Instagram Down

If you’ve followed me on Instagram, you know it’s not quite the National Portrait Gallery of Ingrid. But rather Ingrid’s Fine Art Institute. Well, now it’s a Mausoleum. My account is deactivated. And most sadly, I didn’t even post anything dirty! It seems like a technical bug:

Instagram was like „give us your damn phone number! We’ll send you an SMS code. Makes your account more secure, sucker“. I said „ugh, fine.“ Typed in my phone number. Never got the SMS code. Since then: account deactivated. And in a way secure, I guess? What makes you feel safest? Um, death.

It seems like Instagram knows about this problem. But doesn’t give a damn. The online help center says „didn’t get sms code? Try our Backup-Code. Here’s the link: https://help.instagram.com/000000000000000 „“. The link is dead, like my account:

 

You can’t contact Instagram. It’s like trying to contact a kidnapper that doesn’t want your ransom. I sent them a tweet, was ignored by them. Silly me. Email? Nope. You can only contact them inside the app. And for that, you gotta log in. Duh! So I created a back-up account. Don’t follow me there, it’s something only between me and Instagram. And my kidnapped account. (Of course, you can follow me there, until my old account is back on: www.instagram.com/wenzelgram ).

 

 

Until I hear back, or if at all, I created my own Instagram. I’m uploading my cartoons now on Ingegram: www.ingridwenzel.de/cartoons At least that link works.

Also, this is probably the best photo I shot today, or ever:

 

#nomakeup #nobackup #nobanana

Brussels Revisited

Exactly one year ago, I traveled to Uganda via Brussels airport. I arrived at the terminal the same second three suicide bombers, at the other terminal, pulled their triggers. Killing fourteen innocent people and leaving eighty-one injured. I was stuck in nearby Leuven for four days where I wrote this following text. Then I continued my travels via Paris CDG, arriving in Uganda on Easter Sunday.

3/22/2016 Brussels Airport 

I was at Brussels Airport when the bombs exploded. I didn’t hear nor see it. But I saw hundreds of people running in my direction. My first thought was „how can so many people be late for their flight?“. How little did I know.

We then assumed that there was some sort of attack. One Swede threw up his hands „seriously, this is my fifth terrorist attack“, as if he had a collecting album. We stood at the A Terminals and waited for news. The sudden, eery silence was only interrupted by a school class playing fussball. They didn’t worry. Each of their loud cheers was answered by other people’s yelp. The mood was tangled and tensed.

Fifteen minutes later the airport announced evacuation. Most travelers didn’t follow the instructions at first and thought it was a fire drill. One officers pulled me gently off the restrooms. People had to leave all their luggage. One woman said „back home I announced I wanted to be less controlling, less attached to material things and have a blast. I didn’t mean it this way“. It was sad to find out later it was real and people died.

While walking outside the terminal, I overheard a couple saying „ah evacuation, thank God we wear functional clothing“. One person rejoiced „finally, I can also mark myself safe on facebook“. Some ordinary tourists discovered their inner journalist and metamorphosed into realtime reporters with selfie sticks. They got this ambitious look on their face like they’re part of something bigger. Now anything was suspicious, the floor, the planes, the weather. Me, I was just cold. I wore summer cloths and a rain coat.

Back in Hamburg, I was worried „will this raincoat warm me for five minutes between the bus station and airport? And protect me from the warm African highland monsoon?“ Little did I know that I was about to stand outside the airport for 5 hours. There I was freezing and thus started dancing, imagining minimalism music. Some people complimented my sweet moves. I was thankful I didn’t start a sad flashmob. In fact, I felt horrible. I also hadn’t slept or eaten in two days. I started crying and put on sunglasses. I was cool crying. I ate all the chocolate that I initially bought for my hosts in Uganda. Me, dancing and crying with sunglasses, raincoat and eating chocolate. This image will stay with me for a while. Still, I had no idea what really happened.

Hours later me and all the other hundreds of people were escorted out of the airport area, followed by journalists and cameras. No one really knew what was going on. I was hoping planes would leave soon. My first stop was at a gym hall where I rested on the floor. We then were advised to go to Leuven, a small town outside of Brussels that was not affected by the attacks. We were told to look for hotels and return to the airport the next day. At the train station, I became friends with two young American women on their way to Delhi. On top of everything, one of them had food poisoning. All hotels were booked. We became friends with despair.

Eventually, we got the last beds at Leuven City Hostel. It was packed only with people who were there involuntarily. There were Turkish guys interrupted on their way to Berlin, two Czech couples trying to get to Havana, and two girls from Bielefeld because they wanted to go to Louvain-la Neuve but confused it with Leuven (Leuven in French is called Louvain). 

 

3/23/2016 Leuven

We still don’t know how to go on. First, we were so happy to be able to sleep. This morning, I woke up at seven from the construction on the other side of our hostel wall. They started working to The Final Countdown. I didn’t care. So far it seems there will be no flights until further notice. The airport is still marked a crime scene. The airlines seem to be as uninformed as us. I’ve been waiting in their phone line for about five coffees. It seems like I will stay for even more coffees in Leuven. Me and my new friends spend time together. For example, we go into stores just to be warm. The hostel life feels a little bit like an involuntarily Erasmus experience but without luggage. I made so many friends, also because I’m the only one with an iPhone charger.

Leuven is a cute Flemish university town. Our first encounter was a blessing. Three Belgian guys gave us free food. An entire cake, a baguette and oranges! Everyone here is dressed nicely. Us not so. Rather three girls in oversized bulky raincoats. We felt so foreign. We weren’t underdressed enough to look like we dressed up like that. We three just stuck out like accidentally stranded backpackers. It’s small details like that, a silly rain coat, which made one feel foreign. What must bigger differences feel like?
My thoughts are with everyone affected by the attacks.

3/24/2016 Leuven at night

It’s astonishing how fast I can get used to a standard. Even though it’s involuntarily, I’m enjoying the hostel life. On Tuesday, I was plain grateful that I’m alive and that I could sleep in a crowded gym hall. On Wednesday, I didn’t mind my sleep being interrupted by The Final Countdown constructions workers. Because any time is the time for The Final Countdown. But today I’m already complaining about the cold shower and other people having fun: Last night my sleep was ruined by a huge party.

National mourning does not apply to university students. It’s semester end party in Leuven, a city whose main essence is the university. Fifty thousand students celebrated before their exam period. And the main party seemed to be outside my window. I looked out and was greeted by young, innocent faces, not yet corrupted by the many dirty years of university.

They partied it up right in front of us while we tried to sleep.  Someone peed against our window, thinking it was a wall(?). Then I did something I haven’t done since the military. Not shooting! Geez! I rolled in my ear plugs so hard that I could only hear my own heartbeat. My desperate hostel mates, for the first time since food poisoning able to sleep, went outside to complain like we were forty years older. Hey can you party quieter? Was I angry because I was still recovering from the shock of terror while they were partying? Or because I wasn’t partying but they were? DJ Ingrid needs some rest.

Now my bed was as quiet as a shooting range. I googled „how do deaf people know when to get up in the morning“. I was worried that I wouldn’t hear my alarm clock. Because I have a train to catch. Also, as a suspicious German tourist, I slept on my traveller checks. I hoped no one would mug me. Or if they did mug me, at least wake me up afterwards. Thanks mugger. I woke up again in the middle of the night because I lost my one ear plug. I looked for it closely as if it was a spider or gold. It was 6.30 and the party was still going on. Now they really got my DJ Ingrid street cred.

I got up. That one old dude still blasted youtube videos in the lobby. (The last two days – and nights – he has been playing the same video of people doing the time warp again and again and again. And again. Btw, he’s not stranded here but apparently lives at the hostel those past ten years. Maybe he doesn’t know who he is. And the time warp is the only thing that connects him to his past self). At 7.00, The Final Countdown began as usual. My hostel mate asked politely how I slept and we just burst out in hysterical laughter. Like cocaine addicts asking each other how they liked their mediation.

Today my voyage continues. I said farewell to all my wonderful hostel friends, all departing in different directions. Frankfurt, Amsterdam, blablacar. Only that one old dude stays. He’s having the time warp again for breakfast. In a few hours, I will try to get to Brussels main station. I bought the last available train ticket to Paris Charles de Gaulles. For the first time I will have a big birthday party with hundreds of guests – I will celebrate it on the airplane to Addis Abeba. My flight has been rescheduled for the fourth time now.

 

I got safely to Brussels main station. Boarded the TGV to Paris CDG. Met up with my Indian friend from Stockholm, who happened to be there. Boarded the airplane and continued trip, that would shape my view of terrorism, of Africa, politics, and western beauty standard forever. 

Stand-up for the Ladies and Men

There were several nice things going on these past days. On Saturday, I spontaneously performed at a comedy show in Hamburg. Also that day, my friend from Detroit, currently living in London, visited me. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to take her to a German comedy show. Turns out, it was hilarious and she can now tell the world: Germany is catching up in comedy!
Yesterday, I hosted my beloved comedyshow called “Stand-up for the Ladies”. And guess what. You can book more than one woman, if you want to! We had a lovely show with three female and three male comedians.
What would be a blog post without photos? And a show without picture proof that there was a show? Thanks to photographer Sergey Sanin, me and the other comedians got these amazing photos. Check out more of Sergey’s work on www.sergeysanin.de and more of the show’s photos here.

Lastly, after a gig, people that don’t have anything to do with comedy want to give me advice. Well, I myself don’t feel in position to give comedy advice to anyone, either. Better stop reading right now. Though today, I was asked for advice in front of a group of people that want to do stand-up comedy. (Yeah, I accidentally mistook the comedy workshop with the improv workshop but then they started asking me these questions and I kinda liked it). Because it made me think. And I came up with some answers that feel right. At least to me. Maybe to you, too? Did I miss anything? Let me know. Here we go, I made a list. That’s what bloggers do:

– Don’t listen to anyone’s advice unless you want to become that person. Follow advice of people who you appreciate.
– Don’t show a bad attitude. Care for the audience.
– Be present, be in the moment, have fun.
– Fuck up as much as you can. Learn from it.
– What do you really think is funny and why?
– Write everything down that interests you.
– Know yourself. Be yourself. What makes you unique? Could your set be told by any other person?
– Before doing an edgy topic, maybe start talking about yourself first.
– Every bit you put into comedy pays off. Unless you only post selfies.
– You don’t have to know all comedians. Don’t copy anyone. But kinda have an idea of what’s already out there. How can you contribute to the art?
– Identify what you want: Attention? Money? Fame? Or become a good comedian?
– Just do it and see where it takes you.
– Yeah, and of course basics like don’t steal jokes, be kind, speak clearly, learn to hold the mic.

 

Now, showtime:

Martin Niemeyer, Alexandra Schiller, Christin Jugsch, le Wenzel, Majbritt Bartelsen, Axel Heckmann and Headliner Stefan Danziger. (c) Sergey Sanin
100 % büttenredenfrei (c) Sergey Sanin
Half Ingo half Inge (c) Sergey Sanin
Danke to (c) Sergey Sanin and all artists!

 

 

Next show: March 22nd!

Improv Comedy: Oh! Kult!

Improv Comedy is my quirky balance to stand-up comedy. It’s like creative cooking versus strictly following a baking recipe. And at the end, it turns out to be a drink. With a fancy straw. I learned it in San Francisco. And my improv buddy Regina in New York. Together we are Push Any Button Improv from Hamburg.

Before I reveal some news about projects this year, I wanted to share some pictures with you from one of our past performances: Oh! Kult! One afternoon in late fall, Regina and me sat in an underground cave in Hamburg’s artsy district Gängeviertel at Urbane Kunstkammer Festival. Foods, music, arts, exhibitions, urban culture and us. Yeah I wrote Foods first, cuz that’s all I think about. And us last cuz I’m polite. But also, because we were in the darkest and most mysterious corner:

Guests explored the narrow and dingy underground hallways. Neon lit art and dj sounds guided them to us: two mediums (the third one, Günther, couldn’t come cuz he’s a truck driver and was, at that time, on Autobahn 2). We invited all interested guests to take part in our Silly Séance with creative tarot cards. Playfully superstitious, never serious but always sincere with our guests. Everyone experienced an entertaining and friendly fortune-telling session. If the cards weren’t right enough, we interpreted the shapes of our lunch box tin foil. 

The result: an extraordinary, individual improv performance. And everyone got a personalized tarot card to take home:

Thank you Stefan Karstens, Stimmungsfänger, for coming by to take our photos!

 

Ingrid and Regina welcoming their guests inside the cave at Urbane Kunstkammer (c) Stimmungsfänger

 

Artsy Tarot Card Reading (c) Stimmungsfänger

 

Exhibition of some of our hand crafted tarot cards. Most popular was the glitter Arschkarte.

 

This photo was taken during a short Oxygen break (c) Stimmungsfänger

 

And here are some of the results: These are the hand made cards we crafted for our guests (1/2)

 

(2/2)

 

Further reference in German: Urbane Kunstkammer More photos: here

 

 

 

I’m not a real Dj

I’m not a real DJ. In fact, I’m a fake DJ. Just don’t tell anyone, will you?

 

I just casually wear my headphones to look like a DJ.

 

Let’s say your profession is a technician. Strangers walk up to you and say „you’re not a real technician“! How would you react?
— „You’re right, I’m not a real technician, I’m actually a hair dresser and you’re the only one who noticed.“

On a somewhat regular basis, party guests tell me (or yell at me) that I am not a „real DJ“. Often, it’s the first thing they do when they enter the club. It’s their version of saying hello. And they don’t even need alcohol for that! And mostly, it’s men. I blew their mind by being a DJane. I don’t get it. It’s 2017. Everyone is a DJ. Everybody has a playlist and an opinion. And thanks to the Internet, everyone now thinks their opinion matters. If there was a DJ university, I would do my PH DJ. Just to show critics my sweet DJ Diploma. But the reasons for being a “fake DJ” are numerous, as I explain later.

 

„You’re not a real DJ.“
„Right, I am not a real DJ. I am actually a crêpe cook and mistook those turntables for hotplates.“

 

 

 

DJane or Crêpe cook?

 

 

  • Someone always hates the DJ.

 

DJs get much attention. DJs are admired but, at the end of a party, someone always hates the DJ. If Raymond was a DJ, not everyone would love him. No matter how much I I try to please everyone, one person always hates. And since that one person recently found out that this guy at a party, who introduced himself as an artist, is not a „real artist“ and actually works at a coffee shop, and thus is inflating the title for all „real artists“, one becomes a little more cautious and investigative. I get it. Sometimes, people just start yelling, when I don’t immediately play their song.

That is why, whenever someone questions my job (or worse, existence), I don’t get offended. I simply ask them „why?“.
The answers are numerous, diverse, and I swear, not made up:

 

  1. „You’re not a real DJ because you don’t have LPs“,
    (typically uttered at a party with hundreds of guests, where I play music from gazillion different genres and decades and also respond to song requests for ten hours straight and where a box of LPs, just to prove I’m a „real DJ“, won’t get me far.)
  2. „You’re not a real DJ because you use Tractor, because real DJs don’t use computer programs.“ Yes, and real writers type on a typerwriter and not on a notebook.
  3. „You’re not a real DJ because you just play a playlist, right? Because once I also made a playlist for my grandpa’s birthday party and that party wasn’t good so yours can’t be good either“.
  4. „You’re not a real DJ because you’re using mp3s and I read on Huffington Post that David Guetta once forgot his usb stick and couldn’t dj so you can’t either.“
  5. „You’re not a real DJ but I am. I don’t get why you’re booked tonight and I’m not.“
  6. „You’re not a real DJ because you’re a woman. Where’s your boyfriend, he must be the real DJ.“ (If you’ve seen me on stage, I made an entire comedy bit on this sadly often recurrent accusation. Or is that meant to be a pick up line?)

 

 

 

“Can I offer you another pancake?” © Scandic Hotel Hamburg / Toni Momtschew

 

  • Being no „real DJ“ has changed the way I work.

 

I usually assumed a good DJ is someone, who can make a crowd work, a client happy, and a club prosperous – whether it’s LPs, mp3, tractor, female or male, electro or rock.
Nowadays, whenever I meet a client beforehand, I feel I need to say that I don’t have a set playlist. I feel the need to justify why it’s good to be flexible and thus not use LPs.
I feel the need to explain that, as a DJ for private and corporate events, it’s not about forcing my artisan music on the client. It’s about choosing the right song like a journalist choses the right word. And it shouldn’t matter if a journalist writes on paper or online.

 

(c) Demetri Martin

 

  • What does a „not real DJ“ do?

 

Being a DJ often means neglecting the perfect mix, and instead cheer up the nervous maid of honor, who’s about to give her speech.
It’s not about showing off my turntables but showing the host how to use the microphone correctly.
It’s not about playing my music but, in dubio pro festo, play what the people right now on the dance floor would like. Even if it’s I’ve Been Looking For Freedom.
It’s about asking the caterer when the food is ready so I can time the music and speeches.
It’s about clearing the packed dance floor the most gentle way, when the company boss tells me „can you make the party be over in four minutes and not make me look bad?“.

 

 

 

Dj Ingrid: distinguishing between small talk, misogyny and flirting since 2013

 

  • Guide about how to talk to a DJ (taken from the guide „how to talk to humans“).

 

Lastly, I want to give you a quick guide about what to say to a DJ other than „are you the dj?“:

  1. Smile, say hello, maybe your name, state your issue politely
  2. Don’t accuse, if you have a question ask neutrally and listen

Guess what, most DJs are kind and social (except those who became hardened misanthropes). We work with some of the most fun resources in the world: music. We love to have a good time.
We like people who give us thumbs up. We like people who say „eh, personally not my music but you’re doing a great job with the crowd. I’m a guest at this party so I don’t expect my music to be played.“ Some will be surprised when DJs answer „personally, not my music either, but that’s not what it’s about here. Cheers!“ If I write my DJ autobiography one day, it’ll be called “Privat hör ich ja was anderes”.

 

Djing before it was cool (c) my mom

This used to be a blog

Hi there! This used to be my blog. But it got hacked. Three fans informed me about it:

 

"Möglicherweise"
“Möglicherweise”

 

It was hacked by some Japanese lemonade shop and for a minute I was just like “guess that’s what I’do now. I got fig, kiwi and dragonfruit”.

Getting my hacked website fixed was, for several months, one of the biggest lies I have told myself, right after Late Night Shows not being able to contact me via it. (No Late Night Show contacted me, I think. After restoring my mail system, the only emails I got during the malfunction are a Flixbus commercial, an indeed invitation and my numerous test emails [with every test email a cruder subject]).

 

While I was fixing my website I followed this general advice:

 

anna-skladmann-nrw-forum

 

Well, I didn’t make my deep down dreams come true yet. But surely getting closer to it. This year, I did stand-up comedy for several months in San Francisco to become better. I started doing improv comedy to become quicker. And I started drawing cartoons to become sharper. I organized my first very own comedy shows to become better at hosting and crowd work. Not everything gets better: I still have crazy eyes:

 

© Sergey Sanin

 

While I get this blog rolling again, I’m thankful that you came back here. Thanks for not buying japanese juice instead!

Hundreds of posts are lost and many links and search requests end on my 404 not found page. I am sorry for that. I had to erase all the content for safety reasons. If you’re looking for something specific, feel free to drop me a line.