The Gun Seller

Lang bevor Hugh Laurie als Dr. House brillierte, schrieb er diesen Krimi. Wer kann, unbedingt auf Englisch lesen, der Humor ist trocken und rabenschwarz, ein echter Genuss. Die Story flott und aberwitzig, nicht gerade realistisch, der Held eine Art Anti-James Bond. Gute Dialoge, super Show Down.

Hugh Laurie hat seinen Helden Thomas Lang einige sehr treffende Sätze in den Mund gelegt. Meine Lieblingsstelle:

"When it comes to sex, it seems to me, men really are caught between a rock and a soft, limp, apologetic place.

The sexual mechanisms of the two genders are just not compatible, that’s the horrible truth of it. One is a runabout, suitable for shopping, quick journeys about town, and extremely easy parking; the other is an estate, designed for long distances, with heavy loads - altogether larger, more complex, and more difficult to maintain. You wouldn’t buy a Fiat Panda to move antiques from Bristol to Norwich, and you wouldn’t buy a Volvo for any other reason. It’s not that one is better than the other. They’re just different, that’s all.

This is a truth we dare not acknowledge these days - because sameness is our religion and heretics are no more welcome now than they ever were - but I’m going to acknowledge it, because I’ve always felt that humility before the facts is the only thing that keeps a rational man together. Be humble in the face of facts, and proud in the face of opinions, as George Bernard Shaw once said.
He didn’t, actually. I just wanted to put some authority behind this observation of mine, because I know you’re not going to like it.

If a man gives himself up to the sexual moment, then, well, that’s all it is. A moment. A spasm. An event without duration. If, on the other hand, he holds back, by trying to remember as many names as he can from the Dulux colour chart, or whatever happens to be his chosen method of deferment, then he’s accused of being coldly technical. Either way, if you’re a heterosexual man, emerging from a modern sexual encounter with any kind of credit is a fiendishly difficult thing to do.

Yes, of course, credit is not the point of the exercise. But then again, it’s easy to say that when you’ve got some. Credit, I mean. And men just don’t get any these days. In the sexual arena, men are judged by female standards. You may hiss and tut and draw in your breath as sharply as you like, but it’s true. (Yes, obviously, men judge women in other spheres - patronise them, tyrannise them, exclude them, oppress them, make them utterly miserable - but in matters of a writhing nature, the mark on the bench was put down by women. It is for the Fiat Panda to try and be like the Volvo, not the other way round.) You just don’t hear men criticising women for taking fifteen minutes to reach a climax; and if you do, it’s not with any implied accusation of weakness, or arrogance, or self-centredness. Men, generally, just hang their heads and say yes, that’s the way her body is, that’s what she needed from me, and I couldn’t deliver it. I’m crap and I’ll leave at once, as soon as I can find my other sock.

Which, to be honest, is unfair, bordering on the ridiculous. In the same way that it would be ridiculous to call a Fiat Panda a crap car, just because you can’t fit a wardrobe in the back. It might be crap for all sorts of other reasons - it breaks down, or it uses a lot of oil, or it’s lime-green with the word ‘turbo’ written pathetically across the back window - but it’s not crap because of the one characteristic that it was specifically designed to have: smallness. Neither is a Volvo a crap car, simply because it won’t squeeze past the barrier in the Safeways car-park and allow you to get out without paying.

Burn me on a mound of faggots if you like, but the two machines are just plain different, and that’s that. Designed to do different things, at different speeds, on different types of roads. They’re different. Not the same. Unalike.

There, I’ve said it. And I don’t feel any better."

Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young

A newspaper column by Mary Schmich, published by the Chicago Tribune on 01 June 1997.

Inside every adult lurks a graduation speaker dying to get out, some world-weary pundit eager to pontificate on life to young people who'd rather be Rollerblading. Most of us, alas, will never be invited to sow our words of wisdom among an audience of caps and gowns, but there's no reason we can't entertain ourselves by composing a Guide to Life for Graduates. I encourage anyone over 26 to try this and thank you for indulging my attempt.

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '97:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

To Avoid Disappointment... Aim Low

Mein Lieblingstext zum Valentinstag:

"I love being single on Valentine's Day. It's way worse when you're in a relationship."
"How so?" Davis asked.
"The Valentine's underwear, the Valentine's champagne, the Valentine's gifts, the Valentine's guilt..."

"That bullshit Harlequin romance emphasis on everything being perfect," Sam(Samantha) agreed. If you got a champagne headache by ten, sent back the lobster thermidor because you felt nauseous and discovered that your period was starting while you were back home getting kitted out in head to toe Victoria's Secret in the bathroom, you felt like a failure as a woman.

"I know," Janet said. "If you have a bad date on any night of the year that isn't February 14th you go home, make hot chocolate and marshmallows and laugh at what a prick the guy was. If it happens on Valentine's Day it's like you may never have a love life again. Double disaster."
The men were listening attentively. "It's just like Sex And The City, isn't it?" Colonel O'Neill said, happily. Everyone stared at him. He stopped talking.

"It's like..." Janet continued. "It's like when you're in a relationship you get bombarded with two weeks or more of crap that highlight the shortcomings of your own. You think, why do we never make love to classical music while drinking champagne, why do we never feed each other Haagen Daas in front of a roaring fire? Truth is, you wouldn't want to do any of that corny garbage anyway, but you're made to feel a failure when you don't."

"It's that childish idea that no matter how settled you are, on February 14th the magic love fairy is going to wave her twinkly little pink wand and you'll fall passionately in love again..."
"Yeah, and not only that, you'll magically turn into Sandra Frigging Bullock..."
Daniel coughed. "And I'm bitter? I feel like a Charlotte amongst two Mirandas."
"Hey, I call dibs on Charlotte," Davis said, prodding him with a pen.
"True romantic, Davis?" Sam asked.
"Absolutely!"

"Aww..." Janet sighed. "So what do you want for Valentine's Day?"
"Is that an offer?"
"No. Purely hypothetical. I'm using you as a test case."
"You're using me?"
"Lot of guys like that," Colonel O'Neill said, sagely.
"That's your perfect Valentine, sir?" Sam asked, incredulously. "Being used for cheap, sleazy sex?"
"I didn't say I was into it," Colonel O'Neill said, although the glint in his eye suggested that he was. "Just some guys are..."
"Yes, but what do you want?" Janet asked, desperately. "Because that was what drove me crazy when I was married. What the hell do you people want...you...you...men?"
"I vote for cheap and sleazy sex," Davis said, raising his hand. Tentatively, Colonel O'Neill followed suit.
Janet glared at them. "Daniel?"
"Um...yes. To...er...cheap and sleazy sex. Any sex actually. I mean, ha ha...y'know...forgetting how to do it. May as well not have a..."
"Okay! TMI!" Colonel O'Neill's interruption was greatly appreciated by all. Davis became inordinately fascinated by his ballpoint pen.

Janet sat scowling, arms folded. "Actually I was talking in terms of what you wanted as Valentine gifts..."
"Oh."
Sam grinned. "Dug yourselves into that one, guys."
"Did we ever."
"Chocolates are nice," Daniel said.
"They're not very...guy," Colonel O'Neill frowned.
"Men need chocolate too," Daniel retorted, defiantly.
"That's the thing," Janet said. "You guys have it easy. You buy a girl flowers, candy, lingerie. It's easy for you. We don't have a clue what you want."
"I like flowers," Davis said.
"I like lingerie," said Colonel O'Neill, hastily adding; "On women...obviously."
"Too late with the disclaimer there, Jack," Daniel moaned. "I'm already in the bad mental image place."
"I have very good legs, actually..."
"Please...Jack. Don't..."
"There is a dearth of good Valentine's gifts for men," Sam agreed.
"There so is. Like how many guys actually want a hat that holds two beer cans or a leopard print weenie wrapper?"
"Dear God..." Daniel whimpered, clearly struggling with the addition of these unconventional items to the vision of highly dubious loveliness in his head.

"Valentine's gifts for women are just as tacky," Davis said. "One year my sister could barely get into her bedroom for all the stuffed satin hearts and sad eyed stuffed puppies and teddy bears."
"Ah, but did she date any of the guys who sent them?" Colonel O'Neill asked.
"No sir. She wound up dating the attorney who handled the various restraining orders."
"Oh...um...cute."
Davis shook his head. "It all ended in tears. She married the asshole."
"Yet another reason why it sucks," Janet said. "Anonymous declarations of love tend to be called 'stalking' these days."
"And still nobody gets anything they want or need." Sam sighed. "What can you actually do with a red satin heart?"
"Nothing," Janet sniffed. "This is exactly my point. One year I bought Louis this power sander he'd been talking about forever because he wanted it. He gets it and he's like 'Oh, it's not very romantic.'"
"Personally," Colonel O'Neill said. "I would love something like that. A new lawnmower. It could be the Lawnmower of Love."
"Yes sir...you could cut the grass in your leopard print..."
"Okay. This is where I leave..." Daniel stood up.
"Daniel! Wait! I haven't told you about the garter belt and accessories..."
"Augh!" Daniel fled.

Janet checked her pager. "Oops...that'll be me. Someone's probably stuck in their zipper again."
"BDU pants have button flies," said Colonel O'Neill, frowning.
"I know," She smoothed down her lab coat. "I have no idea how they keep doing it. Maybe they just like me touching them down there. Later!"
"Bye!"
"Best go see if Teal'c's in the land of the living/not meditating, I guess," Colonel O'Neill said. "Then I guess I'll go find Daniel and describe my underwear to him until he makes me coffee."
"Bye sir."


by Anais

Lasst uns froh und Mutter sein

Bin beim Aussortieren meiner alten profil-Hefte über einen Artikel von Doris Knecht gestolpert. Und ich hab ihn sehr genossen ;-)

Ein paar Ausschnitte:

Diese alte neue Plage begegnet uns in jüngster Zeit wieder öfter: Frauen, die im Kreißsaal alle ihre Bedürfnisse gegen ein personifiziertes Bedürfnis, ihr Neugeborenes, eintauschen und sich selbst fortan nur mehr als Erfüllungsgehilfinnen einer Biografie sehen: nicht ihrer eigenen, sondern der ihrer Kinder.
Entschuldigung: Wo sind wir angekommen? Wofür haben wir rebelliert, studiert, sexuelle und zwischenmenschliche Möglichkeiten probiert und debattiert, mit diversen Suchtmitteln experimentiert, Ausbildungen absolviert, uns emanzipiert – um am Ende doch wieder Doris Day zu werden? Sollte es nicht darum gehen, Wege zu finden, die eine gewisse Lässigkeit der Mutterschaft in der modernen Arbeitsgesellschaft ermöglichen?

Der Still-Terror ist ein perfektes Beispiel dafür, wie Frauen wieder willig sind, ihre Unabhängigkeit für das Wohl des Kindes zu opfern: Denn was als konsumkritische Rückbesinnung auf natürliche Säuglingsernährung begann, hat sich zu einer Ideologie mit totalitären Zügen ausgewachsen.

Ja, Kinder zu haben ist großartig, auch weil sie einen dazu zwingen, eine Perspektivenänderung vorzunehmen und die Welt aus einem Blickwinkel zu sehen, der einem als selbstkontrollierte und berufsfokussierte Frau sonst entgeht. Wenn man dann Kinder kriegt, geht man, um in ihre Augenhöhe zu kommen, automatisch in die Hocke, und schau an: Von da sieht die Welt ganz anders aus. Lustig. Kuschelig. Übersichtlich. Das Problem ist nur, dass viele Mütter aus dieser Hocke nie wieder hochkommen. Und auch nicht wollen: Es ist doch herrlich, Mutter, nur Mutter zu sein. Muss man unbedingt mehr wollen? Ein bisschen ideologische und intellektuelle Genügsamkeit kann doch niemandem schaden?
Nun ja.

Doris Knecht, Profil 45/2005

All das Ungelesene

Mitternacht, Telefonseelsorge. Grad ist Ruhe eingekehrt. Da fällt mir dieser Text von Thomas Meurer in die Hände - ein richtigs kleines Geschenk. Berührend und spricht mir aus dem Herzen:


"Er sah aus wie ein Jäger aus einem Heimatfilm der fünfziger Jahre: den grünen Filzhut leicht schräg auf den Kopf gesetzt, dunkelbraune Lederjoppe, Kniebundhosen mit dunkelgrünen Strickstrümpfen. Neben festem Schuhwerk gehörten zu seinem Outfit ein Fernglas, ein Spazierstock, an sonnigen Tagen eine Kamera um den Hals. Ich habe ihn nie anders gesehen, obwohl er weder Jäger noch Förster war. Er arbeitete in einem mittelständischen Betrieb oder im Büro. Er war ein Einzelgänger, der außer seiner alten Mutter niemanden mehr zu haben schien. Als man ihn begrub, sagten manche, er sei ein feiner Kerl gewesen, sonderbar und nicht in die Zeit passend, aber nie unzufrieden und immer guter Dinge.

Der österreichische Autor Adalbert Stifter schreibt in seinen „Feldblumen“: „In dem reichsten wie ärmsten Menschen geht eine Bibliothek von Dichtungen zu Grabe, die nie erschienen sind.“ Ich stelle mir vor, welche Dichtungen von Waldromantik, Heimatverliebtheit und Jagdherrlichkeit vielleicht in jenem stillen Mann zu Grabe getragen worden sind, in denen er gelebt und geträumt hat und die er vielleicht nie mit jemandem zu teilen vermochte. Ein berühmter Literat soll, nach dem Titel seiner möglichen Autobiografie gefragt, geantwortet haben: „All das Ungelesene“. Wir alle sind am Ende ungelesene Bibliotheken, nie erschienene Manuskripte, verschollene Fragmente. Wie sehr würde ich dem stillen Jäger, der keiner war, und den Vielen wünschen, dass kein Buchstabe dieser inneren Dichtung verloren gehen, kein Jota daran verändert würde."