Category: Lifestyle


A more than secret recipe – only thousands of people faked it after I invented this meal (see google image search).
REQUIRED TIME: 5-10 minutes. COST: 5-10$.

Broccoli and steak is probably the best breakfast, lunch, dinner or snack for inbetween that I ever produced on my stove.

Surprisingly, it is also pretty much the only one I can do, despite my great potential to become a legendary cook (ask my roommate Yukkunn, the whole apartment is sometimes full of smoke because the food I make is so extraordinarily well done).

Ingredients:

  • 2 Steaks (one steak for girls) – no white lines (fat) in the middle of the steak
  • 1 Tree of Broccoli – the greener, the better
  • Butter (if not available, take oil, but be careful about pimping your cooking pan into a flame thrower)
  • Salt
  • Pepper
  • Pan
  • Pot
  • Water (for extinguishing fire)
  • Hot Stove

So, to get started, put the pan on the hot stove, turn it on full power and throw the butter in after a while.Fill the pot to 2/3 with water, and also put it on a full power stove plate.

Now throw a fair amount of salt over the steaks (as if you would throw it over fries, imagining you were the owner of a fries and cold drinks restaurant) and some pepper. Turn the steaks around and repeat. If the Steaks have huge fat layers on the side, cut them off with a knife. Fat has the tendency to tighten up when heated, so it will create a hard layer thats not only difficult to cut and eat later, but also uneasy to digest.

When the butter is meltung and optionally starts to burst bubbles, throw the steak in. Turn your stove fan on to get rid of the resulting smoke. Turn the steaks every 30 seconds to check on their state.

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In the meantime you want to get your broccoli as yummy as on this picture: Therefore, you need to shock cook it. As soon as the water in the pot bursts major bubbles and is obviously cooking, cut the broccoli in half and put it in the water. Within seconds, it will gain an enormously green color. Leave in for two or more minutes, but never let it get too soft.
The steaks steaming and brown, it may be a good idea to throw some mushrooms in the remaining bubbling butter.

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Et voila, Steak et Broccoli!

Montreal’s Public Transportation consists of buses, banlieue trains and subways. In the summer, they are quite frequented – in the winter tough, they are more than packed. That adds to the fact that everybody suddenly takes twice the volume as they would do during the summer – with the winter fat reserves and the voluminous coats, gloves, hats and other fancy equipment to fight the cold weather.

The point where it gets really weird and even dangerous, is when you yourself start using them.

Hazard 1: The Metro
Imagine you are standing on the platform at Berri-UQAM station, about to enter the orange line going to Cote-Vertu. The enormous chain of waggons – much longer than the ones in Vienna – on their rubber tyre wheels rolls in, accompanied by a clattering sound in the ceiling of the station. This is your command to step forward and anticipate the motion opf entering. If you keep standing somewhere further away, or worse, sit on a bench, you will have to fight. As soon as the doors of the subway open, a massive amount of people streams out like a raging river of hopping heads, shopping bags and coats, and you are cut off to the subway. It is like crossing a river – the water doesn’t take notice of you. I had to ram a woman with my laptop just to make my way through the moving crowd.
Another hazard here is that the doors close promptly, even before thge last person entered the subway. In Vienna, you may wait a minute or so in the station, but in Montreal it is merely thirty seconds. One time, I was standing right next to the door, it opened, I let two people step in in front of me, and while I put my nordic skiing equipment inside, the subway closed and I had to let go of the skis since my arms got stuck between the iron doors. Good that I was with Michka, and he could take care of the skis.

Hazard 2: The Bus
You think, lines in Europe (to get movie tickets, to buy groceries, to shake the hand of the major) are ridiculous? You’ll laugh your ass off in Montreal. What I see every day on my way to work, is thirty to sixty people standing in a line on the sidewalk. The first person in line stands next to a bus station sign.
What happens is that when the bus comes, everyone has to enter; and not like in Austria where you make proper use of your elbows and form a human bunch of grapes in front of the two bus doors, no, here everyon has to enter through the front door, and everybody steps in single filed. No doubt, sometimes when a bus doesn’t come, the line grows and grows, wraps around the metro station, making curves and you can’t see the last person when you stand at the beginning. I constantly pull out my cell phone and take pictures of this behaviour, but since a month or so, after sending the picture to Lorena, put my cell phone in my pocked and step in line, like a good Montrealais citizen.
By the way, the doors have handles that you actually have to push when the bus stops to let you out, otherwhise the door doesn’t open. And if there are three people getting of in front of you, chances are good that the door closes right in front of you before you could even get out. That’s a hint to drink some more maple syrup – the sugar will speed you up, lardass.

Three Austrians meet after work to buy cheap shitty ice skates from their low budget. No question, the cheapest stuff is to be found at the Salvation Army. I have never been to a Salvation Army before.
The concept is simple: You give old stuff that you don’t need to the Salvation Army (for free), and they sell it cheaply to people who don’t have a lot of money to spend. The earned money is used for charity.

We get a little lost, so I ask a man in front of a mission. His index- and middle finger are grown together and he has some problems speaking and is very nice. Finally, we find the Salvation Army store on 1620 Rue Notre-Dame O, Montréal. It is a warehouse-styled, two story high store. Unfortunately, my camera is having intercourse with my apartment room and was therefore not available, so I have to describe what I see:
Long rows of clothing in the entrance area, tightly pushed together. There is no need to play the prestige of empty space here – just too many clothes to fit the available, large space. The store is about 100 meters long and 20 meters wide. First, there are shirts. Then Jeans. Jackets, suits, pants, coats follow. You go through a big, open door and come into a room where there are old TVs, stereo sets, golf clubs, swimming vests, ice hockey equipment and ice skates.

We discover that the ice skates are all made for little girls – typical female shape, and too small to even fit our hands inside the shoes.
“Look, those golf clubs. Must be really cheap.”
“Yeah, let’s go golfing!”
The only thing missing are golf outfits. Well, Salvation Army has them too.

Hat: 2$
Vest: 4$
Golf club: 5$
Golf balls: 2$
Paint leftovers from camera rape: pretty much no $
Golfing in deep snow on a Saturday at 9 in the morning: priceless.

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to the right the painted balls, to the left my nose…

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Customized balls for Austrian pimps in the colors of our flag. One of the many patriotic moments that I have abroad.


the reserve ammunition: walnuts, surrounded by splinters of red paint that fell off when we hit the golf balls


Chris eating his main nutritious supplement: Donuts. Stefan about to send another Austrian flag to Nirvana. The red color enables us to find some of the balls after they land under the thick snow blanket.


Le Messieurs du golf fanatstique: Chris, Stefan et Tobi Bond.

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It’s on bitch – after a while our technique advances and actually hitting the ball with the club becomes a constant sight on our golf course at the foot of Mount Royal. The enemy is imminent and threatening, highly active at 9 in the morning with the sole purpose to destroy our culture of sleeping through until noon: The fucking joggers. One time, I make a too good shot and nearly hit one of them from a distance of 100 meters. That made me proud.

Basic golf rules: (at least that’s what we do)

  1. Stand sidewise to the shooting direction. Legs stretched. Take the golf club in both hands, and stretch the arm that is closer to the ball. Twist you upper body, swing and SMACK – hit one of these amateur joggers.
  2. If the ball is right in front of you, it will leave in a 20-degree-angle or so. The further you step to the side where you swing, the higher the ball will take off since it is hit later in the circular swinging motion. The further you sidestep in the shooting direction, the flatter the ball will take off. If you step too far, nothing will take off but the face of one of your fellow golfers.

Nothing is staying untouched by the snow and the human way to deal with it. See now … fucked up cars, ice flowers and all kinds of stuff that people in Los Angeles have neither ever seen nor heard of.


Door opening systems as seen from the “Poussez”/”Push”-side


Ice flowers are awesome!



The areas where brown snow sticks mark the future rusty parts of this pickup truck.

Edit: PICTURES FROM THE GROVE

Somewhere in Beverly Hills, around Fairfax Avenue – where I used to live for two weeks in a hostel – is a huge parking construction, bordering on a splendid shopping center, called The Grove. Similar to the Americana, but smaller. Its cute attempt to imitate European, edgy and unplanned downtown shopping alleys is pretty successful; the Grove definitely has a full-time demand of its customers.
Lorena and me park on the highest level available, since we realized the possible beauty of a view that we encountered that one meaningful sunset. It is one of our typical shopping trips – Lorena telling me what would look good on me, me trying on that stuff in front of her, and then abandoning 90% of the silkwear due to too high cost.
This time tough, one shirt convinces me and I wear it right away. Actually, Lorena and me were dressed up before, she indeed dressed up, and I in jeans, shirt and tie. We were about to go to an award, but could not get two tickets, so we went in the same attire that we would have worn to The Grove.
We see: Another beautiful swimming session of the sun in the sea of smog (which comes gradually back with the warm weather)…

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…exquisit hats for the winter season (my bald head requires some additional insulation before all the warmth produced by brain activity vanishes into the outer space)…

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…and again a circular fountain with a profound water show.

A sticker store where you can spend hundreds of dollars in action figure stickers, Disney stickers, car stickers and so on…

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…and a store only made for hot sauces, and to my delightment also carrying “The Source” – the remarkedly “hottest sauce on earth”. In its nature it comes pretty close to a strong acid – one drop directly on your tongue and you can finally forget about the painful process of getting a hole made for a piercing; the source will do this service for no charge. Well, unfortunately, a couple of mililiters of The Source cost 129$ in this store. Let me give you a little insight in hotness of spices: There is a unit called Scoville, which measures the spicyness of a certain product.
Start off with 500 Scoville for a Pepperoncini, go ahead with medium Tabasco sauce at 5,000 Scoville, and at some point you’ll hit The Source with 7.1 million Scoville of spicyness.
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For all our lovebirds – the grove is good for taking a girl on a shopping date.
When we are about to get into the car again, Lorena drags me to a kind of balcony that oversees the central plaza.
Not just that, it is also directly above a walkway and as I look down on the people passing by, a water drop spirals downwards six stories before hitting the ground.
“Let’s spit on the pedestrians!”
Just five minutes in the artificial rain business, Lorena exclaims “I think this policeman just saw us!”, and we grab each other like partners in crime and make a run for it. How much I love this girl for her craziness.

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Brad moved out of his room and needs “my” couch for the next few weeks, so I had the obligation to find a new sleeping space. I desperately asked around and facebook-messageed people. For the first out-of-stoner-apartment night a friend named Mike let me crash in his place.
Mike is living in the basement of a close fraternity house, and for the first half hour hanging out there, we mostly talk about women, Europe and California and stare at a blue, blank screen on his TV. While watching some crappy movie about a wannabe-gangster in posh Malibu, I doze off.
The next day, I am quite sure that I will be able to sleep at Leif’s – another buddy that goes to UCLA and has a talent for math and nonsense humor – place on his couch.
The night I arrive, there is no Leif there tough – he is on a party and expects me there – and so I innocently plan to sleep on one of the 6 huge couches in the fraternity lobby. This fraternity was thrown out of the house for a couple of unknown reasons, and little by little, people are moving in that want to start the fraternity again.
Not everybody is out that night tough, and instead of falling asleep, I randomly meet a couple of people, go to a trashy sausagefest (the vast majority of a party crowd are men), learn about various French fish dishes and nearly manage to force three guys to the ground in their laughter about some transvestite remark that I make.

Leif doesn’t show up, and I want to hang out with Lorena the next day early in the morning, and as random as the rest of the night was, I meet one of the oldschool fraternity guys and he offers me room number 16 for th last couple of days I will stay in LA.

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Schools starts again for Lorena, and so I have the choice of either sleeping into the day in room number 16 or getting up at 6 in the morning and spending my time at Starbucks. Due to the high working efficiency that I exprience in coffee places, I choose the latter one. So I meet Lorena for a couple of days with my laptop under my arm in front of the fraternity, and while she adjusts her school clothes, I race up Sunset Boulevard to drop myself off at Starbucks while she sits in school. In the last couple of weeks, I made random aquintances in Starbucks, out of which I handpick you the best:

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Mr Ogidobodo-Rastafari
A man of maybe 50 years, with huge rasta dreads and a really talkative mouth that misses a couple of teeth. He is surly on of the candidates for medical Marijuana, and starts telling me stories how he had a TV show in Los Angeles every monday with more than 10,000 viewers, and how her interviewed all kinds of famous scientists for his show. He wants to put the show online and following to my answer “if I would be good with computers”, he asks me for assistance to buy a computer and get his show running online. The conversation gets pretty odd after he tells me about this tribe in Africa that has connections to extraterrestrial beings and that the world needs to accept wonders like that.

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The guy in the blue shirt
He claims to not look his age – I guess him silently in his seventies, before he reveals to me that he is in his fifties. There are two cool stories that he tells me and everybody else: The first on is that he was once going to a boy school pretty much opposite of the girl school that Lorena goes to, and in those good old days where there were no security cameras, the good looking boys (he seemed to be one of them in his story, altough I couldn’t tell his handsomeness in young years) would sneak across the street over to the girls dorms and “kiss them” and “sometimes touch them, you know”. He is very good in telling that story with hand and feet, and even if you don’t requestit, hewill repeat it for you about four times in a row before he is finished.
The secondstroy is that he used to work for the fire fighters before he retired. Actually, he first worked for the fire fighters, then the ambulance, and then the police. I was amazed and asked him which was the most fun, and he chose the fire fighters as his favorite. On the question if he was on scene he objects and clarifies that he worked for all these departments in an office.
The guy in the blue shirt always wears his blue shirt, and seems to be in Starbucks every day. He sometimes just sits and stares straight ahead for more than an hour, and sometimes he approaches the people sitting next to him and telling them his story.

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The Turk
I don’t know much about him, but one day I asked if I can sit on the same table, and he said yes. He was about 30 years old, three-day beard and business attire. After a couple of nonconversational minutes he produces a sandwhich in this typical hard plastic wrapping out of his business case and offers me to join him eating it. I thank him and take one of the halves that are in the box. Twenty minutes later, he puts his laptop away and says goodbye with a smile – and leaves the other tasty half of this sandwhich with me. The box sais something like “$6.55”.

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Douglas
Actually, I met the Turk last, but Douglas was by far the most interesting one. First of all, I still have no idea wether Douglas is a legitimate person or not. Out of all my Starbucks-aquintances he is the only one whose email adress I keep, and the only one that really raises interest in me.
This particular day my cellphone is accidentally empty. I make myself dream about waking up and wake up at 3AM, 4AM, 5AM and 5:40AM in room number 16. After a shower, I still have a good amount of time left, so I start working on my paper for the Gedenkdienst. Completely in flow, I forget about time, and the next thing I know is that the watch on my laptop says 6:46 – and I have to be outside a 6:45. Accidentally, Lorena is still in the parking lot, and we drive to Hollywood.
By chance, none of the big chairs is free, so I have to plug my laptop in on this table where this one guy sits.
We really get going after I look after his laptop for a couple of minutes, where he opens a Word document and lets me read the first two chapters of his autobiography. Later I find out that he started off as a bush pilot in the US, then South America, the Russia and couple of more countries. He tells me about how he had a gold mine in the Amazon jungle and how he trained himself to wake up every day at 4 in the morning, with four hours of sleep, because if you want to be a global player, so he always tells his son, then you have to get up in Los Angeles when people in New York wake up.

The story of his rollercoaster carreer, which includes yacht companies, privatye jets, gold mines, and on the other side two times homelessness, is pretty fascinating and at the same time dubious.
He tells me about his recent project, an invention his brother made together with him, that shall be sold to General Motors; I tell him I would recommend him to do that whole thing in 3D and show him some of my portfolio.
He grabs his wallet, pulls out fourty dollars and says “Let’s get started then!”

While I work next to him in Cinema 4D, he tells me to ban words like “maybe”, “if”, “probably” from my vocabulary, and to stay away from dreamers.
“The people you want to meet are doers, not dreamers. Stay away from dreamers.”

At the end of our aquintance he gave me a business idea. Afterwards, I asked my dad for advice and he told me the idea had a couple of flaws. I think about realizing the idea any way, not because it is so good, but to get my mind started on thinking business.

In den USA gibt es ein paar Supermarktketten, deren Geschaefte nur im Supersize-Format erhaeltlich sind; jeder Laden dieser Kette hat mindestens zehntausend Sachen im Regal stehen. In Amerika ist einfach alles doppelt so gross – die im deutschsprachigen Raum populaere Kette Hofer/Aldi hat aehnliche Quadratmeterleistung wie in den USA der Alternativen-Healthy-Living-Hippster-Laden Trader Joes, der nach dem Prinzip “zierlich, aber manierlich” verkauft. Die Riesen dem Preis nach geordnet:

  1. Food4Less – super Qualitaet, laecherlicher Preis
  2. Ralph’s – relativ teuer, aber immer wieder eine Freude
  3. Whole Foods – etwas teurer als Ralph’s, wenn man keine andere Moeglichkeit hat
  4. Mayfair Market (jetzt Gelson’s Market) – falls man schon genuegend 100$-Scheine zum Spass im Ofen verheizt hat, und die Hose langsam durch das dicke Portemonnaie platzt, dann sollte man schnellstmoeglich diesen Laden aufsuchen.

In Westwood gibt’s leider keinen Food4Less, also tut man im Ralph’s einkaufen tun. Die Exoten unter uns, die neben Bananen, Pfirsichen, Orangen, Aepfeln, Zitronen und Birnen auch schon mal Sazumas, Ananas, Grapefruits oder gar Granataepfel ausprobiert haben, duerfen sich selbst zu kulinarischer Offenheit beglueckwuenschen. Zumindest in oesterreichischen Massstaeben. Geht man jedoch nach Kalifornien, wo nicht nur alles moegliche Obst wachsen kann, sondern auch die Population kulturell total durchgemixt ist, stoesst man dann auf solche Fruechte:

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Zum Abkuehlen der Geschmacksnerven: Arizona-Eistee. Funktioniert auch exzellent zum Kamera-Zerstoeren.

Die letzten Tage kam schreiberisch nicht viel aus zwei Gruenden: Regen und Poker. Aber eher Poker.

An Sachen wie Regen oder gar Winter dachte ich in Los Angeles vielleicht ein, zwei Mal nach einem schwitzigen Alptraum – aber dass das Realitaet werden koennte, wollte ich nicht wahrhaben, bis ich es am eigenen Leibe erfahren musste. Wer fleissig die Temperaturanzeigen im Blog abgelesen hat, der wird unglaubliche, aberwitzige Nummern wie zum Beispiel “7 Grad Celsius” in der Los-Angeles-Box gesehen haben. Und ich hab doch glatt meine oesterreichische Kaelteresistenz aus Gewichtsgruenden und Tollkuehnheit in Montreal zurueckgelassen. Die Idee, meine flauschige Decke mitzunehmen, war in den letzten Naechten lebensrettend; schliesslich besteht die meiste Waermeisolation in Kalifornien aus Fliegengittern und Jalousien.

Tja, und durch das viele Pokerspielen mit Lorena sind meine Wach- und Schlafenszeiten komplett ueber den Haufen geworfen. Zeit genug, mit Lorenas Minivan bei einem Luftballongeschaeft quietschend stehen zu bleiben, die Tuer aufzuschwingen, mit einer Schere zu einem Luftballongeschaeft zu laufen und Schnipp-Schnapp, die grosse Luftballonkette, die dort tagtaeglich neu zur Werbung aufgehaengt wird, abzunabeln, zurueck zum Auto zu laufen, und sie in den Rueckteil des Minivans zu stopfen.
Am Morgen wuerde die Kette so oder so abgeschnitten werden und durch eine neue ersetzt; nehmen wir dem Luftballongeschaeft mal die Arbeit ab und gehen auf einen mitternaechtlichen Raubzug inklusive Fluchtwagen!


Fuegt sich nahtlos in unser Apartment ein…

Canon dachte sich einst, sind wir doch mal ein bisschen lustig und machen wir ein bisschen mehr Geld – und entwickelten eine Objektivreihe, die nur auf bestimmte Canon-Kameras passt. Die EF-S-Reihe.

Ganz klar hatte ich das spezielle Vergnuegen, aus allen X-Millionen verschiedenen Objektivarten natuerlich ein EF-S-Objektiv zu besitzen. Die EOS 300D, die zum Objektiv passte, habe ich gemeinsam mit Lorena durch Eistee heimteuckisch gemeuchelt – und die neue Kamera, eine EOS 10D, die passt natuerlich nicht zum Objektiv. Der Hauptunterschied liegt in einer Ausfraesung der 300D, die es ermoeglicht, dass ein hineingestecktes Objektiv laenger sein kann. Das ist jetzt nicht sexuell gemeint.
Wobei Kameras doch irgendwie sexy sind.
In die 10D mag ich jetzt nichts wirklich hineinfraesen (auch wenn ich ohne zu Zoegern den Fisch in den Ofen stecken wuerde und danach- also gibt es nur eine Loesung: Das Objektiv zurechtzustutzen.

Im Internet finde ich eine Anleitung, wie man das Objektiv kuerzt. Mit Geoff’s Taschenmessersaege eines billigen Leatherman-Klons, ritsch-ratsch, das ueberschuessige Plastik weggemacht, mit dem Messer die ueberstehenden Stummel weggeschnitzt, und das Objektiv eingepasst: Laeuf inklusive Autofokus besser als je zuvor! (Und das liegt nicht an der Vaseline, die ichsicherheitshalber hinzufuegte)


Links die 18-55mm EF-S Linse, in der Mitte ein Gummiring und das abgesaegte Plastikteil, und rechts die offenliegende 10D.

Auf der Bartparty in Boston hab ich meinen Torso verkehrt herum aufgesetzt. Hier endlich die Fotos:

Es gibt diese grandiosen Einfaelle, aus denen Nationen entstehen, einst unheilbare Krankheiten besiegt werden oder glaenzende Discokleider aus laengst vergangenen Zeiten gekauft werden.

Ich persoenlich als Gutmensch entschied mich fuer letzteres und erhandelte um 24$ eine praktische Windjacke mit aufgestickten Reflektoren in Diamantform. Die Jacke ist von so umwerfender Schoenheit, dass ich sie ohne Zoegern zum Ausgehen anziehe. Meine Motivation ist durchaus fundiert, auch wenn ich freiwillig aus der offenen Beziehung mit Lorena nach fuenf Wochen Intensivkurs “Vaginaldenken” in Los Angeles eine geschlossene Beziehung gemacht habe, haelt mich das nicht vom scheinheiligen Flirten und Popoklopfen ab. Popoklopfen ist aber das Maximum, weiter gehe ich nicht. So zumindest mein Vorsatz.

Es ist ein Uhr dreissig. Wir tanzten schier unglaublich lange in einer Bar namens “Gogo Lounge”. Auf Franzoesisch muss Gogo etwas anderes heissen als auf Englisch, zumindest habe ich keine leichten Maedels und schwere Stangen gesehen. All die Freunde, die auch beim Umzug geholfen haben, verschwinden, und es bleiben ich und Michka. Vor ein paar Stunden erzaehlte er mir von seiner Fantasie, ein Maedel mit blonden Haaren und einem roten Weihnachtsmann-Kostuem flachzulegen – und ich sehe ploetzlich ein Maedel mit blonden Haaren und einem riesigen, roten Schal. Good enough.

“Yeah, she’s pretty cute, but .. I don’t know. I have to pick up my bike tonight, so we should go there.”
“Sure, whatever you want, Michka. I’m not the one who wants to get chicks tonight.”

Michka passiert das Maedel und beinahe sieht es so aus, als waere die Geschichte hier zu Ende – doch dann, PAH-PAH-PAH!, schlaegt Disco Stu zu.

“Nice. The red scarf is fitting your blonde hair very decently.”
Billig, denkt sich der Leser. Doch Disco Stu kann billiger als ein geiziger Australier sein und trotzdem damit davonkommen.
“Oh, thanks, umm, that’s a really cool jacket!”, meint sie und deutet auf meine glaenzend strahlende Umhuellung.
“Thanks! Honestly, this guy over here, Michka, he made it.”
“Ooooh, no-no-no-no, I did not make that. No, not me!”, meint er mit hochgezogenen Augenbrauen.
Das Maedchen mit dem roten Schal, im folgenden Rotkaeppchen genannt, lacht und grapscht Michka in das Glacis der Nippel.
Rotkaeppchens Freundin, Schneeweisschen (wegen dem weissen Schal), beendet ihr Gespraech mit dem Kerl, der schon seit knappen zwei Stunden versucht, in ihre privaten Gemaecher zu gelangen, und beginnt mich anzutratschen. Die beiden laden uns nach ihrer Rauchpause ein, wieder mit ihnen in die Bar zu gehen – Michkas Hoden signalisieren ein zusammengezogenes JA, und ich als radikaler Cockblockgegner ziehe natuerlich mit meinem Freund zurueck die warme Gebaermutter der schnelllebigen Beziehungen.

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Es gibt in der Mode nichts attraktiveres als das Schrillste vom Schraegsten, solange es mit dernoetigen, trotteligen Unverfrorenheit getragen und ausgenutzt wird. Ich spuere die maennlichen Schulterklopfer und Brustboxer im Minutentakt pochen, begleitet von “Hey man, that’s an awesome Jacket!”.
Auf die Frage, wie viel ich dafuer geblecht habe (900$ man?!), winke ich ab und meine, ich werde den Preis nicht nennen – ich moechte schliesslich nicht mit meinem Geld angeben.

Das Schoene am Aufreissen-Gehen ohne Verlangen ist, dass man sich alles erlauben kann, ohne sich die Konsequenzen (naemlich Abscheu) allzusehr zu Herzen nehmen zu muessen. Popoklopfen hat da Prioritaet, speziell wenn es zwei simultane, schallende Arschwatschen sind, die mich ohne viel Zoegern sofort aus der Gruppe aus 30-jaehrigen Maedchen hinausbefoerdern, die mir vor kurzem noch kecke Kommentare zuwarfen.

Michka fragt mich, ob ich mit Schneeweisschen die Polka trampeln will, und ich willige keusch ein. Das Maedchen hat mich ein bisschen zu gerne, und ich bemerke einen aehnlichen Effekt wie bei den Schwulengeschichten:
Je mehr ich versuche, kein Interesse zu zeigen, aber trotzdem freundlich zu bleiben, desto mehr werde ich belagert.

Schneeweisschen hat mich zwar nach keiner Nacktfotografie gefragt, aber das ehrlich-betrunkene “It’s soooo nice to meet you” war dann doch etwas zu viel des guten.
Als meine Herzensdame eine rauchen geht, erzaehlt sie mir von ihrem 2-jaehrigen Job als Entertainer auf eine Cruiseship. Zwei Jahre absolut freie Kost und Logis, unversteuertes Einkommen auf internationalen Gewaessern und endloses Reisen mit wenig Ausgaben, umgeben von schrumpligen Senioren mit grossen Herzen und entleerten Bankkonten – das ist die Art von Leben, die ich mir irgendwo vor, zwischen oder nach dem Studium vorstelle. Schneeweisschen bietet mir an, mich in Kotakt mit ihrer ehemaligen Cruisegesellschaft zu setzen.
Die Vorstellung, dass ich diese (bereits seit langem existierende) Idee umsetzen koennte, eben genau wegen der Kausalkette die ihr in diesem Post gelesen habt, bereitet mir schieres Vergnuegen an den Strudeln des Zufalls.

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Nach einem Barwechsel in einen wahnsinnig geilen Club mit heissen Frauen und keinem Eintritt – typisch fuer Montreal’s Boulevard St. Laurent – gestehe ich meinem Maedchen, dass ich eine Freundin habe und nicht weiter gehen werde. Im Hinterkopf gruselt mir es immer noch vor den Haendchenhalt-Versuchen, die ich in die Gentleman-Arm-Einhak-Geste umwandelte, und die Kommentare wie “We could go alltogether to your place, to chat and to drink, and then we could take a cab home”. Gut gemeint, aber ich habe meinen Sexdrive 3000 Meilen westwaerts geschickt.

Die Hiobsbotschaft laesst ein zaghaftes Laecheln mit einem “Oh, that’s ok, I’m not a sex monster or so” sehen, doch nach einem kurzen Toilettenbesuch bestellt sich das arme Ding einen doppelten Whiskey und verfaellt beinahe einem 50-Jaehrigen Goldketterltraeger.
Um drei Uhr Frueh wuensche ich der Belegschaft eine Bon Nuit und laufe in meiner Discojacke davon.