Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Why you should expect a technological revolt

So the fascinating thing about Zebra Finches, and maybe all other types of finches as well (I don’t really know, it’s not like I read EVERYTHING I could about these birds so as not to kill Dumpling), is that each male makes up his own song. He draws inspiration from his dad and from whatever he hears in the environment and then crafts a completely unique masterpiece.

We’ve never met Dumpling’s dad, but we’re moderately confident that he was a cyborg, because Dumpling sounds like a cross between a modem, a fax machine and some kind of beeping device. Like maybe a microwave. Or an atom bomb. And he’s so taken with his composition that he trumpets it out every few seconds. Feverishly.

We suspect that he’s mounting an army of printers to take over the world. So maybe don’t make plans for Saturday.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

The best part of Dumpling’s story


Thought I couldn’t top the whole walking around like an amateur production of the Lion King thing? Hah! Think again!

Did you ever pause to consider why Dumpling is called “Dumpling”? (Well obviously, what kind of ridiculous name is that?!).

It isn’t because he looks like a fat, juicy dumpling ready for the eating. And it isn’t because we haven’t been able to find decent Chinese in Munich and we thought we’d make up for the lack. Although that is why we’ve decided to rename Mark “Steamed Pork Bun”.

The reason Dumpling got his name was because Simon’s boyfriend (who speaks English as a second language with such startling proficiency that when he doesn’t know a word it somehow seems oddly comical), mistook the true meaning of the word.

Basically, through a random conversation which nobody can quite recall, it was brought to our attention that he thought a dumpling was the diminutive for a baby which had been dumped by its mother. Like “Hey Harold I found a dumpling on my doorstep, let’s name him Szechuan beef.”

All together now AWWWWWW

I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to write to whoever is in charge of the English language to get it immediately amended.

Anyway, when Dumpling landed in our lives (or not so much landed as was hustled in), there was really nothing else we could have named him. Also he looks a bit like a dumpling.

And then there was Dumpling


So the big question on everybody’s lips is “who is Dumpling?” Unfortunately I can’t tell you. He appeared pretty much out of nowhere and no matter how much we interrogate him and threaten to take his swing away, he refuses to tell us anything about himself.

What I can tell you is that he doesn’t speak English, he might be a scholar and he's definitely homicidal.

Here’s his story:

About three weeks ago, just moments after Mark and I had left Block 130 to spend a few beautiful hours skipping through the streets of Munich,  I spotted a tiny white hopping dot on the pavement.

The dot was irritably chirping to itself while pecking at the concrete in search of birdseed. When I crouched down next to it, it looked at me, let out a weary chirp of surprise and then hopped over to my sandal to check whether I wasn’t storing delicious seeds somewhere inside it.

Mark and I exchanged looks of AWWWW BIRDIE and stretched out our fingers to triumphantly save the bird from its concrete distress. But rather than come along nicely like a good little bird should, he got all HOLY SHIT GIANTS! GIANTS ARE AFTER ME! and launched into a panicked flutter. 

I don’t know what sane, balanced individuals do in these situations, but I’ll tell you what we did: we got on all fours, fixed our eyesight on the pavement (so as not to appear threatening) and slowly crawled forwards, cooing about birdseed and grapes. In hindsight, this would have been terrifying.

This is precisely how Simon found us when he came jaunting up our street. However since he knows us quite well, and is quite insane himself, he didn’t act surprised. In fact he obediently froze in his spot when we whispered something along the lines of SMALL BIRD. TAME. CATCH. GRAPE. DON’T MOVE!

We clearly had things under control.  But the happy ending wherein the bird finally gave in to our theatrical charms and we all lived happily ever after in a castle made of grapes and birdseed, didn’t happen.

Why, you ask?

Because one of our crazy toothless neighbours (and I say “one of” because we live next door to a housing project that is brimming with shady, unsavoury characters with mental problems and questionable dental habits) decided to interject. Apparently we looked so incompetent that this particular 60-year-old trackie-dack-wearing  individual took it upon himself to come to our aid…with a garbage bag.  

So picture this: Mark and I both low to the ground, still talking softly to the pavement. Simon frozen in his spot, watching us and offering useful bird-catching tips, and a crazy toothless man skipping around us all, waving a garbage bag around like a butterfly net.

This was too much for the bird.

Too much.

He gathered up all of the energy he could muster and flung himself into the path of an oncoming car out of sheer embarrassment.

Don’t worry this story doesn’t end badly.

Mark, Simon, Crazy Random and I all watched in horror as the car approached, but then the bird decided that getting smooshed into a bird paste was just the slightest bit worse than witnessing our four-man show, so he came back.

We got right back to it and after a few more minutes he gave up on life entirely and allowed me to catch him and carry him up to our apartment.

This is where we encountered problem number two: what the expletive do you do with a small frightened bird in an apartment without a cage? (Answer: let it out and spend the next two days frantically cleaning up after it, thereby convincing it that you are indeed insane and also possibly have some sort of disturbing stalker poo fetish).

So there we were - no birdseed, no cage and one tired, pissed-off bird flapping about threatening to cut us in our sleep.
 
We looked up some information about his kind (a Zebra Finch, native to Australia), slapped together a poster announcing we had saved him, found a box and even managed to buy some birdseed at a local supermarket.

Of course the small bird didn’t want any part of it. The small bird was all “I am not eating anything these freaks give me” and instead drank some water, screamed at us, wedged himself between the VCR and our DVD collection and went to sleep. 


His owners never rang – probably because he had pecked them to death, so we eventually bought a cage with a swing and named him “Dumpling”.

So you see, we don’t really know much about him at all. Except that he’s plotting our imminent demise. He lets us know by sharpening his beak in a menacing, deliberate manner.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Mind the gap - the real story

Earlier today I was telling one of the editors I work for about the time that I fell between the train and the platform at Wollstonecraft station. And then I thought since I’m in the process of reducing my client’s opinion of me, why not share the story with the internet. Maybe it’ll get picked up by a Hollywood producer and the next thing you know James Franco (in drag) will be dramatically wigging his way out from the gap. It’ll be bigger than that other real-life movie about the dude who lost an arm, only (spoiler alert) the only thing lost in my story will be my dignity. And a shoe.

But let me begin where it all started: on a Friday or Saturday night (can’t remember which), on a Wollstonecraft station platform filled with trendy people who were heading into town for a trendy night out. I was also in the company of trendy people – my then boyfriend (let’s call him James Franco – because that’s who I envision playing his role in the movie. James Franco will be playing all of the roles in the movie) and a group of his friends.

A little background: as far as I could tell at least two members of this group of friends thought I was as interesting as a table leg and as conversationally gifted as an autistic pinecone. So I was out to impress and prove just how magnificently I could converse. Unfortunately when I get nervous I just throw awkward non-sequiturs and interject heavy, sweaty pauses into otherwise trendy conversation, so I wasn't doing the greatest job.

A little about the station: there is a very large, roughly human-sized, gap between the train and the platform. There are plenty of signs and audio announcements warning passengers about this GAP.

Aaaaanyway the train pulled up. And as I was stepping onto said safe, un-gappy, train, the heel of my left shoe couldn’t take the weight of my arse (the arse that would soon save me from falling all the way into the crevice) and bent inwards.

When combined with my alarming lack of coordination (I once fell up an escalator while standing perfectly still on it, and ripped a massive gaping hole in the back of my jeans) the snap was enough to throw me completely off balance and into the cavernous opening directly behind me.

Luckily some semblance of self preservation – the only thing that’s kept my kind from being wiped out by evolution – made me reach out with my hand and grab onto the floor of the train as I fell, slowing my descent. And then my arse, my feathery pillow of mass, wedged itself in the gap, leaving me dangling by my hips; feet – now missing one shoe – hanging helplessly over the train tracks, as people stared in shock, unable to move.

So with a wide, creepy smile – the kind of smile that says “no I didn’t just butcher my children, please come in for a cup of tea” in a kind of vaguely untrustworthy way –I wriggled my way upwards.

Before the crowd even managed to reanimate itself, I was brushing off dirt and trying to look as dignified as I could while wearing one shoe and bleeding from the knee. Luckily I had a spare pair of heels in my car and was so embarrassed by the whole fiasco that I happily jammed my drastically swollen foot into them and returned to the platform to catch the next train.

Roughly one hour later I had to be carried to a taxi.

I envision the end scene like this: James Franco carrying James Franco (in drag) in the kind of heroic way that fire-fighters carry damsels in distress out of burning buildings. The camera would pan in on James Franco (in drag), still smiling creepily. Suddenly a flash of realisation would visibly cross his features; he’d grab either side of his face and scream (a la Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone).

The End

Friday, September 16, 2011

Guns!


DON'T MESS WITH THEM!

Thursday, September 15, 2011

A day in the life of Dumpling


He chirps madly when he does this. Then beats his beak into the wood to show his might.

Friday, September 2, 2011

First the drama…

Okay, so the whole August blogging thing didn’t work out. There is a good reason – no internet. No internet = no blogging. Simple enough, no?

More on that point – the next time somebody tells you about German efficiency, pick up a fork and stab them in the elbow. Why the elbow? Well, they probably didn’t know any better and you don’t want to maim them or anything. Unless you’re some sort of monster or maybe a person who’s been left without an internet connection for a month…they need to know NOT to say things like that.

Right, so we have no permanent internet connection and we live in a suburb that becomes rather scary at night. This means you should watch what you say around me when I’m wielding crockery.

Here’s a summarised version of our connectivity saga:

Some time before we moved into Block 130, we asked our landlords to go right ahead and re-connect their pre-existing internet connection. Re-connect the shit out of it; re-connect it faster than their fingers could type the Internet compnay's number into their phone. We wanted to be re-connected.

Dutifully, on the second of August they called the internet company to make the arrangements.

We expected that by the time we moved in (10-15 August), everything would be up and ready for us. It wasn’t.

We moved into our lovely pink palace of marble and rugs, and there was no internet. Meaning I had to flit through people’s houses and cafes and the local Burger King (the only restaurant in our new area) to do my work. Not good for my waistline...or my sanity...or Mark’s elbows.

Skip forward a month. A MONTH. IT HAS NOW BEEN A MONTH! And still no sign of the internet people (although rumour has it that they’re coming today). In the meantime, we finally gave up and spent money on a USB Internet stick.

This would have solved our problems only my computer has the soul of a 90-year-old man and doesn’t like technology or the internet in general. So it’s been acting wildly and unpredictably ever since we stuck the thing in. Sometimes I’ll be able to Skype, but not check my email; other times I’ll be able to receive email, but not send it or open any webpages.

And it’s expensive. Oh so expensive. Soon I’m going to have to pimp Mark out just to maintain my Googling habits (and they are vast). At least this is the neighbourhood for that sort of thing; we’d probably even get a stolen car in the deal.

Anyhoo…that’s the reason I haven’t been blogging. Not because I don’t want to tell you about my trip to Aachen or Block 130 (and how we’re trying to reform it with leaf-print cushions) or Dumpling, but because it’ll probably take me a day just to put this blog up. Or, if you’re reading it, then we’re in the future and the world is different. Send a flying car back in time to help me!