours of it powernapping at Loyzo’s apartment – he seriously offered me to sleep in his living room an a really nice matress altough he barely knows me), we decide to go to a bar within Loyzo’s walkie range. The closest one is this softcore-stripclub named Coyote ugly (who saw the movie?), where the bar tender girls hop on the bar and dance in tight jeans with each other to get the business running.
I, if course not at the tender age of 21 but 19, present my Austrian driver license to the bouncer. There are a lot of numbers on it, and judging his look when giving it back to me, he has no idea which of those numbers my birth date are.


Loyzo left, Andrey right, old dusty bras in the back.


After Loyzo gets back to work, I go with Andrey and a guy named Chris into a super classic American bar. The bouncer is 150 years old and just waves us through the door. You can only order two beers, and they both have to be either light or dark.

Going to the subway in zig-zag lines, I want to thank Loyzo with some candy. I buy one “Good & Plenty” and an enormous lollypop, which unfortunately explodes on the kitchen floor after I attempt to put it in the fridge. So, only good and plenty left for Loyzo.
Next day, 6:30 in the morning, I take a shower and Loyzo gives me some of the smoked meat he brought back from Europe. Believe it or not, it resembles Speck. Speck, Schnitzel and friends in Vienna are probably the only things I really miss here in North America.


On the way back, we get out before approaching the border – my pubic hair immediately turns into ice crystals. That’s gonna be fun in Montreal!

Yes Man” is one of the movies that stays in  your head after you leave the cinema. It is one of those that makes you think about your life. It’s basic principle is simple and derives from basic life philosophy: Say yes to everything you get offered, follow every opportunity that you get.

People who ask you to do something, always give you an opportunity to do something. This may seem trivial, but it has a deeper sense: By accepting others inquiries you always change your world, you always make experiences – instead of sitting at home you get up and out of your house. That is the basic philosophy of this movie, and only for that I already love it.
Jim Carrey finds himself in a huge world full of coincidences, and I see a parallel to my grown curiosity with which I went aborad: I wanted to explore the city, and if there was an opportunity to do something great or something bordering on stupidity, I usually went for it – and saw the world with other eyes.
Yes man, a great movie. Well, dear reader, let me ask you something:
Will you please watch it?

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A building on Wilshire Blvd. which walls consist of little round plastic shapes which shake in the wind – from further away, you can see wave patterns as the wind hushes through this architectural detail.


Climbing in the car through the window is a hassle


Bum in Westwood Village


Brunch in Westwood

Now, nearly four weeks come to an end. A pretty harsh one, indeed. Lorena and me, packed with my last purchases at CVS, get into her car, the shamu shuttle, ready to make some goodbye banana shake. I am slowly getting out of the parking lot with this truck-sized monstrosity of a car, neatly decorated with a sticker in the back, ready to roll. A Mercedes comes from the left, a metal pole in front of me, behind some Lexus yacht-like car, and to the right some space to reverse, including a car with whit lights, signaling that it is getting out of the parking lot too. I turn left, taking care not to touch Mercedes or Lexus, cautiously on the brake…

“Wah! Toby!”

I jump on one of the pedals, aiming for the brake, not sure which one I finally hit – but too quick, too late: the Shamu hits the pretty solid CVS wall and jumps backwards with the impact of the crash next to the Mercedes and comes to a halt. Blood rushes in my face, forcing the stored sweat under my skin to an exodus through the pores of my forehead.

WHY THE HELL DO I CRASH CARS WITH SUCH PASSION?

Maybe it is because my first word as a baby was not “Auto”, maybe it is because I did not adore cars until hitting the tender age of 18, maybe it is some genetic defect, maybe I’m a girl deep inside and just bad at parking. I don’t know, but this time I am not alone, bathing in my sweat. This time, Lorena starts laughing, taps my head, and I can kiss her no matter how big the dent in the front bumper turns out to be. We make banana shake, I visit her mom at her office and tell her about my fatality, and everybody is nice to me, the only thing I have to worry about is paying for the damage.

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This ad is really so bright.


Another homeless guy around Westwood


LAX during the night. Behind the tower you find the Encounter Restaurant

As we drive to the airport and dine in the exquisit Encounter restaurant, all car crashes are left behind. I am happy to get to see my Frenchies again, and happy to see Lorena again. At the security check I don’t have a lot of time for letting the tears run down my face – the security guards are entertained by my Austrian hat, laugh and one of my rare moments of melancholy goes by.
Well then, back to Canada!

But first, I think I should stop by in New York…

I step into Lorenas house, go to the bathroom, leave the door open and do something in front of the mirror, like squeezing out zits. Suddenly I hear from the door, behind my shoulder, really loud:

“Mucho Machor. MUCHO MACHOR TOBY!”
I twist swivel around and see Lorenas mom standing in front of me. I think “Shit, that’s the end, now I got caught..”

“MUCHO MACHORR! MUCHHHHO MACHORRRR TOBY!”
I feel my face blush in the brightest tones of red, and am paralyzed. After a couple of more Mucho-Machor-attacks I regain control over my nerve system and ask “What does that mean?”.

“Much better. Your short hair is much better, Toby.”
My heart starts pumping again. It was nothing concerning my boyfriendish activities, it was about my haircut.
I better learn Spanish if I don’t want to get a stroke in a couple of months.
The correct writing is by the way mucho mejor, but in Spanish a lot of sounds merge into CHHH.

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I’m completely at least a week behind in writing the blog, so now I need to catch up – my time in LA is nearly over again.

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We encounter some nice party at the beach, a friend of Lorena throws a bonfire birthday.


Jackie had a little horse, little horse, little horse…

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The small little grave of Marilyn Monroe, the all-time diva – that is the space commited to the American icon of beauty and desire; the grave is inside a wall, not bigger than a Japanese sleeping capsule.

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Last but not least we finally fulfilled my wish of rooftop bathing: On Katrine’s grandmas rooftop, there’s a neat jacuzzi, and despite or maybe especially because the freezing temperatures, we went up to take a bubble bath. The nearby sauna can be quite a treat too when you are surrounded by air so cold that your breath freezes in mid-air (in Los Angeles, the freezing temperature of water is 15 degrees Celsius).

“Ewww Toby, you look like a Leprechaun!”
Those were Lorenas words after our last attempt to dye my hair back to its “natural” color, which is somewhere between ash brown and dark blonde. I went through different stages in terms of hair color. It’s fashionable nowadays that men realize they want to try some different hair color and infiltrate this completely female dominated market of bleachers, anti-gray products and conditioners. My journey went something like that:

  1. Ash brown in Austria
  2. Dark blond through the strong sun of Los Angeles
  3. Brighter, brighter, brighter – the UV rays must suck out the melanin
  4. Blondie in Montreal
  5. Comeback to LA, and here the first mistake: How about jet black
  6. Emo phase
  7. A little lighter please: Dark brown/reddish
  8. Brownhead in Montreal
  9. Ugh, how red! A little more brown please.
  10. Red-brown
  11. Let’s get it back to the natural color, it looks like a redhead
  12. Totally Leprecauned
  13. California Leprechaun Massacre

This Leprechaun massacre was based on the plan of buying a haircut machine, cutting the red hair off and returning it “because it didn’t work for us”. Some when in midway of the shave Lorena and me realized that the red hair color, by scientists announced as “dead in 50 years”, is way more aggressive than anything else.

So, the oly applicable solution, was a 3mm-cut. Surely, Lorena forgot the top of the sideburns (where my hair is weirdly dangling down now), but all the rest of the Leprecaun could be successfully sent to hell. People who saw me last summer – same 3mm thing – will welcome the Skinhead nostalgia. For everybody else, I will kindly wear a black-braided wig with an exciting red hairband.

My boss and her husband, coming from a vacation in Las Vegas – the Disneyland for adults as they liked to say – write me from a hotel that they arrived, and so Lorena and me lead them around for a day.

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The restaurant chain known from the movie
Forrest Gump: Bubba Gump


Santa Monica beach


Pelicans challenging their competitors: fishermen

After a  good roll through Westwood and Rodeo drive, we take our Canadian visitors to the Disney concert hall. Instead of climbing up the stairs, we see a plaza with a fountain in the middle and explore this space. Lorena tells me that her prom will happen here. In April.


Fountains on a parking lot, quite an architectural adventure


Time to find a suit for prom

In Austria, New Years Eve (they call it Silvester) is a huge deal. First of all, everybody gets drunk or at least tipsy, usually champagne-related, and secondly, there are fireworks. Fireworks sale starts somewhen in October (right after Christmas sale which starts in July), and every Austrian is happy to buy some Indian childwork-produced firecrackers.

Not in Los Angeles: Here, people actually only get drunk. The highlight of the evening is the countdown, followed by a time span of legitimate, anonymous makeouts and uncontrollable kissing in the first few mionutes of the year.
This is the main reason why people go on house parties at New Years Eve: To kiss someone at midnight without all this hassle of having to talk and getting to know each other. And usually, that’s the way Lorena and her girl buddies roll – but not this year. Maybe it is because the got unpopular, maybe it is because everybody was stoned and lazy, maybe it was because they started looking too late – but this year, there is apparently no house party, and all her friends didn’t know what they shall do on this remarkable evening.

We decide to go to the Universal Studios’ CityWalk, a kind of shopping mall right next to the entertainment park that you can enter freely and spend all your money there. After stopping by at Kathrine’s house (that’s where I met Lorena for the first time), watching Katrine play endless Tetris, writing the last blog entry  while the girls finish their make ups and squeeze their feet into high heels for an hour, we go to Universal City in Kathrines car.
No offense Kathrine, but you drive like a maniac. If there would be a little child suddenly jumping out between two cars, it would be pudding on Kathrines car in a heartbeat – if it would be a whole kindergarten group jumping out, there would be no difference to the first case, there would be just more pudding.

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We pay the ridiculous amount of 25$ for parking and enter CityWalk. I’ve been there only during the daytime, so seeing everything lit up in mini-Times-Square fashion is quite an experience. The place is so packed with people, that the officials put up fences to declare walking direction. From all sides, you hear people in red jackets, equipped with huge headsets, shouting: “Go, keep it going! Please, move!”
We are like a herd of sheep in a light bulb factory.


Grinchmas. Jim Carrey is everywhere.


They’ve got balls, and we spend a shitload of money on getting them. A huge candy store on city walk, by the truthful name It’s Sugar. Very recommendable for diabetics.


Sex god in his favorite outfit: Bendable Santa Clause hat – horizontal stripes make thin – and the 80’s trash disco jacket.


Uuuuh ouch my highheels .. uuuh ouch! (Stop complaining, go barefoot)


That’s what they call fireworks.

A lame countdown, a ridiculous little silent firework, a bad live rock band (with an amazing cameraman that had a camera crane/arm, about 6 meters long, but that was pretty much the only impressive thing on this evening), and a complete turn-off right after midnight… “Okay, that was fun, so now please go to the exits. For all those who are parked at Frankenstein Parking, turn …”
In retrospective, the good part was that I could make out as long as I want, and didn’t have to talk to this girl. Kathrine, surrounded by some Japanese tourists and some huge soon-to-be gangsters, escapes with us on the search for a new year’s kiss, and told us afterwards that she made out with an ugly guy.

Finally, I can be proud of our Austrian boom-zack-Silvester with all its loudness and lit-up sky, theright timeto get lung cancer from the rocket fumes – it’s gonna be the best lung cancer you will ever have, I promise.

Es ist keine Frage: Die USA sind so unglaublich fortschrittlich, dass uns Europaern die Muender nur so offen stehen: Laserkanonen, frittiertes Essen und 7 Durschnittsbuerger der US-Bevoelkerung wiegen genauso viel wie ein ganzes Dorf in Indien.

Da wird es uns kaum verwundern, wenn man in Los Angeles Recycling eine ebenso hohe Wertschaetzung zukommen laesst wie oeffentlichem Verkehr. Auf der Strasse gibt es manchmal blaue Recycling-Boxen, in die man Papier, Dosen und Plastik gleichermassen werfen kann. Bloss gibt es diese Recyclingboxen nur in reichen Apartmentkomplexen; im Rest der Stadt verlaesst man sich lieber auf die guten, alten Metallcontainer, in denen man alles vom zweimal gebrauchten Kondom bis zu den Ueberresten einer Burger-Orgie entsorgen kann.

Und wie der leibe Leser erwartet, wird es natuerlich noch etwas geben: Eine Recycling-Zentrale.
Mit dieser Zentrale meine ich eine Station, die Dosen, Zeitungspapier und Plastikflaschen zurueckkauft und somit eine Art Pfand auf jedes recyclebare Gut vergibt. Lorena und ich fahren mit dem Shamu Shuttle, gerammelt voll mit leeren PET-Flaschen und saeckeweise gestapelten alten Zeitungen im Kofferraum, zum Freeway. Eine mit Faehnchen geschmueckte Tankstelle zelebriert mal wieder den amerikanischen Traum, waehrend ein Obdachloser auf dem Gehsteig dahingedeiht.


Wie huebsch


“look there, take a picture of him!” – schade, dass ich am Steuer war.

Etwa 10 Minuten auf dem Freeway, bevor wir die Ausfahrt “Cloverfield” nehmen. Eine industrielle Gegend mit einem Unuebersehbaren Mittelpunkt: Einer gigantischen, amerikanischen Flagge. So gross, dass nur kleine Teile der Flagge flattern, und das grosse Ganze traege auf- und absinkt. Dieser Flaggenfetisch der Amerikaner ging mir anfangs derbst auf den Sack, ist jetzt aber eine akzeptable Dekoration geworden.


Im Vordergrund: Muelltrucks. Die Flagge muss wohl an die 15m x 10m gross sein.


So sieht Recycling in LA aus: abgefuckte Container, liebevoller Stacheldraht rund um das Recyclingcenter und im Hintergrund die US-Flagge.


Tobi Bond


Flaggenfetisch


Zum ersten Mal von einem Menschenauge in Kalifornien gesichtet:
1) Berge
2) Schnee

Der Tag nach Weihnachten. Ich wache auf, viel zu frueh, aber voller Vorfreude. Ich oeffne den Laptop und sehe Lorena in Skype online.

“Heyho!”

nach fuenf Minuten:
“Here’s Enrico [Lorenas Bruder]. Lorena is still asleep.”
“She will write you as soon as she’s awake.”

Klasse, dann kann ich mich wieder aufs Ohr hauen und noch etwas laenger schlafen!
Kaum doese ich weg, werde ich durch ein Klopfen gewegt. Das Geraeusch kommt von der Tuer.
Sicherheitscheck unter der Bettdecke: Keine Morgenlatte zu verzeichnen. Klasse, dann kann ich dem Klopfer ja aufmachen.
Ich ertappe Lorena, die merh oder weniger unabsichtlich wohl mit ihrem Holzbein gegen die Tuer gescheppert sein muss, als sie diese Schneeflocken – Rezept sicher noch aus dem Kindergarten – vor meiner Tuer aufhaengt. Selbstverstaendlich hat sie die Skype-Nachricht geschrieben, um sich etwas Zeit zu verschaffen.
Ach, ich liebe Ueberraschungen.

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Durch Lorenas Strasse fliesst seit Neuestem ein Bach, sodass man aus dem geparktem Auto immer ueber die reissnden Fluten springen muss.

Der Truthahn ist so gut wie fertig…

… denn es gibt ein Weihnachtstag-Gettogether!
Es tauchen etwa 10 Bekannte, Verwandte und Freunde auf, und es wird ausgelassen gefeiert und gegessen. Ich sitze mit meiner Doedel-Weihnachtsmannmuetze vor einem ueberaus komplizierten Kombinationsspiel fuer 3-6jaehrige; das Konzept wurde wohl fuer kuenstlich gezuechtete Nobelpreistraeger im Strampelanzug erstellt. Kurz gesagt, muss man auf einem Verladebahnhof alle Waggons in der richtigen Art und Weise verschieben, sodass die rote Lok ihren Weg aus dem Labyrinth findet.

Drei Kleinkinder sind mit von der Partie: Einer, der dauernd lacht oder weint und ne tolle Latzhose anhat.
Einer, der einen halben Pannetonekuchen mit seinen Wuerschtelfingern aushoelt und aufisst, und nebenbei Grimassen schneidet, und letztlich einer, der recht aggressiv ist.

Aggressiv genug, um mir in einem Spiel entgegenzuhechten, den Kopf vorauszuschicken und seinen ganzen Aufprall auf die Stelle meiner Unterlippe zu konzentrieren, die vor dem Eckzahn liegt. Super, jetzt hab ich nicht nur zwei Aphten in meinem Mund, sondern auch noch eine zusaetzliche offene Wunde! Von dem Moment an mag ich nicht mehr mit dem Jungen spielen und lasse mich von dem Panettone-Verschlingkind inspirieren.


Der ausgehoelte Pannetone

Letzter Ueberlebenstipp: Bringt eure Lippen in Sicherheit, und probiert niemals diesen Schlecker, der aussieht wie eine Babynuckelflasche, aber gruenes, zungenfarbendes Brausepulver drinnen hat – der ist so sauer, dass einem die Geschmacksporen explodieren.