yakalskovich: (Avengers)
There was a tremendous hail- and thunderstorm here today, and I was seeking refuge under an awning while there was thunder and lightning and tremendous downpours that was so loud, I didn't even hear the loudly wailing (from the way its face scrunched up and its mouth was open) baby whose mother was hiding under the awning right next to me with the carriage, the street had turned into a white-water rafting area, and the hailstones were pinging off the pavement and hitting me like little icy pinpricks.

And I was standing there, grinning to myself, and thinking, "Really, Thor, you can't be that pissed off merely because all the fangirls like your little brother better than you?"
yakalskovich: (Domino Dress)
Finally, the Nazgul and I went to have our hair done again. We had found our hairdresser, Muriel, again. She's at a salon near the university now where lots of students go to have their hair cut. She did really good work on us.

Afterwards, we went to the Starbucks at the square where the demonstration had been two weeks ago, and took pictures of each other, for documentation purposes.



Here is me, with my freshly retouched Tracy-Turnblad style blonde stripes in my fringe.



And the Nazgul, with a green streak instead of a blue one this time. The lady Muriel had forgotten the pot of blue at home. Seems they're not keeping those extreme colours in the salon; they're her speciality.

In the Starbucks, people were a bit odd. To my left, there was a little high-heeled orcette trying to read a book by marking everything she had read with blue highlight marker. You could see the Nazgul's librarian heart flinching, wincing, and cringing at such a senseless sacrilege. On my right, a Japanese girl was reading and listening to music when suddenly, a very odd old man appeared and told her and me to take our stuff away, he had to sit there. "No," I said, while stowing my bag and denim vest behind me, "you don't have to, you want to." He sat, there, drinking tea and smelling slightly of used book shops, ramrod straight, with no hair, and a terribly, terribly green pair of trousers. In our usual drama coffee shop, we don't get quite that sort of terrifying dryness and oddity, or the sort of Essex girl (mutatis mutandis) that was mutilating the poor book on the other side.

We drank up, and fled.
yakalskovich: (Default)
At the end of a long day with lots of spontaneity at work and an excursion to feed the Nazgul's budgies, I was sitting in the train feeling slightly grumpy and only wanting home any more, idly listening to two women in their late fifties that had come from Oktoberfest and had obviously met there, because they were telling each other basics about their life stories.

I couldn't help it, they were right behind me, and not quite worth getting my MP3 player back out for.

One of them was telling the other about how she'd been born in Cincinnati and come to Germany as a professional singer, and how much she loves classical music, etc.

"Can you sing 'Ave Maria'?" the other asked.

And she just started to sing.

In a soft, perfect mezzo, very warm and gentle, not loud at all, with a bit too much tremolo (but that was to be expected, in a almost-sixty-year-old voice), she sang the Bach/Gounod Ave Maria in the middle of a suburban train.

Everybody turned their heads and fell silent.

The woman she sang it for had tears in her eyes. I don't know what the music reminded her of (my storyteller's instinct tells me it might have been her mother's funeral), but it was an utterly moving moment.

It had not been an especially nice, or just remarkable, day for me, before. But now, it definitely was.

One I won't forget.-

Football

Jun. 21st, 2010 12:14 am
yakalskovich: (Homo homini lupus)
The Nazgul and I went to the Australian pub to celebrate the cativersary as well as her first-ever point scored in a kendo tournament.

There was football there, but hardly anybody was there. To make it more fun, the staff distributed betting cards where you had to guess in what minute the first goal would be scored. I thought of North Korea, and bet on 52, the Nazgul was more optimistic and bet on 27.

Then, we had fudz. I had kangaroo and the Nazgul had emu, and they both were delicious. For entertainment, in addition to the football game, there were these two chicks sharing a bottle of wine and giggling their heads off. We speculated whether it was their second bottle or whether they were really such lightweights. They were looking at pictures on a digital camera and giggling, talking in English and giggling, looking out the window and giggling, and so on...

Then, the 25th minute came, and the first goal, and the giggling chicks started screeching and claiming one of them had bet on the 25th minute, and wanted their reward.



The waiter came with a fake plastic top hat and started looking through the betting cards of everybody, and did find theirs, and agreed to serve them free beer.

However, the chicks didn't want beer as they had had wine all evening, so they haggled with him over their prize, so finally he agreed to serve them a glass of free wine instead.

We left before those drunken lightweights could start dancing on top of the fish tank.

yakalskovich: (Medieval)
There was this trendy alternative French* couple going down to the train when I went to work just now, he with long bunched-up dreadlocks, she a bit older, thin as a rake, and with harem pants, carrying backpacks. The usual 'globalised anti-globaliser' type people, you know the kind I mean?

When I came down to the platform, I saw them again, having some sort of drama with the train going to the airport. He was inside, she was outside holding on to the door, pleading toward the front of the train where the driver had stuck his head out, and two big burly uniformed guards were coming.

'Uh-oh,' I thought, 'he caught the train, she didn't, and he doesn't know our trains well enough to stand in the door and block it until she'd have caught up.'

The guards had almost reached her when the door-button went green again
to indicate it would open. She finally noticed, pressed it, there was her bloke, and she---

--- leaned in and snogged him.

Then, she stepped back, the doors closed, the train left, she waved madly (the guards all the time lingering to see whether she would do more random things, for which I don't blame them at all), and then, she proudly went up the escalator again.

I stood there, cursing quietly, going 'WOMEN!!!' and 'Fuck me in chocolate, I did not just see this!!' in utter consternation.

WTF?? This woman just stopped the train to the airport for what, for one more last kiss?

There are women who think that their emotions are more important than an entire trainful of people catching their planes? And who actually act on that incredibly distorted perception of reality?

To say nothing of 'straight privilege'. Let me not even start opening that particular can of worms.

Fuck them all.-



*I had heard them talk; she had said 'extrèmement' in quite a sharp tone of voice when they passed, so I guess she was issuing instructions.
yakalskovich: (Canoodling kitties)
My big red cat is fatally cute when he sleeps with his upturned face half-covered with a paw. And my little black cat has incredibly long legs. Like a Barbie.-
yakalskovich: (Default)
... I fell to wondering about the strange compulsions cell phones put on us to make us lie. Some bloke headed for Loonybin Village (obviously, as he had some knocking tic in his right foot) was telling some person already there that he was immediately forthcoming. And he claimed to be one stop further than he actually was. One!! It makes a difference of two minutes. But the cell phone made him lie, regardless.

... I saw the Clint-Eastwood-esque bloke with his lovely, loving, adoring sheepdog again. The dog consented to lie on the floor today, but kept an elegant, possessive paw draped over its master's rough work-shoe, with a message of 'My human! Get your own!' to all potential canine competitors.- It's too cute for words!
yakalskovich: (Default)
Just now, in the train: a bloke and his dog. The bloke was sixty if he was a day, and looked like a character portrayed by Clint Eastwood in a movie: hard-bitten, work-roughened hands, very lived-in face that looked as if the man had spent time in a war, in prison, on the road, or a combination of it all. He could have been a demon-hunter, too, as in 'Supernatural'. Yep, he definitely had a touch of Bobby about him.

The dog was a sensible-sized critter of the collie type, with longish silky hair, black and white and some hints of brown, and fluffy upright triangular ears. I think an Australian sheepdog looks like that, but I don't know if that breed isn't a tad bigger.

The dog kept asking his human for cuddles and scritches, and the man provided them, to the open, blissed-out and abject happiness of the dog. He kept putting his paw in the man's hand, nudging the fingers with his nose, and leaning his profile against the man's jeans-clad leg to have the fur at the throat ruffled. And the man did as he was told, with a sort of dry, wry amusement, but with great, infinite tenderness. The love between dog and master was very, very obvious and palpable.

This wouldn't have been so cute if the human hadn't been this Bobby type, with those hands you'd expect to see working with big tools, chopping wood, pumping a shotgun, or throwing punches in a brawl. His face had that monosyllabic Clint Eastwood expression, too; but the dog gave him away. Soft-cored, very gentle inside, and he was the centre of the world for that adoring, fluffy animal. They meant everything to each other, and they were happy to have each other in a big, bad world where you have to be tough as nails or go under.

Together with [livejournal.com profile] essayel's link to the vid of the orang-utan and his hound dog yesterday this reinforces my impression that people and dogs belong together, that is, evolution has driven primates and canines together in order to cooperate, seek safety with each other, and face the classic nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw together from very early on. Cats are charming companions, but humans and dogs are meant for each other on a very deep-down level.

Like those two on the train just now.
yakalskovich: (Mephisto)
Human: opens letter OOOOOOH MONEY!!! CATS, WE GET LOTSA MONEY BACK FROM FACILITY MANAGEMENT! WE WIN AT SAVING ENERGY!!!!

Cats: OMG our human is going crazy again! flee, hide

Human: Silly cats! That means we can afford lots of tuna for you, too.

Cats: hide

Human: Ahh, well, you can't understand money now, tuna later. Let's have tuna now. opens can of tuna she happens to have handy, and serves it to cats

Cats: quickly pop out of hiding OMNOMNOMNOMNOM!! Ahhh, so it was something good!

Perseids!

Aug. 13th, 2009 01:38 am
yakalskovich: (Nebra Sk Disc)
So [livejournal.com profile] nazgulwears and I went to Theresienwiese tonight, where the Oktoberfest takes place every September (duh!), to look for falling stars, because it's a large open space with not so many streetlamps, in the middle of the city.

We hung out there for perhaps 45 minutes to an hour, and saw three definite big ones, and a few smaller maybes.

When I came home, some strange cats were snarking very loudly in the courtyards, and mine ran from one window to the other, tails very bushy, eagerly observing whatever feline wank was going on outside.-
yakalskovich: (Default)
As [livejournal.com profile] wiebke and I have often agrees, even the last crazies know when to get off public transport.

And I see them on occasion, because one stop before Miserable Village is Loonybin Village, where the big psychiatric hospital is that serves all of Munich and the area around. And yes, the rude term is justified, as sending somebody there in an argument is always meant offensively.

Today, my train to work stopped two and a half stations before that, in the middle of nowhere, because there was one of their usual mess-ups in the station ahead. The train line that serves Loonybin Village is perhaps hit a bit harder than the rest of the Munich S-Bahn, because sometimes, some crazies get out, and you never know if they don't try and balance on the rails or something.

After the train had been stopped for about eight minutes and the first terribly hurried people* of great self-declared importance had whipped out their cell phones and started calling people that they would be late, a bloke got up, whipped a bible from his backpack, and started babbling loudly about Jesus. It was so unnerving loud and distracting, I had to switch my MP3 player from Jethro Tull to Blind Guardian to drown out the noise. Other people in the train were getting visibly nervous at having that guy shout at them, and waving that icky bible of his in their faces. I considered using the emergency button to tell the train driver we had a psychiatric patient freaking out on the train -- but then, the train started once more.

The moment the train was moving again, the bloke sat down and shut up. It was so clearly a case of claustrophobia and religious mania as two symptoms of whatever it is that he is suffering from. As the claustrophobia kicked in in the closed train stopped indefinitely on the open track, he vented it through the religious mania. That makes the encounter no less unpleasant, but the mechanics seem to be very clear. And yes, of course he got off at Loonybin Village.-


*I was in no hurry, as I was going to Other Miserable Village to get stuff from the drug store before taking the bus back to Miserable Village and work, and had ample time.
yakalskovich: (Stone)
In the train home just now, there were two businessmen in suit and tie, talking. One was about 55, with a neat little beard, the other perhaps 40, and a bit pudgy.

Beard was talking about having been on a Jesuit-style retreat, and then Pudgy said he'd been was practicing za-zen of some Korean flavour for five years now. They started talking shop about postures and supports for meditation, and about the books of a Jesuit named Lasalle who'd written a book about zen for Christians which both Beard and Pudgy had read. Then, they continued to mysticism, and bemoaned the fact that rational thinking had discredited it in Christianity and Islam alike.

I stopped reading 'Flight Of The Raven' and just listened. Anybody dare claim modern times are utterly un-spiritual...
yakalskovich: (Default)
Getting your hair cut early in the morning to the background music of extremely explicit rap is majorly weird.

The Nepali

Feb. 3rd, 2005 09:01 am
yakalskovich: (The Princess' typist in RW)
Last night, when walking to the station from work at half past ten, a car stopped beside me trudging through the snow, and the driver offered to take me to the station.

'Never get in a car with a stranger.'

But I, trusting the mean sharp ends of the Nordic Walking sticks I was using for walking in the snow (without those, I'd be lost) plus, in case of an emergency, the frightening edge on my broken-off tooth, and the fact that I can call on some pretty tough entities within me, was lazy and got in.

It was a Nepali; his features somewhat Indien, somewhat Chinese, the writing on the orange banner hanging from his rearview mirror the same as the one on the Tibetan prayer flags you get in New Age shops.

There were indistinct things in his car that suggested he was coming from some work assignment: tool boxes, the like. He took me to the station. I politely declined the polite come-ons he couldn't suppress. When I got out, I touched the orange banner and said, "Well, at least your karma will be better for having helped me", and walked down the path to the station with my Nordic Walking sticks. It was a quarter of an hour until the train I had hoped to catch on foot was due; I might not have caught it, I though. But when I came to the platform, there were people; the last train was late and arrived the moment I sat down on a bench. I didn't have time to get cold, even. I was home shortly after eleven, and in bed by midnight, and am now widely awake, fresh as a daisy, and have taken even more Spartacus screen shots, and put them in my bucket.

Sometimes, you've got to effin' trust the universe.
yakalskovich: (The Princess' typist in RW)
Well, if you're typing for an evil character who tends to visit burnination on others, you might get burninated yourself. At least I was, by my own oven, getting the Alsatian onion-and-sour-cream pies ("Flammekueche") out for the dinner [livejournal.com profile] nazgul_nr_5 and I had in between movies.

Ouch!!

I slapped on some of the seaweed yuck I have in my bathroom, and then went to get the pie. Which had developed bubbles that were burninated as well. So, being a good little hostess, I took the half of the pie that had the black bubbles.

The Nazgul looked from her plate to mine and then declared "Erm, I think your pie has contracted the bubonic plague."

Whereupon I proceeded to die, but from laughter, not the burnination.

The burninated placeon my hand  is slightly triangular, has a red rim, is greyish pale in the middle, and (thanks to the seaweed yuck) hardly hurts.

Also: we watched two movies with pretty Goran Visnjic in, and after having seen him die in both, the Nazgul thinks better of him.-

Varia

Nov. 24th, 2004 10:26 pm
yakalskovich: (The Princess' typist in RW)
A few good things today:

Dramatic events with police involvement unfolded on our parking lot at work to the entertainment of all. Village gossip was exchanged by the bucketful. I get the conclusion of the story tomorrow, and am so stealing it for [livejournal.com profile] cpt_tantony as this is totally the kind of thing he'd have to deal with on a regular basis. Plus, over all the drama I fell back in with Lydl, our book-keeper, with whom I had recently fallen out. I don't like being fallen out with people; it grates so to always have to remember whom I am supposed to hate. I feel much relieved, somehow.

Because of yesterday's rain, I had left my bike at work and taken the bus. I remembered this factoid when I arrived at the train station of the suburb/village where I work. So I walked to work. It did me no end of good; nothing's better than walking through that deathly boring village to start thinking about really interesting and creative things. And I have to do it again on Monday, because Lydl drove me to the station after the drama.

Monday, because my boss-ess, totally worried about me dragging all that overtime into next year, has required me to take off the rest of the week. So, I am going to fall out of time again and live half in Australia, half behind the moon. I must remember to turn up for the concert of [livejournal.com profile] nazgul_nr_5's amateur orchestra on Saturday, though. According to her, both the second and the first violins are disgraceful this time.

I just got an email which told me I won a place on the guest list of the Apocalyptica pre-listening event for their next album - complete with the Alpocalyptics themselves. And so did the Nazgul. We've met those Finnish cellists quite a few times already, so it's not all that exciting, and we don't even know whom we're going to take along as a fourth person (two people per name on the guest list). The third, of course, will be the Lady Iris, who with the Nazgul and me forms the aimless world-wide conspracy which is unknown under the name of "Three Shieldmaidens of the Apocalypse" and not nearly feared enough, although we are quite dangerous.

On the less-than-bright side:

The jar of Japanese plum wine with real ume plums in that I bought today absolutely and categorically refuses to open and will not even budge to raw force. And ume plums are so terribly healthy!! *wails*

My CD ripper is on crack and can only count to five; so I yousendited only the first five tracks of "Wishmaster" for [livejournal.com profile] schiarire. Here they are again, because others might enjoy them as well:

She Is My Sin

The Kinslayer

Come Cover Me

Wanderlust

Two For Tragedy
yakalskovich: (Blacherniotissa)
Where did the year go?

The octarine bushes have shed their leaves and are octarine again.
yakalskovich: (The Princess' typist in RW)
At the bottom of the escalator in the train station where I get off to go home, there was a puddle of blood this evening. Just sitting there. Not smeared, not nothing.

And on the way home, I bough two fresh figs entirely because there's something utterly salacious in the way figs lie in your hand, soft and plump and taut and just begging to be squeezed, let alone bitten into...
yakalskovich: (The Princess' typist in RW)
Just now, my neighbour Angela came back from her father's place in a small town an hour's drive away from here. She was laden with all sorts of bags and things and rural goodies while her 8-year-old son Paul was shooting his crossbow (not a Burleigh&Stronginthearm, though).

I said hello, and Angela asked me whether I wanted apples, by way of a greeting, and in the same breath handed me five daffodils. She then meant to dig in her bags for the apples, but met slight  problems, as I was already doubling over with giggles while Paul was literally rolling on the floor with laughter, so she tried to calm us down first. Being offered apples but given flowers hit me as ever so funny. Of course, she'd taken the daffies as a given and then asked me about the apples, but still, the discrepany hit me as mightily funny.

Now I am the richer by four apples and five daffodils, and shall go over later to read some more "Watership Down" to Paul.
yakalskovich: (The Princess' typist in RW)
This afternoon, I was re-reading (an re-giggling-over) the Great Hairy Monster of the [livejournal.com profile] discworld_rpg, the Bad Iconography Contest of 300+ comments, when I noticed some unholy racket outside, like thousands of metal oil barrels being rolled by at once. Being a bit ditzy (thanks for the definition, [livejournal.com profile] wiebke!) at the time, I took some minutes to realise it was the St. Patricks Day Parade going by. We have one in Munich, and it's getting bigger and bigger every year.

So I put on some street clothes, grabbed my sunglasses, wallet and käkätin, threw over my Djelibeybian Egyptian woolen plaid/shawl/wrap Falk the Metropolitan had brought me from his jouney, and stormed out, following the noise.

There were marching bands of all descriptions, drums-and-fives from Scotland, an Irish ceili band on the back of an open lorry, enormous amounts of happy people, lampposts being sprayed with green paint, and even a Brazilian street samba school. There was an Irish Folk Dance group with a plethora of little girls in green velvet costumes reminiscent of "Riverdance", a few of them clearly of Japanese extraction. There were part-time Scottish warriors in wild tartans, with shields, swords, long hair and axes, half-Highlander and half-Nac-Mac-Feegle, who spoke German with a Saxonian accent among themselves. Diversity was achieved.-

The Parade and an insight )

The Name Meme as applies to me )

I have decided to listen to Irish music for the rest of the evening and will try to get a move on with re-reading "Pyramids", breaking off occasionally to do the effin' laundry. And if there are pictures in the online newspapers of the Parade tomorrow, I'll post links.

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