guy's mind

This morning started off in great astonishment.

I think of myself as someone who is an active reader. Currently, I finish at least one book per week. Not only do I like reading, but also do I love to buy books and neatly line them up in my bookshelf. Somehow it makes me feel sage and sapient, maybe sincere, to have so many books around me.

Every now and then I want to know more about someone. This is what happened with Vera Dillier last week. In Switzerland, she is well-known for her marriage to Peter Dillier which ended in a harsh battle. A battle that many married-couples suffer when they decide to separate and Vera Dillier wrote a book about.

When I saw her on a television show last week I wanted to know more about her story. I intended to make her book, suitably named «Heirate nie einen Schweizer» (Do not ever marry a Swiss), my next reading project.

Unfortunately I was unable to find it, because no bookshop was selling it anymore. I decided to write a letter to her and ask her for support.

Et voilà: To my great amazement, I found a copy of her book in the mail this morning. And what is more, she signed it and written in a dedication in which she wishes me well for my education. Payment order missing.

I am truly looking forward to reading her book!

Germany's top model Heidi Klum is an ideal of health, discipline, and neat hair. A role-model to ambitious belles of the village who do not want to change from school into consultation hours for mothers-to-be. A dream to protecting daughters and inhibited men who are looking for fun wihtout paying for it. A constantly clean nose and a controlled head are her hallmark.

With Claudia Schiffer, there was erotic and sealed lips. The latter may have related to the first. Either way, this is different with Heidi Klum. She recently revealed how she keeps her mariage alive: «We simply make appointments to have sex. Hey, baby, at two o'clock in the attic! And at six in the walk-in cupboard.» In Klum's latest commercial for «Victoria’s Secret» you see her, the mom of three, play with «Franz» and «Hans», her brassiered breasts, and how she is hopping and screeching and jodelling. «I have got great breasts», she yells, and «You guy don't know about breasts», and then Klum orders to fire off, squeezing her two friends as if they were to splatter the entire world with milk.

In doing so, Heidi Klum looks like a giggling girl scout who pretends to be a dangerous vamp. Nonetheless, this scene turned into a YouTube hit which caused a stir throughout the world: They tauntingly ask whether Klum «sniffed at glue» or whether there was «something in her tea». They are worried: «Why does she suddently talk so oversexedly?»


In fact, for the first time Klum reaches a level in terms of sex – that of silly German soft porns in the 1970s. The (failing) attempt of adding a shot of aggression makes her a child of her own time. And that her show hineinzubringen, macht sie zu einem Kind ihrer Zeit. Sex was brought to the dry-cleaner's by people like Heidi Klum. Anything uncontrolleable was removed spotlessly.

Last week was truly thrilling, from Monday morning until Friday night. In fact, the thrill was initiated the precedent week when I tried to find out about my past.

I outlined in an earlier post that I think I annoyed Rachelle at a party a long time ago, and never even said I was sorry. I was never sure whether the incident had really taken place or, well, whether the piece of vague memory was created in one of my night mares. Sad enough I was still drunk when I woke up the next morning, I was unsure what to do about it.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Apologize for making her feel pestered would have been pretty sappy if she did not know what I was talking about. After all, I would love her to think highly of me. She is the woman of my dreams.

On the other hand, if I had known for sure that it was reality, I could have stepped up to her, try to make amends and prove my reliability.

Instead of making a decision I remained inertial.

A major change in finding truth occured when my former roommate, whom I formerly named Nero, alluded to my uncool behavior. It was worth gold to me; to know what had really happened. At least that is what I thought for a few minutes. Only by knowing what had occured would I have been able to act. Consequently, I asked him to corroborate my findings last week. To my astonishement, he refused to do so. Whatta loada hooey!

That's what I thought first. But then, he may be truly ignorant. Again, left in uncertainty, I simply don't know what to do.

What is more, I start feeling tired. My mind has focused on Rachelle for such a long time. I would do anything to see her again. Rather today than tomorrow.

Up to here, my lines and heartache may seem romantic.

My other ex-roommate simply calls this stalking. Who would want to be a stalker? I don't.

And so, I will be joining the Swiss armed forces in 2 weeks. At the moment, two possible outcomes seem realistic to me: Either I will be going on with my seesaw, or Rachelle will gradually disappear from my mind and my life. After all, nothing is happening on her side to keep up my hope and feelings.

After doing research for my college paper, and my disappointment and frustration above all, I decided to really relax this weekend and lay on the couch all night. When shopping this afternoon, I bought some delicious meal to fix, pop corn, and everything else you need for a lazy TV night. I am so looking forward to it!

Tomorrow will be all about sports. My sister and I are planing to go for a run.

Due to Al Fayed the Lady Di file is still not filed. Neither the inquiries of the French police nor a million-dollar, 832 page British follow-up examination have been able to convince him that Diana and his son, Dodi, died in an accident. To him it was homicide. And the last example of social barriers that he, the Egyptian and muslim, has fought since he turned up in London nearly fifty years ago.

In plain language, he calls Tony Blair a cock sucker, Prince Charle's wife, Camilla, a crocodile, the Windsors a dracula family and Prince Philip the manipulator who killed Diana and Dodi because he did not want to have muslims in his family. This Philip, he calls a Nazi, on record, in court.

Between insults he spreads his own preposterous theory: The secret service carried out the murder, Tony Blair, two London superintendents, and Diana's family were assisting. As much as he is currently meting out, he was once struggling for recognition by the British upper class. He donated millions to charity, bought indigenous British institutions, such as shirt-maker Turnbull & Asser, the Fulham Football Club and the department store Harrods, by means of bribery he tried for British citizenship.

All without avail – until Diana came into the picture, the mother of the future King, and fell in love with Dodi, his Dodi. She was to marry him, to meld the house of the Fayed with the Windsor's.


Paris, a drunk chauffeur and a column of the Pont de l’Alma brought this dream to an end, and this is what the latest examination will confirm. Mohamed Al Fayed, however, will never leave the British whom is connected to in deep love-hate. He willed to be entombed in a glass pyramide on the roof of Harrods.

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What more can I say. Yesterday was the last day to spend in my college town. Even though the initial reason was exactly to move away again (with a degree in my pockets), leaving my place was anything but easy. Farewells are never easy - they say. And yet, I imagine, saying good-bye is much easier when nothing is left unsaid, and even more so when you actually get to say good-bye.

It may sound like an unending story, but I truly hoped to say good-bye to Rachelle. Or, at least, to the person I believed to be her. Confused as I currently am, I think final strokes should be considered a human right. My letters, gifts, and questions have equally remained unanswered. Looking upon my last months, I know this is what bothers me most. I simply cannot imagine how someone could not have cleared up my confusion; if, in fact, it was a confusion.

What feelings does this evoke in me? Sadness, excitement, and a lack of comprehension above all. The latter is what I've strived to eradicate. Unsuccessfully, I must add.

Certainly, there is more. More of what bothers me. Even though the incident took place a long time ago, it hurts as much as if it had been yesterday. After a (too) wild night in a club, I experienced memory lapses on the following day. Very rarely had I not been able to remember what had happened the night before. Even worse that on the subsequent days, it dawned to me that my drinking way too much, my tomboyishness which resulted in inappropriate talks, dicta, and gestures may very well have involved Rachelle.

What I remember is that I hugged her, and asked her inappropriate questions. I remember she gently slapped me in the face.

Did this truly happen? Was it a mere nightmare? How can you say sorry to someone and make amends if you are not sure whether it happened?

I have been trying to find this out for a long time. My feeling told me that it was so. And then, there was my room mate who re-enacted the scene in front of me. He veiled the situation in a joke. A joke that contains so much truth to me.

From that moment, I was sure it must truly have happened. And, of course, thoughts and see-saw followed as to what I can do.

What I am currently doing is to find out why he played this joke. I truly hope to find clarity soon. Is not it all about clarity, and knowing what is real?

Do you remember? Four women of the new generation - young, money dosn't matter, pleasure is everything - wander about New York on irritatingly high heels, and it was a hoggish prey for all life has to offer.

«Sex and the City» was one of the most popular TV series and a triumph of brand fetishism. But also of feminism in the sens as to having as much vigor as men, not least in sex. Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker), Miranda (Cynthia Nixon), Charlotte (Kristin Davis) and especially Samantha (Kim Cattrall) showed décolleté and brains, they loved the men, and they used them.

But sex and relationship - oh, that was mutually exclusive. These women wanted orgasms, not comprehension. They did not want to put the tea on, discuss problems, and «develop their personalities». They did not sleep with teir men only that they would once listen afterwards. If they wanted a boyfriend they bought a stuffed dog. No, never did it occur to these women to transform the wild beast - passion - into a useful anomai. Now, that is how it was in the beginning. Women, however, who chose their role models from this series soon had to relearn. One day, one was no proud number anymore even in «Sex and the City». The affairs became longer, there were children, marriage, buying houses. In other words: the establishment repulsed. The continuance in the movies does not know any better: even more children, even more marriages, even more houses.


Sad, but true: Not only in real life, but also in the entertainment industry do children and husbands seem to provide more dynamite than overly exciting affairs in series. It was T. S. Eliot, der sagte: «This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.»

The ex-model, the ex-lover of numerous sounding names, the chanteuse. Carla Bruni has always moved in an environment that encourages everybody to creat themselves, to celebrate, and to exploit by every trick in the book. Bruni may be tailored to french penchants what Paris Hilton is globally: rich, flamboyant, and popular to be popular. Whereas Paris Hilton is the superficial slattern who barely hides that she she can do little else than by using her millions stage herself and her millions.


Next to her, Carla Bruni is the professional melancholic - a rainy day goes along with her songs perfectly. One year ago, she said that she had been in psycho-analysis for years, «a real Job» it was, «four times a week». She is interested in the length of her eyelashes («beauty deals with intelligence») as well as in Proust («In my modeling times, on long-distance flights, I had time for this»). She shines as the cheerleader of sensitive hearts who suffer from inaneness and who long gor surprises. She flaunts her political affinity (for Ségolène Royal during the election campaign and recently against Sarkozy's DNA tests with immigrants) as much as her carry-ons (Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger, Vincent Perez, Arno Klarsfeld, or Donald Trump). As first lady of the Paris Bobos, she does not keep her neuroses to herself: «I often feel guilt», Bruni said, «because I have a good life but often cannot see that».

And now, after the popstar, actor, hotshot solicitor, director, philosopher she messes about with Monsieur le Président. He offers her worldwide clangorous diversion. She does so as well: Bruni was the story he let the awkward Lybian president be buried in in oblivion by. The difference between and her is attracts attention: Carla Bruni diverts herself, Sarkozy by himself and his politics. Either way the power of love has always been the one of distraction.

Oh come on, bloggers, didn't you wonder how my story with Rachelle proceeded?

If you did, well, there's some news for you. I have believed that she lives in my neighborhood for quite a long time. I have believed this to be true at a probability approaching 100 percent.

But then, when something so extraordinary happens in your life, doubts set in. And I started to doubt. I have doubted a lot. And somehow, doubts and "not knowing for sure" have left me inactive.

On Tuesday evening, I did what I had to prepare for some time. I walked to her house and hit the door bell.

Guess what happenend? Nobody opened. Nobody opened the door! Even though I saw her in the window a mere hour ago.

It goes without saying that I will ping her bell again. I simply need time to get my courage together again. Does this sound strange to you? Or maybe, does it sound familiar? The feeling of excitement you feel when apporaching the woman of your dreams? The woman you love so much, whom you look at like she is a goddess? The fear of being refused, of being dismissed is lingering in my heart.

When Barack Obama was elected senator and triumphally moved into the Capitol three years ago, his wife rolled her eyes: "Perhaps he is going to accomplish something that will legitimate this jubilation," she allegedly told a journalist who was standing next to her. In May, 2007 she frankly said "Barack should become President because he has managed to deal with a strong woman like me." She was talking about how he keeps forgetting to put the butter back into the fridge, and that a five year old was doing his bed better than himself. Bantering among a married couple. Only a few months ago she replied "Do we talk about political issues? Well, do you believe I can shut my mouth?"

This has stopped. Because Michelle Obama has realized that she may not turn into a Hillary Clinton. With regard to Americans' taste, Hillary wanted to be too much of a president as a first lady. That is why Michelle Obama now remarks that she is not a political advisor to her husband.

Neither will she become a new Nancy Reagan who used to stand next to her Ronald like he was a god; not only because of her 5' 11". The recent modesty will not last long with 43 year old ivy league graduate and mother of two daughter.


Michelle Obama does not want to expect too much from the American people at a time. After all, she has been in a presidental campaign in which up to now it has remained unclear what role skin color plays. Her husband has a white mother and a black father. She is black. If he is elected the sample family of the United States of America will be, for the first time, black. This would be a huge leap in a country which knew racial segregation only in the 1960s. Therefore, the potential new first lady need not re-invent her role as well. Not yet.

After a random fight with my roommate this afternoon, I got to think about self-reflection.

As I have outlined several times before, I feel betrayed by him, feel made a fool by, and above all, I feel dismissed by.

So what can you do in such a situation? Over time, I have come up with a wide variety of approaches to influence his behavior.

• First of all, you can talk to a person directly. To call a spade a spade – as they say. Did not work.
• You can mirror the person’s behavior, and thereby try to make them realize what they are doing. Did not work.
• You can make sarcastic and ironic remarks in order to allude to something. Did not work.
• You can take things into your own hands. Did not work.
• You can give a twist to the entire situation. Did not work.
• You can tell the person straight to practice self-reflection, and advise them to sit down with themselves in order to think about the entire situation, to imagine how they would feel in someone else’s shoes, how they would act and react. Will this work?

I wonder.