Deutschland ist Islam

Der Islam ist ein Teil Deutschlands, sagte die Bundeskanzlerin.
Ich finde, sie hat Recht. 

Sie ist also für die Scharia, für die Aufhebung der Grenze zwischen Politik und Religion. Ich auch.

Dann bin ich für die Abschaffung der Gleichheit von Mann und Frau, denn die Frau ist ein Sexualobjekt, das der Befriedigung des männlichen Sexualtriebes dienen muss.

Ich bin für die Beschneidung der Frau, schließlich ist es unnatürlich, dass die Frau auch Lust beim Sex empfindet.

Ich bin für die öffentlichen Auspeitschungen, am besten Tausend Stück, aufgeteilt in Fünfziger-Happen; alle vier Wochen am Delinquenten ausgeübt, schürt dies die Freude auf das nächste Peitschungsereignis, erzeugt deshalb Spannung, und ist immer wieder eine Abwechslung zu den langweiligen deutschen Soaps.

Ich bin für das Abhacken von Gliedmaßen bei Dieben, aber bitte, unter Narkose, schließlich leben wir in aufgeklärten, humanen Zeiten.

Ich bin für die morgendlichen Enthauptungen, endlich kann manch ein Politiker zusehen, wie Köpfe rollen und dies nicht nur im übertragenen Sinn.

Ich bin für die Einführung islamischer Gesänge und Gebete zu Weihnachten und zu Ostern.
Ich bin für die Zensur, bin gegen jede Form von Karikatur. Deshalb bin ich auch gegen kritische Zitate, wie etwa jenes von Christian Morgenstern: "Den Charakter eines Menschen erkennt man an den Scherzen, die er übel nimmt." 

Denn der Islam ist ein Teil Deutschlands.
Deutschland ist Islam.

Dass es in Saudiarabien und den Emiraten meines Wissens nach keine christlichen oder jüdischen Kirchen gibt, ist mir egal.

Dass in Saudiarabien Einwohner, die sich vom Islam abwenden, mit dem Tode bestraft werden, ist mir egal.

Dass in Mekka Nicht-Muslime die "heiligen" Bezirke rund um die Kaaba nicht betreten dürfen, ist mir egal.

Dass in Mekka zur Haddsch keine christlichen Gebete gesungen werden dürfen, ist mir egal. Und falls doch, dass solche singende Personen sofort gelyncht werden würden, ist mir egal.

Dass die Wurzeln Deutschlands von christlich-jüdischer Tradition geprägt sind, ist mir egal.

Denn Deutschland ist Islam.

Dass Deutschland Islam ist, hat sich inzwischen auch in der Tierwelt herumgesprochen. Der Focus Ticker meldet: "Entlaufen! Kamele und Dromedare behindern Schweinfurter Verkehr."
Im Klartext: Kamele demonstrieren gegen Schweine an der wichtigsten Furt des Mains.

So, mein Kaffee mit Latte ist alle. Mein Kaffee ist Arabica, mein Kipferl, ein Halbmond, ist türkischen Ursprungs, also auch Islam. 

Mir fällt erst jetzt auf, auch ich bin Islam. Na also. Muss jetzt raus, ich hülle mich in eine Burka, damit mein Gesicht nicht von den vielen Kameras erfasst und von der Gesichtserkennungssoftware ausgewertet und gespeichert  werden kann, und begebe mich unter die Ungläubigen.

Je NE SUIS PAS Charlie, je suis POUR Charlie

Ich möchte gleich vorweg von meiner Redefreiheit Gebrauch machen und mich von der europäisch inszenierten und politisch vorgeschriebenen Massenhysterie JE SUIS CHARLIE distanzieren.

Gewiss, es ist grausam, wie diese religiös motivierten Killer vorgingen. Gewiss, es ist unvorstellbar, was die Hinterbliebenen an Leid durchmachen müssen. Aber sehen wir uns doch um: In anderen Ländern ist das Morden gang und gäbe. Regt sich da jemand auf? Nein, wir haben uns daran gewöhnt, akzeptieren stillschweigend, dass Menschen abgeschlachtet werden, dass kleine Mädchen in überfüllten und inzwischen von mafiös kontrollierten Flüchtlingslagern als Sexsklavinnen verkauft werden. Wir berichten darüber vor Ort, von Experten befragte Opfer teilen uns ihr Leid mit, wir werden aufgefordert, ihnen durch Spenden zu helfen. Anstatt dass z.B. RTL, zum reichsten multimedialen Konzern der Welt gehörend, selbst massiv mit Geldern dazu beiträgt, dass die Missstände hier ein Ende haben. Egal nun, ob Syrien oder andere Krisengebiete, die zu den größten Völkerwanderungen seit Jahrtausenden beitragen, es bleiben bloß Schicksale, die die Politiker nur peripher berühren und ihnen höchstens Anlass geben, die Bürger aufzufordern, Flüchtlinge bei sich aufzunehmen. Die Reichen wohnen weiterhin in ihren Palästen, das Elend aus der Distanz ihres elitären Bewusstseins betrachtend. Wichtig ist eigentlich nur, dass die Wirtschaft floriert, dass der eigene Reichtum wächst...

Doch kaum, dass mitten unter uns ein paar Terroristen Leute töten, wird ein Aufschrei laut und medial derart verstärkt, dass wir alle auf der ganzen Welt emotional so tief berührt werden, dass wir eine Ich-Verfälschung akzeptieren und an uns aktiv durchführen...

Deshalb: Ich bin FÜR Charlie, aber ich bin NICHT Charlie, ich bin für Redefreiheit, ich bin für Toleranz, ich bin für ein Miteinander und gegen ein abgrenzendes Nebeneinander.

Apropos Karikatur: Der Sprecher der Terrororganisation, ein hämisch in sich hinein grinsendes hässliches Männlein, ist Karikatur genug. Zumindest für mich: Ich musste unwillkürlich lachen, weil er wie eine der Charlie-Hebdo Mohammed-Karikaturen aussah... (Hoffentlich bin ich jetzt nicht das Ziel irgendwelcher islamistischer Killer, ganz ohne Polizeischutz...)

Toll, dass so nebenbei jetzt alle vereint und gestärkt sind. Gegen den Terror. und für eine reglementierte Redefreiheit. (Wehe, wenn einer aus der Reihe tanzt und Kritik an den kitschig wirkenden BILDern der in Szene gesetzten Verbrüderung der europäischen Herrscher, pardon, Politiker, übt; ein solcher wird gleich in einem Atemzug mit den stumpfsinnigen Pegida-Anhängern erwähnt...)

Endlich werden auch wir akzeptieren, dass der Terroranschlag in Paris unser europäisches 9/11 ist, dass auch wir ALLE Daten der Bürger speichern müssen; dass diese gespeicherten Daten versagen, Terrornetzwerke zu erkennen, wie der Terroranschlag in Paris beweist, sollten wir vorerst mal ignorieren - die Software muss erst noch verbessert werden; dass die gespeicherten Daten nur dem Zweck dienen, alle Bürger gläsern zu machen, sollten wir als das erkennen, was es ist: eine nicht bewiesene Verschwörungstheorie.

Deshalb bin ich für die Vorratsmassendatenspeicherung. Schließlich haben wir ja nichts zu verbergen.

Endlich werden auch wir akzeptieren, dass die Verfassung geändert werden muss, und zwar dahingehend, die Rechte der Bürger zu beschneiden und die Staatsgewalt zu mehren und zu stärken. Ähnlich wie in den USA.

Denn wir haben ja nichts zu befürchten. Der Staat schützt uns nur vor diesen Terroristen.

So, mein Kaffee mit Latte ist alle.

The Orion Machination, Chapter II

II.

Normally, when I get these letters about conspiracy theories, I try to read into it, and if there is an interesting style, I read a bit, I either laugh or get bored, then I throw them into the waste paper bin. But not this time. Not because of pages full of descriptions of flying objects making whirring sound, or because of the location where these observations have been made, a military zone in Waldviertel, north west of Vienna, already off limits in Hitler's times, a place surrounded by a primeval forest - the only one in Austria -, where no civilian has ever been, not only because of its thick unpenetrable underwood with no trodden paths, but also for being a restricted area, no, the handwritten pages fascinated me, the rhythm intrigued me, the contents seemed to transport a kind of truth.

Let me introduce myself. For the time being it must suffice that I am a freelance writer, my credo is: always tell the truth, as I have seen, heard or experienced certain events. And possible deductions are characterized as such. I have published my articles in numerous journals, both Austria and Germany. I haven't got any prizes yet, truth is, I couldn't care less, because prizes are just frozen, solidified symbols, created by persons, who themselves have a nimbus of being somebody which again is frozen significance which nobody challenges. So, all the universities, "renowned" or not, and their doctoral degrees, all the prizes, like Pulitzer, Nobel, Oscar and the like are just worthless symbols of frozen images in time and space. Having said that, I like to start at a beginning. There is no beginning, there is only a point in time, which is marked with a location as a beginning. And waking up in my bed is a good one. I have had a bad dream, again, about having died, I woke up, belatedly, again, I had a quarrel with my girlfriend, again, we had make-up sex, again, admittedly a wonderful experience for both of us, we do a lot of quarrelling, followed by make-up sex, I'm always reminded of some apes who have sex instead of a quarrel, well we quarrel, then have sex. This time we quarrelled about my financial situation, which right now is catastrophic, since I haven't sold any story for quite some time, I live from her money, which is getting scarce, I desperately need a story, any story, she suggests, which I don't want to - hence the altercation.

Feeling good after the sexual melting of our bodies, I hurry to my car which doesn't start, again, so I call a taxi and drive to the café where I am to meet the stranger if he's still there, waiting for me.

Well, he was there, I detected him immediately among the other customers, a striking presence of a real individual among a crowd. I know, this all sounds pretty much like the beginning of A Connecticut Yankee and when I continue my story, it will even be more so damn Twain-like, but I can't change that. And again I must stress that I write what I see, what I hear, what I experience, and any deductions will be denoted as such.

The man was in his fifties, short haircut, bristling two weeks beard, a trained body - since I myself do a lot of yoga and gym of all sorts, I have a good eye for such bodily appearances. He obviously didn't bother my being late, indeed very late, he didn't even mention it, he smiled at me and said, that my articles had intrigued him and that I would be the right person to tell his story. And after I ordered coffee for both of us he began describing certain events of his past days. I was immediately drawn into his story, because of his mesmerizing rhythmic language which seemed a bit odd for modern times. He told me of a another kind of Sumerian Tablets, the contents of which differ a lot from those we know, which are according to his words only accessible to very secret societies... What he told me was so mind-blowing that all my questions about reality, about man and his origin, about the creation of everything didn't matter any more. Why so? Because they have been answered.
...

Continuation of the story some other time. Right now I'm in the mood for a little diversion...

The Orion Machination, just another quantumfuck novel

I'm bored with blogging which reminds me of columnists writing their boring views about sth. It also reminds me of Sex and the City and those brainless chicks, esp. Carrie Bradshaw and her dumb column about sex and relationships and shoes and clothes, even neglecting a writing deal with real life Matthew McConaughey who wants to flesh out the relationship of Carrie and Mr. Big, a part which he wants to play. So she rejects that offer and returns to New York and her dumb little column. Yes, I have seen this part on TV recently as part of a Sex and the City X-mas marathon, an episode I saw only till the commercials. Then I started to zap around again, zapping being the reason I encountered this now obsolete show in the first place.
Being bored I began to put into words this idea of a machination going on since ages which lingered in the shelves of my imagination since years.
OK, there is the beginning:

The Orion Machination

I.

I'm confused, very much so. And when I tell you why, you'll immediately understand. You see, I have no body. Not nobody, but NO BODY! And I don't know how I got there, I don't know anything. I have to figure that out. At least I have my mind to accomplish that. So I'm not completely helpless. I'm less confused now.

OK, I take a look around – yes, I can also see - and I see many people coming and going, some obviously policemen, some ambulance men. Their attention is fixed on something on the floor, a body. I move to it, smoothly, without effort: Lying on its back, I see blood stains in the breast, on the white shirt, obviously from two shots, one to the heart, or where I think the heart might be located, the other in the middle, where the solar plexus might be. I also see blood trickling sideways from a hole in the forehead, forming a pool of blood on the floor. And then I see the face, it looks somehow familiar and suddenly, with a shock, I see into my face. This is me, and I fully realize: I'm dead, and I black out...

When I come around, I'm still hovering over my face. I'm still fully realizing that I'm dead, and where there has been my body I feel a hole, and a loss fills this hole, so unbearable that I black out again...

Slowly I register that I'm here again. If I'm dead, why do I still have this feeling of me, of an I? I have to figure that out. OK, I have my mind, I can think. Next question: What has happened to me? I don't know. While trying to remember I detect that I can compartmentalise. Yes, I see quite some chambers there, one for each sense. In every compartment are stored fragments of the six senses. That's how I can remember. Yes, there are six senses, the five you all are acquainted with, and the thinking sense, the thoughts, the wanting or hating something, thoughtwise. And somehow all is connected to feelings. But I see only two basic feelings there: attraction and repulsion, wanting or hating something, nothing else. And that something can be anything: objects, body sensations, emotions, thought concepts.

OK, I'm less confused now, but still disturbed: who the fuck shot me? Who dared to take my body from me, my precious beloved body, with all those sensations. And suddenly I remember that fucking sensation, with my hard one entering that mysterious hot, wet snatch, a sensation I right now crave so enormously that it hurts. And I black out...

I am awake now, again. I'm up there, in one corner of the room as if magnetically drawn to that point where the surfaces of two walls and the ceiling meet. Down there, amidst the hustle and bustle of policemen and ambulance men, I see my body, again. This time its on a stretcher and ambulance men shove it out.

I try to remember who has shot me, I enter the visual compartment, I see pictures of myself in interaction with other people and I lose myself in one especially: a woman, a beautiful woman who obviously cares about me, I can feel her sugar, her sweetness, her person, her self, we are making love, slowly, bodies melting into one. And then I feel a bigger hole where both my body and her adored one has been, an enourmous loss overwhelms me and I pass out.

When I come to I wonder where I have been, how much time has gone by. And I remember passing out. Quite often. I have to stop that. How? Normally I have friends and their advice. But I have none now. No one there whom I can ask. No guardian angel, contrary to conventional religious or esoterical lore. And there is also no white light. And I try to interact with one of the remaining policemen but he doesn't hear me. Even when I shout. He just acts strange, as if in deep thought. So I'm all alone, without help, without being able to interact, an unable soul. Another wave of horror hits me, the thought concept "don't pass out" prevents that, I stay awake. OK, I've detected something new: I can steer my consciousness. I guess I am a soul who has to detect what kind of abilities I have. And I recognize again this feeling of me, of I, of being what I am...

What I need now is a safe place, a point of fixed location where I always can return to when I'm confused or have fallen off the track because I took a wrong turn, or lingered too long in some picture. And I remember now: the Egyptian Book Of The Dead, which obviously was never interpreted right. Because its all about a preserved body and well known objects used by the recently deceased, to which the bodiless soul, which embarks on a dangerous journey of self realization, can always return to and become quiet again. Of course there is also the magnetism of the pyramid, that additionally helps attract the soul when lost.

OK, my body. Where is it? And instantly I'm in that ambulance van, hovering over my body, which is in a plastic bag. Not much comfort there. But at least some secure location where I can turn to.

So back to the question: Who shot me? And why? I recollect how to enter the compartments of stored images, and I'm deep into one, a recent one, how do I know that? I don't know, it's just got some kind of invisible time stamp on it. And I see two men, hovering over my body, I'm in that body and it hurts, like a bad cough, like pneumonia, and one of the men, friendly eyes looking into mine, has words coming out of his mouth: "It won't hurt." A flash of his silenced gun, a blow on my head, a white light and then blackness...

Thus begins my novel The Orion Machination. It's about a soul who has just lost its body, it wants to detect who shot him, while amongst the living and why. But during that adventure it (or he, or the I) has to find a way of not freaking out every moment of being without a body. And during that journey he also detects that there is a conspiracy that exists on different planes, over millions of years, some with living beings so powerful that they can create life and live almost eternally, at least in earthen thinking patterns, and that the earth and its living beings are in danger of being extinguished by a dangerous virus: the human being which has been bred by genetically engineering a mixture of apes and their own species, a reptilian breed called the Anunaki, who themselves are servants to the Orion Reptilians... 
...
 

Well, I have finished my several cups of Coffee con Latte, will continue with the novel next time. Think I will do it for a while in small instalments...
 

Some Thoughts about Moses and JHVH

I liked Christian Bale's interview about Exodus: Gods and Kings, and his blunt words about Moses, him having been a psychopath who killed men, women and children. I had a similar view of Moses who by proxy is just the speaker or acting instrument of another psychopath, JHVH. But, of course, you can't call a "higher developed" being a psychopath. You call him an angry god. Since the times of Moses this racist and very jealous angry "god" is the source of much trouble and evil. His name, JHVH, cannot be spoken, because it has no vowels. But men tend to put vowels between consonants, and so, with the numerous different cognitive patterned tongue and lip muscles among different peoples and times different names appear. But they all somehow sound alike and depict the same angry god. Let me take you on an admittedly very strange linguistic and semantic journey.

OK, first there is of course the putting in of the vowels e, o and a: JEHOVA. Then, in a shorter way, only a and e are put in: YAWEH. Then, other people, with other tongue muscle developments and with hundreds of years of speech changes we get a JUPITER (or JOVIS, JOVE), by Jove! In the far east you get a SHIVA, the J and H of JHVH having changed into a SH and the vowel I. All the named gods are angry, and they even destroy people. Admittedly, quite some unusual, even outlandish journey through concepts. But consider the linguistic and semantic changes that a word like e.g. 'crux' (cross) had in one or two thousand years: 'croce' (Italian), 'croix' (French), and cross. Even the German 'Kreuz' has its roots in crux. And the semantics have also changed: 'to bear a cross' means 'to accept an unpleasant situation'. This is just one example. So, considering all this, the linguistic thread between all these names doesn't seem too outlandish to me.

Now, this JHVH is just another offspring of those "gods" mentioned in the Sumerian tablets, beginning with Anu. Quite interesting, those 'gods' from Nibiru, who according to Sumerian tablets created us humans some 300.000 thousand years ago, in E-din... There is much literature and litter and junk about them found in the net.
BTW, another interesting linguistic thread between names and appelations seems obvious: from 'Enlil', one of those Nibirian 'gods', to the Biblical 'Eli' (god), to Allah. I hope, Muslims aren't cross with me now.

OK, back to Christian Bale. I have an excellent character for him to play, the Viennese version of Scarface, Toni Wiener, a pimp. See the website of Quantenmedien, Title Mont Pi. I think, possibly Christian Bale will like to explore this role or person.

Enough for now, enough of shuffling quantum particles and freezing them.

My Coffee con Latte is finished. Time to go.

Thoughts About Art Being More Worth Than A Man's Life

Some afterthoughts I had after seeing Monuments Men, which is good, I think, considering the movie was such a drag. I admit, I was emotionally moved when I saw some of Mankinds greatest art, I even had tears. But I am also emotionally moved when I see a happy child playing loudly; or when seeing newly born kitten, deerkids etc.

So the question is: is art the soul of people, of Mankind, as Monuments Men wants us to think, or just a fleeting remnant which will soon be lost, gone, because everything changes and falls back into quantum particles and then becomes waves again?

And: when I see Hagia Sophia, I don't see art, I see the suffering of human slaves who built this architectural delight. The same goes for other great architectural art, like Taj Mahal, and of course the pyramids.

When I see great movies, with their creators all dead (or very old by now), like The Great Dictator, Arsenic and Old Lace, Bringing Up Baby, Harvey, Ladykillers, To Be Or Not To Be, Rififi, The Third Man, Plein Soleil, Chinatown, The Wild Bunch, The Getaway, Bullitt, Some Like It Hot, Sunset Boulvard, From Here To Eternity and so on, I think: What is life? And what is this fleeting moment of some 70 or 80 years in Kali Yuga, when in the Golden Age, like Eastern myths tell us, life of man was thousands of years long?

And then I come to the only conclusion: Life is now, Life is the moment when putting quantum particles into a timefreeze and cherishing that. Yes, I'm a Buddhist of Theravada tradition, and yes, I'm also a Quantum philosopher.

I always begin my day with yoga and other exercises, doing them very consciously (or trying to); and after that, when meditating, I catch a fleeting moment as I freeze a movement in the quantum sea (or Quantum Soup, as one Nobel Prize Winner called it). And when I catch that, I catch the next moment, then the next, and when I am lucky, I can meditate like that for a few seconds or even minutes, then I'm lost again on a train of thoughts. Then I remember, I start anew, and so on. Somehow refreshed I start into the day (whatever that means), I write this sometimes (for me) boring blog, or I rewrite some movie scripts, novels, whatever. And then I look at movies and tv series. Preferably new ones. I'm sometimes astounded, where tv shows go, how broad they paint, how they remind me of Dickensian novels which Dickens coincidentally also wrote in weekly instalments, each one ending in a cliffhanger. He even created something like an episodic writing style, like good modern tv shows do, and he still ends up with a fully structured coherent novel. By small instalments he was able to reach also the poor who could afford these small parts of a big novel.

And after that I mingle. Exchange thoughts. Or read a book, if my neighbour is not too loud.

OK, enough bullshitting, I don't mingle, I'm Viennese and as such I detest people, in Viennese: "Alle Menschen san [sind] ma [mir] zwider [zuwider]." 

OK, my Coffee con Latte is finished and so is this reflection on life, creation and fleeting moments which seem to us as being eternal. Soon you will see one of my creations, intended to make you laugh or get drawn into the story.

The most boring movies of last month

Saw The Monuments Men. What an episodic boring piece of cr... Clooney did better. E.g. with Ides of March, written by Willimon, the creator of tv series House of Cards. The dialogue of Monuments Men is sometimes so stereotype, one cliché following another, that I had to hold back barfing... I wondered, why there are people, including the producers and co-producers of the Babelsberg Studios, who accept such bad scripts and even film them. Message of the movie: art is more worth than a human life, and that in context with jewish destroyed life, the remains of them being stored in big sacks of gold of their teeth, right next to art-pieces. Interestingly, there is the Frankenheimer movie The Train, with Burt Lancaster, Jeanne Moreau, where a German Nazi (Paul Scofield), stealing priceless art and transporting it via train, says the same. Of course he is shot by Lancaster, at the showdown at the end of the movie...
 

Next: 12 Years a Slave. By Steve McQueen. (Not that great Steve McQueen of Bullitt- and The Getaway-fame.) 12 Years, what a terrible bore. Always the same beat, meaning, the same kind of action: wrongfully enslaved negro working as a slave, only each time under more cruel circumstances, redundancy non stop, no plot. Instead of going to a new level, like showing slow behavioural changes, e.g. accepting and even thinking that he, once a free negro up north, is now another person, with another name, down south, working endless hours on a cotton field - these behavioral changes happen, especially when getting your daily dozens of lashes on the back -, we see even crueller scenes with sadistic overseers, with the Fassbender-character, as plantation owner, being the most cruel man of all, rationalizing his barbarous actions with verses of the bible. The only plot kicks in, when the Pitt-character is introduced, who eventually gets the wrongly enslaved guy free. Then, instead of giving the audience closure with long scenes of family reunion, no matter how awkward or strange for all of them they might be - 12 years are changing lives -, a broken man is shown in a broken family, a few minutes, then the movie ends. No closure for me, just a slap in the face. Then I am informed that the bad guys who sold the free man as slave down south never got convicted. I felt slapped and tortured like those slaves in the movie, and if that was director McQueen's intention, I should hate him for this. The screenplay got the Academy Award.

Next I saw Spielberg's Lincoln. I expected great pleasure, and what I saw was a filmed theatre-piece of interesting history lessons, but not a movie. The battle scene at the beginning was so unreal (after having seen incredibly realistic battle scenes in the tv series Spartacus, or in the movies 300), I got the feeling, that every small part of battle sequence started immediately after Spielberg's shouting "Action!", a shaking camera making sure, that we get the real "touch". I always tend to look behind the front action, wanting to see real action there, and in Lincoln there were these cheesy beginning fighting cycles of faked fighting. I also got the impression, that there were no more than a mere 50 or so stuntmen and extras "fighting", that behind them was nothing – the Making Of proved me right. Then two Negro Soldiers advance Lincoln and one of them recites by heart one of his famous speeches. Ridiculous. (Even if it was true.) Then the man Lincoln! That boring sap can't answer any question spontaneously, he always pauses with a smile and then tells some long story or anecdote. I had the impression, Solomon of the bible was talking. But I must admit, Daniel Day Lewis is great as Lincoln, he made me forget sometimes, how boring the script was. Every time I thought, now plot kicks in, my expectations were dashed, the subplot with Lincoln's wife was boring as hell; but then I got again interested, when all the scheming among the politicians sets in, to win votes, but this thread is also lost amidst other boring scenes. After an hour I ended this kind of torture. That movie was honored with Academy Awards, of course for Day-Lewis. Thank god, not for the script.

When, I asked myself, when was the last time I saw a real good movie? Argo was one of them. Directed by Ben Affleck. Great movie. Got the Academy Award. Then The Town, again by Affleck, also written by him. What a masterpiece. Especially The Expanded Version with Alternate Ending on blu ray. What an experience! Captain Pillips was also quite absorbing, The Intouchables was very funny, as was years before The Hangover (the first one!)...

But: The real movies are on TV: Like Breaking Bad. The Sopranos. Six Feet Under. The Americans. Orphan Black. The Good Wife. Boardwalk Empire. House of Cards. Etc.

I finished my cup of Coffee with Latte.

I will now enjoy the second season of Hannibal. The first episode was already intriguing.