DUNKIN' BERLINER

The Best Spaeti in Berlin

2012-01-24T18:41:00.000-08:00

When you want to buy things at night in Berlin, you go to the spaetkauf (late shop), or spaeti for short. In short order you get your fix: caffeine, nicotine, alcohol. The best spaeti are open 24 hours for your addiction pleasure. Some spaeti are open round the clock, while others tow the line and close at a more respectable midnight.

In order to have a Best Spaeti you must necessarily have a Worst Spaeti. The worst ones are on the main streets and have internet cafes and telephone booths inside. This is great if you happen to be completely without internet connection in the 21^st century or like to make phone calls inside of sweaty wooden boxes. That’s ok if you do. I’m not your judge. These bad spaeti charge double for the same beer you would buy at the good spaeti. And it's piss warm. Even the ones in the back of the fridge.

The Best Spaeti in Berlin is on a side street off of the four streets junction in Northern Prenzlauer Berg. The four streets meet and change all in one intersection: to the North, Schoenhauser Allee becomes Berliner strasse; from the West, Bornholmer strasse hits the intersection and moseys on into Wisyber strasse proper. This rare occurrence of major streets meeting and changing names is referred to as a Deutschenklusterfick. Just as was depicted in Scorcese’s “Gangs of New York”, four gangs met at a crossroads to fight it out: The Shoenhausers, the Bornholmers, the Real Berliners and the Wisbyers. The leaders of each gang all died in the muck and mud of the intersection and...

After the battle the men were mighty thirsty. The survivors drank beer at a spaeti around the corner. This historical spaeti had a cardboard cutout of a fine young damsel holding a beer and sign which read ‘160 brands of beer.’

To this day you can find it. This is my favorite spaeti because you can get Bavarian monk beer in devilishly strong varieties. If you’re feeling a bit peckish you can get warm German and Russian food made by a guy with a mullet and a greasy apron. I won’t tell you the name of the Best Spaeti in Berlin because A) I may not remember the name; B) the responsible blogger doesn’t lead the tourists to The Good Shit. But you’ve got the history, the intersection, and, hopefully by now, a powerful thirst.

Prost!

(hint: you walk down Schoenhauser Allee until it becomes Berliner strasse. Then you take one of the side streets nearby. Look for the cardboard chick with the beers.)

The Sum Total of Human Knowledge on Strike

2012-01-18T16:30:00.000-08:00

I was just now going to wikipedia, as one does when, well, you know. I was probably looking up some factoid to include in the non-bullshit segment of the Dunkin’ Berliner Blog, just to make sure I had my facts straight, in order to keep this here blog from tumbling into the Abyss of Total Bullshit (or bullscheisse as the locals say). I got the Wikipedia Blackout Page.

And it started off as such a good day: 9am, down to the donut pusher; drei pfannkuchen mit kirsch, bitte, chuckles from the staff at my lousy pronunciation, me clearing my throat and throwing such a DRRRRRReeeiiii at them that the staff and customers had the biggest chuckle that this here one man donut theater has ever witnessed in the presence of fresh donuts; back to the flat to push the last bit of code over the cliff and launch my long-awaited (mainly by myself) new photography website into the cyberwaves; bowl of Turkish coffee Czech style, throw a fistful of espresso and boiling water into the biggest fuckoff coffee mug I could find at the Boxhagener flea market for under ein Euro, a veritable Cornucopia of Christian Crank, as it were; chase out the cobwebs and become the productive human I always knew I would be; last bits of website done by noon, all contacts in address book spammed profusely by 1pm.

Met my photographer buddy for tea and crumpets (I don’t even know WTF a crumpet is but it looks good when I write it); discussed the downfall of Western Civilization and/or the need for more work in the barren Berlin wastelands; went out for Vietnamese food; returned home...

BLACKOUT. I couldn’t get The Knowledge. Instead, I got the stark blackout page announcing a protest of some dumbass legislation in Amerkkka about the internet. I’m not going to analyze it overmuch; I’m just an educated hick from Sacramento with a penchant for deep fried lard pastry and too much time on his hands.

For the record: I tried to contact my Congressman but I don’t have one; if I did I’d surely be on his hit list. I wanted to fb the hell out of it, but I was thrown such a shit storm of illegible captcha that I thought the Black House was taken over by Sharia law. Try this: hit refresh over and over in the captcha form. Watch it degrade into a bigger and bigger mush of squiggly lines.

“And they were singin’ bye, bye Miss American Pie, drove a Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.”

“You can have my [insert sacred item here*] when you pry it from my cold, dead hand.”

[Fade to black]

*suggestions: donut, gun, internet, brain, money, doobie, booby, crucifix

Get in Line

2011-12-04T08:42:00.000-08:00

The only thing I will get in line for, EVER, is Siebert’s Berliner pfannkuchen mit kirsch. The line (‘queue’ for those who don’t speak Yank) outside of Siebert Bakery and Konditorei in P’berg is brutal. They sell the best baked goods in the known universe out of a shop smaller than my bathroom. Really, more people could fit inside my bathroom than inside the Siebert shop (not that I’ve tried it). So don’t let the line of a dozen people or more standing outside fool you. They simply cannot cram everyone inside all at once. But if you would really like to experience a pre-1989 communist bread line, go to Siebert on Saturday morning. They close at noon on Saturday and do not re-open until Tuesday. And since they mix crack cocaine into their flour to ensure a growing throng of junkies outside the shop at all times—you’d better wake up early on Saturday if you want your donut fix before night time.

Today I woke up at 9am. This is the earliest I will ever wake up unless somebody is paying me to take photos at this time. It had been at least two weeks since my last donut fix and I was getting awfully twitchy. I was getting the DTs (donut tremors) and it was high time I had my high. Really, they put crack cocaine in the flour. I’ve seen ‘em do it. A cold wind chill bit at my ears; the Berlin winter is coming fast. Which most of us would agree is unfair as we had no fucking summer whatsoever in Berlin. Mother Nature is robbing us blind. Bitch. I got in line after peering between the first two bodies near the door—I needed to check the window display for my drug. Someone sneered at me. No, dear Deutschbag, I’m not trying to cut in line. I’m doing inventory. Get over it.

Twenty or more people were in the line. I stood there watching the back of the neck in front of me. Dark gray jacket and light gray scarf. The pale skin of One Who Resides under Gray Skies. Once again Berlin reminded me of the foggy city of San Francisco., where two things are out of place: Cowboy hats and sun tans. They wore a lot of black and gray in that city as well when I was living there. Except for the god damned hippies. Tie-dyed and bushy tailed tofu eaters. Rainbow people.

Someone once told me they didn’t have the same kind of communism in the DDR—that the infamous bread lines only existed in the Eastern Blok countries under communism. I always thought that all commies lived solely on canned meat, vodka and potatoes. Period. History and urban mythology, traditions. Siebert Bakery has a century-long tradition. And a fierce logo: Two fire-breathing lions are cutting coffee beans and carving pretzels with broad swords. Then they present them to the king. And they’ve been doing this since 1906. Uninterrupted? I wonder. Eastern Germany and East Berlin were walled off from the West for nearly 50 years. Surely they didn’t get donuts and free flats AND free Trabants under communism. I’ll be sure to ask the nice bakery lady to clarify that. And if it’s true, I’m officially quitting capitalism and joining the communist party. Tomorrow.

Siebert Backerei / Konditorei

Schönfließer Straße 12, Berlin - Prenzlauer Berg

STERNI UBER ALLES!!!

2011-11-11T17:27:00.000-08:00

The following conversation takes place entirely in German. You are reading the translation of the notes which were pried out of the cold, dead hand of the witness.

Give me a Sterni, asshole!

Lick my greasy Mohawk, Deutschbag!

C’mon! I begged most of the money! All you did was flirt with the chicks walking into the store!

Both of you are fucked! It was MY dog that made us get all the change for the beer today.

Shut up, bitch! Your dog ate my fucking homework!

Oh, right… when was the last time YOU went to school? Were there cars, or did you suck dick on horseback?

Shut up, fake punk bitch. Your parents TOTALLY bought you all your piercings and tattoos. On layaway. Your shirt says ‘Fight the system’ but you couldn’t fight a sprinkler system.

Look you idiots: I was out here for like, HOURS and the bitch with the dog just got here. No WAY is she getting my Sterni. I’m just sayin.’

We got 4 euros in 4 hours…that’s like 10 Sternis. Three of us. Uhhhh…. How many do we each get?

I don’t have a fucking clue. The bitch’s dog ate my fucking homework!

Both of you guys can suck my dog’s dick!

Oh, you’re soooo cool, Punk Rock Girl. I think some asshole wrote a song about you. It sucked more dick than YOU!

All right you two, either fuck or fight, but for the love of GOTT, give me my fucking STERNI!

I want to break something!

Break open a STERNI!!!

Sternburg bier aus Leipzig ROCKS in ways I cannot begin to explain! It’s like a malty, amber microbrew—only DIRT CHEAP! Like the people who drink it!

You said it. All this anarchy is making me thirsty. STERNI, anyone?

Jesus H. Christ on a Bicycle

2011-11-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

By owning a bike in Berlin you are issued a notarized, stamped (in triplicate) License to Be an Asshole. You and your overpriced, faggy little bicycle are now the King of the Road. Fuck motorists. Fuck pedestrians. Fuck yeah! There are naturally numerous regulations in Germany regarding the rights and behavior of cyclists. Cyclists seem to have all of the former and fuckall of the latter. If there are any rules for cyclists in Berlin I certainly haven’t seen them. They have their own bike lane on most sidewalks. This is the officially designated and holy bike lane reserved only for Bicycle Believers. Heathen infidel pedestrians are not allowed to set foot inside. You must leap over it and pray you aren’t given a shower of “SHEISSE!” screams and shaken fists. You could be struck and killed by a cyclist going 50km an hour and you wouldn’t have a case in German court. Even if the cyclist was out of The Zone and weaving in and out of pedestrians like traffic cones in a racing course. In fact, German law states clearly that the cyclist has the right to urinate on your lifeless body before tying it to his bike and dragging you through the streets of Berlin.

“Case 10439: Jesus H. Christ on a Bike versus Feckless Idiot Pedestrian”

J.H.C.B.: “Your honor, I was minding my own business on my bike when F.I.P. stepped in my way.”

Judge: “Did you ring your faggy little bike bell?”

J.H.C.B.: “Religiously.”

Judge: “Did you attempt to slow down?”

J.H.C.B.: “Good GOD no!”

Judge: “And after you struck and killed the 80 year old woman, what did you do?”

J.H.C.B.: “Got off my bike and checked for damage. The old bitch’s dentures were stuck on my 1260 EUR racing frame! So I yelled at the body. Then I spit on it. Then I felt the uncontrollable desire to urinate on the corpse.”

Judge: “Did you drop a load of sheisse on the corpse?”

J.H.C.B.: “Good GOD no! I’m a religious man!”

Judge: “Fair enough. The court orders the F.I.P.’s grandchildren to pay for J.H.C.B.’s bicycle damage. Case dismissed.”

Ok, maybe I should graduate from blogging to writing plays. The dialog just flows out of my keyboard like butter on hot Georgia asphalt.

I digress. Assholes. They are a protected bunch of spastic, muscular orifices. Every time I witness a red-faced Deutschbag on a bike screaming at some hapless elderly couple for straying into the Sacred Bikeway to Heaven I can feel them moving up on The List. Right before I eventually leave Berlin permanently I will tally up all of the names on The List and provide you with the name of the Biggest Deutschbag and publish it here. Cyclists are crawling up The List all the time.

Cyclists are heavily protected by law. The city of Berlin rarely bothers to make a separate bike lane between street and sidewalk—a sensible solution embraced by the rest of the world. Instead, recently a fresh splash of red other than the blood of some of the slower pedestrians hit the bike lanes: Corner-to-corner painted lanes all along Schoenhauser Allee. This only encourages the bastards and gives them more balls than their carefully-selected cycling shorts. Today I witnessed a proud, arrogant, sweaty pair of these neue ballchen in action. An installer’s work van had to stop suddenly while turning right on a side street. Another motorist was pulling out of a parking space and the van had no choice but to use the brakes (unlike Berliner cyclists, who pay up to 2000 EUR for bikes with faggy little child’s bike bells and no brakes whatsoever). This unfortunate motorist did not get out and paint a caricature of The Prophet on the side of his van, but his sacrilege was the same: his van sat motionless smack dab in the middle of the newly-painted bicycle crosswalk (fuck, I wish pedestrians had those). A Berliner cyclist blowing along the sidewalk like greased lightning hit that corner at 50 km/h, expecting to see pedestrian and motor vehicle part like the Red Sea before his Mosesian ass. When this didn’t happen, His Royal Mounted Deutschbagishness slammed on his bike brakes (apparently for the first time) and spewed forth the kind of Deutsch screeching that made Hitler famous. The profanity began to fly. The cyclist, who resembled one of those scrawny, nerdly Moby males you see all over Berlin, proceeded to bang on the side of the van with his open hand. In an alternate universe (maybe NYC), the van doors slid open, the workers selected their lead pipes and beat seven shades of sheisse out of the cyclist. Here on Planet Berlin, however, the van simply burned rubber getting out of the way of the nerd on his scrawny metal steed.

I live in the breeder capital of Europe: Prenzlauer Berg. I read that there are nearly 400,000 bicycles on the streets of Berlin. At the same time. And given that P’berg wombs push more screaming little payloads into prams and into streets than half of the Third World combined, you can imagine the inevitable daytime soap opera just waiting to pop: The screaming cyclist meets the waddling mother-and-pram. This is what scientists refer to as “Unstoppable force meets immovable object.” I bear witness to this law of nature. Once I saw a Cyclist vs. Breeder smackdown on the same corner mentioned above. The screams flew from breeder and cyclist alike. Nobody moved. I had time to go up to my flat, pop some corn, butter and salt it, and return to the scene of the drama, which was still in progress.

Dunkin' Berliner is a Big Fat Whore

2011-10-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

Yes, ladies and gentle readers, I have officially placed my ass on the auction block. To whit: I have turned this here free word smithery into an ad-ridden neon hell hole. And my hole is for sale to anyone who clicks on any of the ads on this page.

Why in the flying fuck did you do it, db? Well, in two years only two people clicked on the 'buy me a donut' button (thanks Mom and Old High School Buddy). I was starting to feel unappreciated. Even the comments were becoming fewer and farther between. The economy is rough. The devil made me do it. I blame the boooooooze! From now on, you will see 'relevant ads' splashed all over this blog like bodily fluids in a bar toilet.

I did it for another reason: comic value. When I write a post about donuts, I should expect a Dunkin' Donuts ad to magically appear below my post, beckoning my followers into her glazed and sparkly den of donut iniquity. But since most of my posts are about Deutschbags, sheisse and generally heinous humor, I can't wait to see the resulting 'relevent' ads. Deutschbag posts should be followed by Deutsche Bahn train promotions and sheisse posts should be followed by some equally shitty advertisements.

Either way, click on an ad and make this whore happy. I get a penny a click or some dumbass amount, so if you can't afford to send me a buck for a freakin' donut, by all means, pay a whore a compliment and click me, baby. Click me REEEEEEEAAAAALLLLLLL GOOOOOOOOOOOD.

db

Germany Inefficiency and Lazy Berlin Delivery Men

2011-10-27T07:59:00.000-07:00

Or: "I Got Yer Package: RIGHT HERE."

I just had to tell a Deutschbag to go fuck himself. Yes, I tend to over-react emotionally in all sorts of situations where most normal people would simply keep a stiff upper lip and bend over and take the sheisse. But I'm not normal people (scroll down through the past posts and say "yup").

By now we all have figured out the Berlin is not Germany; it's more of an island of poor in a rich country, a chaotic, spastic lily pad in the otherwise still lagoon, and many more metaphors I have yet to think up. So flush your stereotypes of 'German Efficiency' right down the no-standing-while-pissing shelf toilet and hitch a ride on the inefficiency express.

Enter: delivery deutschbag. "Package for Herr Hasenpfeffer."

db: "Not here. Note doorbell. Not Hasenpfeffer."

dd: "But do you know where HH is?"

db: "No, sorry."

dd: "Then can you take this package for him?"

db: "Ummm. Just said I don't know the fella. Why in HELL would I take a package for someone I don't know?"

dd: "But I can put a note in his mailbox and you can bring it to him."

db: "You know where his mailbox is, know he's in the building, and want ME TO DO YOUR JOB FOR YOU?"

dd: "JaWOHL."

The dialog above has been slightly fictionalized for theatrical purposes, but this rant/spleen vent/whinge is all to say that there seems to be a serious problem with Deutsche Delivery Dudes in my 'hood. I understand that in an uberefficient world, there would be flat numbers, floor levels and colorful maps next to each name on the buzzer/mailbox. But after about 44 different DDDs from a half dozen delivery companies asked me to hold their plain, light brown, sweaty packages I just had to cry 'BULLSHEISSE!' and let slip the dogs of db.

I'm thinking that there's only a dozen flats in our building. I'm also thinking that it would take the DDDs all of 5 minutes to investigate all 3 flats on all 4 levels to find their Herren and Frauen. Lazy fuchsen. Better yet: HEY! Here's an idea: your company delivers to this building every single business day of the year. WRITE DOWN THE NAMES OF THE PEOPLE/FLATS AND GIVE IT TO YOUR FUCKING DRIVERS FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

End of rant.

This particular DDD today happened to be the last in a long line of lazy fux who ring my bell, dragged me away from my kung fu theater flix and hit me with their deutschbaggery. I had to yell at him and tell him to go fuck himself, this is true. But in my defense, this occurred right after I politely refused to hold his package and he stormed off muttering in a pissed off tone. THAT's when he got the business end of my foul mouth.

db

Eating Berliners in Grand Style

2011-10-03T06:33:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry: 2 months since my last blog post. I blame the total lack of Berliner jelly donuts in my diet. It really is difficult to get my fix: wake up with bars of light burning through the slats in the window shades into my red eyes. Check the clock: DAMN. Missed the window. If you don't hit the window of donut opportunity you are SCREWED. Nothing worse than walking bleary-eyed and bed-headed several blocks to your donut dealer--only to find they are completely out of Berliners. This happens sometime between 10am and 11am. Bastards. "Would Herr Berlinermunchenmensch like a piece of cake instead?" the nice donut lady might ask. "Would you like me to rip your lungs out through your NOSE?" I might reply. No, really: if you are hooked on Coca-Cola (or some other evil chemical substance), would you settle for DIET? Didn't think so, Sunshine.

So without my donut panacea to sooth my violent tendencies, I've fallen into different/normal patterns and rituals. Like work. Suddenly, as if getting up before 10am mattered for an Artiste, I suddenly got a pile of photography work. And by a pile, I mean one of those types of months wherein I work every day without pause for a donut day off. Hence the lack of my favorite drug.

So you can imagine my surprise when, upon finishing the morning sessions of a Berlin conference in a fancy-shmancy hotel (Grand Westin), I saw a beam of light pierce the hotel skylight, miss my bleary red eyes and light up the biggest slice of Heaven a donut muncher can behold: pristine plates FULL of little mini-Berliners. Sure, this was a French company holding the conference, but NO, the hotel wasn't going to give them croissants. When in Berlin, do as the Berliners do: roll up them there sleeves and dig into the donuts. Yes, in the photo you may see some OTD (other than donuts), some kinda Fancee Frawnch FrittAIRS or something, but fret not: the Berliners outnumbered the fritters 2 to 1.

While these hotel mini-drugs weren't the same as the lard peddled by my local pusher at Siebert (There are no better jelly donuts on the planet. Really), at least I could take as many as I wanted for free and not be forced to stand in a queue and be told that there was No Joy in Donutville and have to be jailed for ripping a nice woman's lungs out through her nose.

I'll try to get back to y'all soon with more violent, drug-and-donuts-addled stories soon. In the meantime, I also got paid to write about Berlin beach bars. Well ain't that a hoot?

Pseudo-Deutsch

2011-07-27T15:48:00.000-07:00

In the true spirit of the uberliteratii, those of Joycean stature who reinvent the language whenever it bleedin’ well suits them, I offer the following blog post, written (almost) entirely in Pseudo-Deutsch, a language composed of equal parts bier and schwein, just like the Deutschbags who speak it. And as always with any Germanic words of more than 4 syllables and 12 letters, look for the root words; apply your decoder ring, and guten apetit!

Das ist mein erste sheisseblog mit alles pseudoDeutschsprechen. Die bloggen ist uber:

- Farhtenauslanderbarfen

- Auslanderhorden befuckenmeinherzlichzitty

- Auslanderschweinen

- Pissung und Shittung

- Die bestestbiergarten und Schweinerei in Berlin

Ein auslandergebarft in mein U-bahnfahrten in die weg das mein haus. Die grossebarf kommt in mein direktion! Ich! Ichy! Das schweinenauslandergebarf rannt in die direction auf mein fuss! Mein neue shuhe un mein perfektlich uberkleen diskohosen war in danger! Das is NICHT die erste zeit ich zee die schweinenauslander machen SHEISSE in mein herzlich zitty. Ebertag ist schweinentag mit auslander. Warum? Das ist fakt: alle auslander gestinkt. Nicht auf bier-und-wurst-gestinken, das ist normal. Die auslander gestankt von pissung und shittung. Aus dem gutterhausen und die schweinerei kommt die auslander. NichtsprechenDeutschenschweinen kommt to Berlin und betaken die bestest bier, die wurstschwein und die frauenmitgrossenbusen.

Scheisse! Auslander RAUS! Sniffenmeinfahrten! Suckenmeinshaft! Das ist mein zitty, mein schwein, mein frauen und mein bier. Runst du von Spanien oder Norgeland. Du art NICHT wilkommen hier. Also: Spanien ist besser fur auslander, naturlich! Und Norgeland, nicht getten mich startet…

This post goes out to all the Nazi Deutschbags who are alive and well in Germany. They know who they are. They block MY STREET and march with cops protecting them, they sneer and laugh at foreigners when we walk down the street (saying things loudly like DEUTSCH! when they hear us speaking English) and yell at us when we try to do something simple like buy a fucking train ticket. Fuck you, Germany. Time to clean house, bitches. If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem. Guess you never heard that one because a black man said it. Word.

db Community Service #44: Mexican Food Stores in Berlin

2011-07-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

At this precise moment my system is completely devoid of donuts and strong, black coffee. The bad news is that this blog post will contain no satire, comedic rants or bullshit. It will, however, contain a review of actual cool shit and 0% faggy poetry as per usual.

If you are from a region where a large part of your diet is Mexican food (like California, or maybe Mexico, but there they just call it 'food'), and you are somehow stuck in a region where the spiciest dish on offer is a hot dog with ketchup and a pinch of curry powder, you will no doubt crave spicy food. Sure, you can be a chump and buy Chio salsa (90% ketchup) and 8 scrawny tortillas made in Belgium for around 8 EUR for the both of them.

Once you've made that mistake, you will then proceed to make the same mistake with all the other overpriced fake Mexican brands on offer. Then dump a ton of money hitting all of Berlin's 'Mexican' restaurants and leave feeling like all the expat bulletin board posts you've read recommending the places were really written by the restaurants' owners (they are, btw).

Enter Mitte Meer and Pfefferhaus. Look no further. I have pesonally tasted and tested these places (though not everything for sale at these stores, that's impossible) and I can therefore give it the db Seal of Approval. Mitte Meer has a few branches in Berlin; a new one recently opened in P'berg just up the road from me (though it could be in Pankow proper, as I live in the top part of P'berg away from most of the yuppie douchebags). There you can find in abundance: real tortilla chips (2 kinds), tortillas (2 sizes), jalapenos, red jalapenos, red salsas, green salsas, picante sauces, refried beans, refried black beans, chorizos of many varieties, and many, many other foods from countries which don't live on kebabs and currywurst. The best part is the price: a huge pack of 18 small tortillas = 2 EUR, a large sized tortilla 18 pack = 3.75. They even give you discounts for buying in volume (30, 40, 50 EUR, etc.).

RED HOT SAUCES FOR RED HOT PEOPLE

I'm not sure if it is called Das Pfefferhaus or Die Pfefferhaus, but they do ONLY hot sauces, hotter sauces and ring stinger sauces. That place is no joke. They've even got brands of hot sauce called "100% Pain" and "Colon Cleaner." I haven't tried those, mainly because I'm not a frat boy and I would like to keep some living nerve endings on my tongue and in my colon (just in case). When you walk into the shop (located directly beneath the Alexanderplatz S-bahn tracks on the Alexa side) you will be greeted by the only living German who likes spice. I say this because A) I love sweeping generalizations, B) Herr Mann opened up a can of hot sauce whoopass on me. We sampled several types of sauces from a wide variety of regions: Caribbean, Floridian, Texan, Mexican, Calfiornian and even some evil shit from Tennessee that was called something like Evil Shit From Tennessee. As I kept sampling, we anted up on the spice scale with each tasting. By the time we got to the Habanero line, I was coughing and requesting a sip of water, while he was saying that the next hottest one was his favorite. Though in retrospect, I didn't see him taste the spicier ones. He may have been a currywurst sucker in disguise.

Suffice it to say, these two places have enough !ay carumba! to keep your tongue flapping while you fall into Johnny Cash's infamous burning Ring of Fire.

Pfefferhaus: http://www.pfefferhaus.de/index.php?page=index
Mitte Meer: http://www.mitte-meer.de/

ATTACK OF THE KILLER CUCUMBERS!!!

2011-06-01T07:48:00.000-07:00

The theme to “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” was running through my head as I read the news: Germans are stuffing cucumbers into their mouths, ruminating, swallowing, digesting, expelling-bloodily-out-the-wazzoo, then, sometimes, dying. This is the Dunkin’ Berliner Way™ of saying the E .Coli has hit the fan and nobody is safe.

I’ve never been a big fan of veggies. Even years ago when some crazy hippie girlfriend talked me into being a vegetarian, I mainly ate french fries and beer. And donuts. If someone would say to me “Dude! You KNOW that donuts are fried in animal fat and what the HELL are you doing?!” I would then rip their liver out and serve it with a nice Chianti. I was a shitty vegetarian.

I digress. How did I get from Killer Cucumbers to jelly donuts? Rhetorical question. Oh yeah: so the other day I was getting my weekly kebab from Tayfun’s Bistro on Schoenhauser Allee near Wisbyer str. (I recommend it. E. Coli free since 1989) and noticed they had none of the usual sliced cucumbers in their salad buffet line up. If I were still suffering from delusions of vegetarianism, I might have said ‘WTF! How can I like, get my like, falafel without cucumbers, dude!’ Fortunately, I’ve always hated cucumbers anyway (and most other raw veggies for that matter) so I am in no real danger of dying. So I asked the kindly kebabman to sling piles of cayenne pepper into my kebab to induce bloody diarrhea in lieu of the lack of properly-tainted E. Coli cucumbers. I totally appreciated the substitution. And WOW! what a spicy kebab!!! No, I really ate a kebab with a fistful of cayenne pepper just the other day. This concludes the factual part of the blog. We now continue with the comedic rant/satire portion of the blog, already in progress.

Some Germans just don’t get it. First the Deutschbags on High played the Blame the Spain Game and managed to cripple Spain’s entire economy (apparently veggies, salsa, salsa dancing and Being Chased by the Bulls represent the entire economy of Spain) by suggesting that the Evil Killer Cucumbers were sent from Spain due to some ancient grudge incurred by some ancient treaty which wasn’t honored. Ok, I made that up.

Germans REALLY don’t get it: today at the REWE market, piles of plastic wrapped cucumbers stared up at me like some deliberate, phallic fuck you to common sense. Like, HELLO? We are in NORTHERN GERMANY. And the people dying from the Killer Cucumbers are in NORTHERN GERMANY. But that won’t stop the steady march of Capitalist farmers from peddling their deadly wares on an unsuspecting P’berg neighborhood. Apparently by wrapping them in plastic and putting a sticker on the cucumbers which proclaimed ‘NICHT aus SPANIEN!!!’ that people would still buy them. Hell, if they wanted total safety they should have ditched the plastic wrap in favor of cucumber condoms.

The lady in line in front of me had not one but two cucumbers in her basket at the checkout stand. I was just thinking ‘GUT GOTT, woman!! How can you buy this? Don’t you read the news???’ Then she turned around and I saw that she had other more pressing problems. She had a hard face lined with years of abuse, alcohol, drugs, men/women or other types. She glared at me as if she was reading my mind and presented the stern face of consternation which lines the face of all Berliners who live on sauerkraut and booze. I then realized that the potential threat of death by bloody diarrhea was the LEAST of this woman’s problems. And that maybe, just maybe, she had no intention of eating those sanitized, wrapped-in-plastic cucumbers, monster sized. God DAMN, I’m a dirty fucker.

American Refugees

2011-05-27T06:39:00.000-07:00

‘I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.’

-W. Somerset Maugham, "The Moon and Sixpence," Ch. L

I posted this quote in the beginning of the rollicking tour de force that is the Dunkin' Berliner Blog. The only thing I have to add is this: you can also remain an alien in whatever land(s) you settle in.. All you have to do is shut the fuck up and not talk to anybody.

Yes, I'm an anti-social fucker. I prefer the companionship of jelly donuts to most of the people I meet. Misanthrope? Maybe. I think 'we who have lived outside our native countries for many years' (expat, shmexpat--I'm a refugee, mutha fucka) are tired of other expats most of all. At least I am. I stumbled into the Prater biergarten last night around 10pm and the joint was hopping. Every table was occupied and you could barely hear a German word spoken. If Al Qaeda wanted to rain down any of their monkey religion savagery on "Western Infidels", this would be one of the places (only not when I'm there. If you read this and do that shitty thing you do in the name of your stupid fucking made up 'god' I will personally arrive in your afterlife and sew up all 72 virgins so you will have to remain a total jerk off for all of eternity. No Sand Monkeys in MY fucking biergarten. You've been warned.)

I digress. I joined a table with an expat friend. The Questions immediately ensued. Which brings me to the point of this blog post: What is the expat question you hate the most?

A) Where are you from?
B) How long have you been here?
C) What do you do?
D) And do you actually make money with that?
E) All of the above.

The winner of today's poll will receive my personal accolades, personal mention and I'll hit the like button on yer fb page, even if it is some hokey New Age Bollox like yoga n shit.

Word.

This blog was brought to you by the Fund For Angry White Guys Abroad and the Navy Seals. "Navy Seals: Opening Up Economy Sized Cans of Whoop Ass since 1961!(tm)"

The Hoff

2011-04-12T14:30:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if they call him Das Hoff or Die Hoff in Germany. And I don’t really care. Sure, he prefers to eat his hamburgers commando style – down and dirty drunk on the floor like a Saigon whore. He drove a car with more brains than him on an 80s TV show and the teen girls ripped his clothes off and fainted at the mere sight of The Hoff’s sweaty shag carpet chest. He was the male bimbo lifeguard in a veritable sea o’beach babes in the ludicrously successful Bay Watch. I’ve glanced at TVs in Czech Republic, Romania, Bulgaria, Lithuania, Slovakia and Germany and they all played dubbed versions of Baywatch. You can turn on a TV set in a hotel anywhere in the world and you will see Bay Watch. The Hoff is everywhere you want to be, six hours before you get there.

My Hoff Awareness was marginal at best before I moved to Berlin. I didn’t think I would have to worry about various aspects of my sheisse culture following me here. I thought that Berliners would be urban sophisticates and cynical world citizens. Nope. Mostly white trash breeders and wearers of mullets and shitty jeans, Berliners are. Either that or a bunch of fucking techno-weenie faggots with bad fashion addictions. Now now, if you are a Berliner and you are reading this, don’t be offended, you are probably not from Berlin. Nobody is. Except maybe Kennedy. Everyone else in Berlin is but a tourist hoping to come to Berlin and be something, do something, get something, steal something—maybe a brief glance of The Hoff. Yes, The Hoff is a ridiculous parody of the worst pop culture has to offer us. But HE SANG AT THE BERLIN FUCKING WALL WHEN IT FELL (or shortly thereafter, there was no YouTube or facebook back then, mind you). A Hoff discussion started in an expat group on a train leaving Berlin into the countryside. “The Hoff is huge is Germany,” one of the group said. “Do you think those giggling German kids over there are listening to The Hoff on their Ipods right now?” I asked. We agreed that they probably were. You wouldn’t think spastic, giggly teens would listen to has-been Germo-American pop stars, but you would be surprised. Just look at the video for “Du” by The Hoff. Near the end of the song he is practically raped by barely pubescent girls. Apparently they like to lay their weary heads on a heaving chest full of sweaty man carpet. And what Berliner teen wouldn’t? Girl or boy?

Descending into the Seedy Underbelly of Berlin ... sort of

2011-03-30T07:42:00.000-07:00

We went to the Leather Club to find a strap-on full leather gimp suit for our dog. It’s a sausage dog, so the dimensions would have to be just right. We pushed through the heavy plastic vertical slats that you would find in any meat locker or a leather shop in Berlin and into the leather accessories section. We looked at the usual bondage masks with the zipper-faces and ball-gag mouth pieces. We checked out the garden variety leather-and-steel-ringed penis sheaths and giant black double dongs. We were starting to think this place was just way too gay for our hound dog.

“Why don’t we just take four of those leather ringy penis thingy sheaths and just put one on each of the dog’s legs?” I ventured.

“No,” she said, “those things are black leather and the dog is black. You wouldn’t even see the fucking things against his fur.”

“But they’ve got the silver ringy thingy and…”

“NO!!!”

We descended further down the rabbit hole. In the next room there was a mini bar. We each grabbed a bottle of beer before wading through the art fags who had gathered for the art show that was going on (incidentally) at the Leather Club while we happened to be shopping for our Full Doggie Jacket.

“Fear,” the barman said.

“No, I’m not afraid. I’ve seen this shit before in S.F. Giant black double dongs don’t even raise my eyebrow any more.”

“He said vier,” the guy next to him said, “Four Euro for the beers.”

“Cute dog by the way,” he added.

We gave up on asking for the doggie section. Clearly these fags were way too conservative for the kind of canine costuming we had in mind. Another back room separated by yet another wall of those heavy plastic vertical slats. We had just watched a b movie about a missing girl and a sex dungeon with hallways and rooms separated by these exact same clear plastic curtain slats. Fucking rabbits and their fucking holes.

The next room was a small boxed-in section of a corridor leading further down the rabbit hole. A small group of college-aged girls sat on a leather bench talking, drinking and smoking. A gay fuck film was projected on the wall above them. They were completely oblivious and unimpressed. We walked on. The maze continued. There were dozens of side compartments and ante rooms with the same redundant vertical plastic barriers. Some had benches and ropes. Others had handcuffs and small beds with handcuffs on the posts. It’s just not enough for some people to render a simple ass pounding. Apparently some people need the Gimp from Pulp Fiction and a bed with a set of handcuffs. There were buckets in each room and the little woman wondered what they were for and I didn’t EVEN wanna go there.

Deeper down the hole we saw a back room with more rooms and a couple of gay guys standing around. I got the words ‘hinter’ and ‘nicht’ and some head shakes. We get it. No straights allowed. We left the den of iniquity with our dog just as we had walked in. The dog looked up and wagged his tail. He would get no leather action that night.

*photo taken from a website far more depraved than this here blog

Famous Donut Munchers

2011-03-09T13:22:00.000-08:00

I believe the Secret to Life(tm) is to find some little unimportant thing that you love, then proceed to love it absolutely. I loves me my berliner jelly donuts. I gotsta have them at least once per week or I would not go on living. Shit, I'd eat them every damn DAY, but if I did, I would not go on living.

Here are some of my favorite donut quotes of all time. One of them I just heard last night:

"Personally, I think some things are our own choice and some things are predetermined. Let me give you an example: if I walk into a donut shop I do so out of free will. But once I am there, it is my destiny to eat every single jelly donut they have."

- Craig Ferguson, late night talk show host

"Donuts. Is there anything they CAN'T do?"

- Matt Groening, The Simpsons

"I owe it all to the little chocolate donuts."

- John Belushi

Meet the Street

2011-03-03T05:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve been stalking anindividual quite by accident. I didn’tset out to be obsessed; it just followed naturally. First I took notice, then I started takingphotographs, discreetly at first, then more planned and executed. Then I found out the name of my subject wasjust an Alias.

You can see the works ofstreet artist ‘Alias’ all over Berlin. His worksare fresh but familiar, political without being arrogant, and invasive whilestill within the context of the environment. If you’ve lived in Berlinfor a while you may have seen his works. I’ve even used some shots of his work in previous blogs when I’ve runout of pics of donuts or beer.

I’ve always been fascinatedby urban decay. I’ve taken so manypictures of cracking walls, peeling paint, chipped bricks and rusty metal tocompletely reconstruct a 20^th century city completely from myimages. I’m drawn to the way that theEarth takes it all back in spite of the best construction materials we canstack in stony rows. In the midst of allof this decay, some no-talent kids like to steal a spray can or two and leavetheir mark—like dogs pissing on each wall they pass. Others make it a point to beautify theirenvironment, to cover the corrosion with the bright colors of a vivid imagination. These people are street artists, and should inno way be associated with common taggers and vandals. A street artist uses the cityscape as his gallery,effectively bypassing the entire nepotistic and ego driven ‘what is art’gallery world largely run by elitists.

Alias is one such street artist. He works with stencils based onphotographs; he applies these stencils and paper stickers in amusing locationsand vanishes. The image can be of a boysitting on a bomb, a boy morphing into a cat or—one of my favorites: ascreaming woman with the words ‘Don’t be afraid, it’s only gentrification!’

A while back I went to theopening night of an Alias exhibition of new paintings entitled ‘My Belly IsMumbling.' Apparently when he is not sprayingand pasting up city walls, Alias plies his trade in more tried and truevenues. At the show I wondered if Alias would showhis face, since the legal status of street art is dubious at best. At the West Side Gallery, I was pleased to see a variety ofwell-executed Alias pieces committed to canvas, wood and rusty metal doors. This gave the effect of viewing pieces whichwere ripped from the city walls and brought into the gallery.

The place was abuzz with theusual art people and fashion victims. Wesat and wondered if Alias was lying low, incognito in the midst of hisaudience, hiding just stage left of the spotlight. Maybe it’s the guy with all the girls andbooze around him seated on the couch. Perhaps it’s the quiet dude with the paint-spattered pants leaning on apillar. We went to the gallery mini barfor a drink and plied the barman for information. “Is Alias here? Do you know him?”

To which the barman replied,“No…um…maybe….ummm…would you like a drink?”

For info on the upcomingAlias show:

http://www.street-lab.net/index.php?page=artists

A Flickr Alias group withmore Alias art than you can shake a stick at:

http://www.flickr.com/groups/710677@N23/pool/

Chinese Hot Pot: DIY Grub

2011-02-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

In some of the more Westernized Asian restaurants, a singlechef and/or his team will prepare your food right in front of you. Often they will fling food and swing bladesin the air and make Kung Fu sounds while your shrimp does a swan dive into itsoily grave. Others will chop suey yourmeat and veggies with all the pomp and circumstance of the Cirque duSoleil. Generally all of this isoverpriced shit for yuppie scum who value the illusion of personal servitude.

Enter: A Berlin-CharlottenburgRestaurant with Chinese Hot Pot, or the Ikea of the Asian restaurantworld. You see, they make you assembleand cook your food yourself. Genius. They bring you a gaspowered pot divided into two swampy-looking sections of bubbling soup. Then they bring you piles of raw meat: fish, shrimp, beef, chicken, pork, mysterymeat and more mystery meat. You are thenexpected to chuck it into the boiling brine and fish it out with a wire scoop. Don’tget me wrong, I like new cultural experiences, brave new cuisine choices andanything that is not fast food. Thatsaid, I am the single pickiest eater I have ever met. I hate almost everything that people considernormal, so when I saw the mound of meat next to the two sections of bubblingstew—one white, one brownish red—I had to fight the inner redneck in me whichwanted to shout ‘FUCK THIS SWAMP WATER!!! BRING ME SOME FRIED YAK DICK!!!’

So I went with the old standard hot and sour chicken (sadly,they were fresh out of the fried yak dick), which was very similar to thebreaded and fried chicken mix with veggies and sauce that you would get in anyChinese restaurant in America. I’m a culinary chicken, yes, but I got towatch my dining comrades who had ordered the Asian Ikea Meal trying to figureout what the hell to do with the little elbow wrench and the slabs of particleboard. I watched them poke at themystery meats, dunk, boil, scoop and eventually eat them. I was comfortably ensconced in my safety netof Plate #22 with rice and a beer, watching with amusement as everyone else wasreading the instructions with their meal. In this case the instructions took the form of the friendly waitress,who was warning people to cook the food at least 5 minutes or else you would—accordingto her pantomime—make a strange face and rub your torso from the chest down tothe pelvis.

One of the Czechs at the table was commenting on theauthenticity of the meal, saying to the waitress that he had visited Shanghai,Shaolin and Shoop Shoop (Do Wop). After receiving the approval of our waitress,he pointed out to me that the menu was so authentic that they even had one menuitem scrawled in pen in Chinese characters at the bottom of the bill of fare.

“Um, do you think,” I ventured a question, “that the dishwritten only in Chinese is Sweet and Sour DOG?”

German Toilets, Emasculation and Film School for Scheisse Videos

2011-01-20T18:07:00.000-08:00

It was only a matter of time before I broached thesubject. I was going to breach thesubject, break on through to the other side; leave it leaking, as it were. But my deliberate malapropisms merely confusepeople. Perhaps it’s the redneck accentin which I deliver the news.

I’m avoiding again; sorry. Okay: shit, piss, pinkel andsheisse. There, I’ve gone and saidit. I’ve had to drink and eat largeamounts of beer and donuts while living in Berlin. As a result, I’ve had to look at theridiculous sticker on my toilet lid for quite a while now: the silhouette of the peeing man with theline through him, the ‘don’t pee standing’ sticker, or the‘keinenpinkelnbestandungschweinhund’ as it simply said in simple German. Of course this must have been left by theprevious tenants, no doubt a fine German family of upstanding social status andnon-standing pissing status, a family with a large, strong woman who beat herpoor, emasculated-post-war-Moby-maybe-man with her terrible swift loo brush.

Then someone told me that it was normal for German men tosit down while peeing, that it was necessary to avoid the splash of urine ontothe sacred seat above. Right. The country known for its uber-efficiency inALL OTHER THINGS designed this paltry device: The Trophy Toilet. It’s thatpeculiar flat shelf directly in the center of the toilet where normally therewould be a wide open space full of a gallon of water. It’s what we in the West have been usingsince the barn and the outhouse. We wentdirectly from crapping in a hole in the ground to the Powerflush 2000. I once read that a measure of a culture is inthe way it deals with its waste products. A lot can be said about a culture which moves too quickly. Perhaps we missed a great deal of culturewhen we decided that it was better to mask, drown and dispose of our waste asquickly as possible. Maybe the Germans wereonto something when they decided to keep their waste hovering directly belowthe lid for easy inspection and diagnosis of all the nut and corn content oftheir fibrous feces.

Sure, it had to be a logical, medical, holistic reason thatthe flat shelf was there, hoisting my gawdawful anal progeny high above the lowwater mark where it can choke me with the stench, or when standing to pee, splashback with a thrust in direct proportion to the amount of beer I hadconsumed. There can be no otherexplanation for this uber-inefficiency, this blatant disregard for culture fromthe culture who gave us so much, y’know….culture. UNLESS…

American Culture Answers German Culture: The South Park German Sheisse Video.

[person speaking German on "cliteris" website]

Kyle: Dude, it's a lady getting pooed on!

Stan: Whoa! Is it Cartman's mom?

Cartman: Oh, very funny!

Kyle: Hey! It IS Cartman's mom!

Mrs. Cartman: [man speaking German on computer] All rightythen!

Cartman: SON OF A BI...

[shocks]

Cartman: AHHH!

Ike: [bounces in] Ba ba ba ba.

Kyle: Get out of here, Ike. You're too young for this stuff!

Ike: Bullshit.

Stan: What's she doing now?

German: Essenmeine scheisse.

Mrs. Cartman: Okey-dokey!

Kyle, Stan, Cartman: [they see something gross] AWWWWWW!

Stan: [pukes] Click it off, dude, click it off!

[Kyle clicks it off]

Stan: Dude, what the fuck is wrong with German people?

I am not educated enough to tell you why the Germans cangive us buttloads of composers, philosophers and all of modern psychology andNOT give us a proper fucking toilet. ButI’m just going to assume that German men are not all emasculated, simperingfools who sit down each and every single time they have to take a piss. I don’t believe that the treaty that endedthe war had the clause “and you shall give up your arms, weapons, military bases,delusions of Aryan grandeur, nationalism and the God given right for your mento stand up to urinate from here on out.”

I am starting to be convinced that the Germans LOVE theirsheisse--and not just because it made it all the way over to South Park, U.S.A.

Footnotes:

Chocolate poo: http://www.schokoscheisse.de/

Kackel Dackel, the crapping daschund toy for KINDER!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOdEE-Z919A

Douchebags and Donuts: A Little Leary

2011-01-11T03:24:00.000-08:00

I am now chock full o’donuts and coffee. I always want my goddamned donuts on Monday, but the Deutschbags at my favorite bakery (Siebert Konditorei, the finest bakery in P’berg and possibly Berlin, reviewed by my damn self here) like to close for THREE FUCKING DAYS. Saturday, Sunday and Monday there is no joy in Donutville; the commies take a long weekend. So on Tuesdays I overcompensate, jamming about 3 of those tasty fuckers down my gullet, washed down with a SECOND large cup of Turkish coffee. And let me tells ye: I make coffee strong enough to kill an African Bull Elephant on crack. It is basically 4 heaping spoons of the strongest espresso I can buy, thrown into a bowl-sized cup with boiling water; stir thoroughly. Et voila: productive human.

Well, wired and goofy anyway. I just watched the latest episode of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart; Denis Leary was his guest. He was double plugging his new toilet reading book AND his upcoming stand up special “Douchebags and Donuts.” A man after my own heart, I must say. Not because I am a donut muncher of clinically dangerous proportions, not because his use of the words ‘douchebag’ and ‘donuts’ together is strangely similar to a Dunkin’ Berliner rant about Deutschbags and donuts (every other blog post, really), but because I happened to be munching on my donuts while watching him do his shtick. Not planned, just one of those random moments of epiphany; a moment of clarity that donutoholics refer to as ‘total fucking coincidence.’

I am curious how Leary’s latest rants will be handed down to us mere mortals. After a decade of his bad self getting famous ranting on the joys of cigarettes, on being an asshole, and being accused of stealing Bill Hick’s style and stuff—I just wanna see if donuts are the new cigarettes. Cuz, y’know, I’m curious like. I would like to imagine loads of people clicking on the ‘buy me a donut’ link (above right, hint hint) so much that my local commie bakery would be FORCED to stay open all weekend AND Mondays just to keep up with the new demand. I would also welcome many stories of donut addiction, treatment centers, condolences on my ‘affliction’ and spam about a miracle cure to donutoholism.

But really I’m just hoping someone will say “HEY, LEARY!!! You stole your routine from Dunkin’ Berliner!”

Berliner Raucher Kneipe

2010-12-25T09:58:00.000-08:00

The kneipe is a special place in Berlin where you can find a few locals crammed together in corners watching sports on the telly and drinking cheap beer in small glasses. The wiki translation of 'kneipe' is 'pub,' but this isn't exactly accurate. To me, a pub is a place where large groups of English or Irish people gather together and drink ales and stouts from LARGE mugs and watch sports on the telly.

Most of the Berliner Kneipe are raucher, or smoking pubs. Most European pubs have followed the popular trend of banning smoking; England, Ireland and Germany all share the same laws concerning smoking in bars. To whit: it is not allowed. In Berlin, however, people just plain don't give a fuck. They smoke in bars anyway. Technically, this is illegal, but if a kneipe owner scrawls the word 'raucher' in crayon on a bar napkin and duct tapes it to the door of his establishment, alles in ordnung.

"So, db, why in the hell do you go to the raucher kneipe if you don't like smoke, you California beeotch?"

Glad you asked. Two words: CHEAP BEER. Sure, the beer is crappy, mostly warm off-brands that nobody has ever heard of outside of Berlin. But I'll be god damned if I'll ever be caught DEAD in the typical over-lit, over-priced, bistro-slash-faggy-slash-dancy cafe-slash-bar-slash-fuckers-I-don't-like-SLASH-em-ALL!!!

Ahem, excuse me. I prefer dark corners and dark people. I don't mean the local African watering holes per se, but those would be welcome as well. I mean, normal people who have no problem with the dual stigmas of being butt suckers and alcoholics. The lungs and the livers are shot, but these people are REAL.

FALLING DOWN is my local raucher kneipe. It is practically right across the street from me, which makes it an easy stagger home. I suppose the name of the place, in the immortal words of Bukowski, 'sort of fondled my scrotum.' It's not normal to have an English name on a German bar. And this bar is all German, mostly Prenzlauer Bergers of the old sort: unemployed, hard drinking, DDR-raised people who like cigarettes and beer more than life itself. The bar is owned by a man of Mediterranean origin. His name is 'Shefki,' which he told me means 'happy man' in Arabic. It's true: the man is happy. Even when his bar is dead empty, he just smiles and asks me 'where are the people do you suppose?' Then he rips open a bag of chips and brings the darts out for a game or two.

He opened the pub on Christmas Day "for the lonely people who don't have Christmas today." I thanked him profusely by eating his chips, drinking his beer and throwing his darts. I had to ask him about the decision to name the bar 'Falling Down.' Was it about the gambling machines tucked in the corner? Does 'Falling Down' mean the falling of coins? Or is it about the more unfortunate patrons who can't handle the new uber-Captialist economy and the heavy amount of alcohol one must consume to deal with the aforementioned regime change?

To which Shefki replied: "I think it is the last place people go in the neighborhood. After they have gone to all the other kneipe in the neighborhood, they come here last and fall down."

Don't be scared. Please visit Falling Down on Paul-Robeson-str. today. Sure, your lungs may fall out of your ass from the smoke, but Shefki is a happy man who plays a mean game of darts and peddles a cheap bottle of beer. Tell him the big American sent you.

Not Ready For Prime Time

2010-12-04T05:03:00.000-08:00

The beauty of a blog is that nobody edits the damn thing but my damn self. Whatever sticks in my craw—be it donut, schnitzel or sauer krauts—gets processed through my donut-and-beer-addled brain and onto my blog so that all 12 of you can enjoy it.

Enter: editor. Recently an editor of an expat website solicited me (for free) to write a story about getting around in Berlin. She said she had read my blog and thought I could contribute a few words (for free) to her expat website, because after all, being an expat in Berlin, we are all whores of the most humanitarian kind: the kind who work for free.

Below is the rejected article. “Why was it rejected, db?” you ask? I don’t know, you tell me. In the commissioned (for free) piece, I took out all the usual F bombs, donut references and deutschbag rants which would normally appear in any Dunkin’ Berliner blog post. I put in some actual info that can be of actual use. The next time I get contacted by a publication to write for free, I’m going to INSIST that they read my ENTIRE blog, not just the Cliff Notes, and cite at least 3 references to donuts, deutschbags and defecation. Read the fucking ingredients, editors. It’s JFKFC for The Masses, containing 25% comedic rant, 25% parody/satire, 50% bullshit, 0% faggy poetry.

It does exactly what it says on the tin. Word.

Getting Around in Berlin

By Craig Robinson

You’ve just moved to Berlin. Nothing is happening where you have just moved. You need to cross town to get to The Cool Kiez (neighborhood). Do not panic: this is normal. Go to the BVG website and plug in your destination. Don’t worry if you don’t know the address. BVG is your Personal Hey Zeus! in the Land of Pagan Hedonism known as Berlin. You can type in a station stop, an address or even the name of a landmark—Beevee got yer back. In nanoseconds you will have your course in front of you and you can Kiez hop all night long.

Sometimes it even works out just the way you saw it on the interwebs. But this is Berlin, the city that never sleeps, never stops reconstructing itself, and never, EVER tells you when your ordinarily-ueber-efficient transportation experience will suddenly come off the rails like that proverbial crazy train: constant station reconstruction, detours, random service interruptions and poorly-marked station signs are your new friends. Learn them. Know them. Love them. In the two years I’ve lived in Berlin, I have never used the same route in my neighborhood for more than a few weeks.

It’s a wonder that anyone can get to work. But since Berlin is probably the unemployment Capital of Europe, who needs to? Most Berliners only use public transport to get to parties. That’s why it is open all night long. They’ve even got a monthly ticket called ‘Wide Awake in Berlin” for those who only use public transport from 10am until 3am. You even get a discount. I am not making this up.

Things you will NOT see much of on Berlin’s public transport:

1) Suits

2) Cops

3) Sobriety

Things you will see in ABUNDANCE on Berlin’s public transport:

1) Punk rockers

2) Drunks

3) Students with beer and wine bottles

4) Touts, beggars and buskers

5) Tourists just trying to have fun

In my first week in Berlin I must have been lost at least a dozen times in the maze of U-bahn, S-bahn, M trams and M buses. I finally got the urge to accost a couple of beer-swilling Berliner youth at a Friedrichshain tram stop: “Hey, guys, I was wondering about the rules for alcohol on public transport—I mean, this is Europe, everyone walks down the street swinging a bottle (Praise Zeus), but is it legal to drink on the tram in Berlin?”

Drinking Jugend #1: “Technically it is illegal to drink on the trams in Berlin. But nobody will stop you if you do.”

Drinking Jugend #2: “NO!!! He is WRONG!!! If you are in Berlin, you MUST DRINK ON THE TRAM!!!”

Perhaps the locals know something I do not. I cannot count the times I have been lost on public transport in Berlin. I still get lost regularly, usually when I hastily jump onto a train whose number I didn’t see as it pulled in (they’ll have 5 or 6 trains in a row going to OPPOSITE parts of the city). Eventually I just started carrying a bottle of beer with me at all times and BAM! the magic connections began: the brain train’s synapses fired, failed to fire, stuttered and started, lurched and finally took me away. Not really. Some of this is satire. It HAS TO BE. This is Berlin.

PRACTICAL INFO:

BVG website: www.bvg.de

TICKET INFO:

Buy your tickets from U-bahn or S-bahn station machines or certain news agents and validate the ticket with the punch-stamp machines located almost everywhere but where you will actually be able to see them.

Plain-clothes ticket inspectors (who really wanted to be STASI or KGB agents under communism but couldn’t quite cut the mustard) will occasionally and suddenly flash a ridiculous Cracker Jack box toy badge I.D. at you and ask for your ticket. At this point it is a good idea to have a valid ticket. Or a Mohawk.

TICKET PRICES:

Day ticket (Berlin A/B central zones): 6.10 EUR

Single ride (up to 2 hours in one slightly-weaving direction): 2.10 EUR

Short trip ticket (up to 3 U-bahn or S-bahn stations or 5 bus/tram stops): 1.30 EUR

Fine if you get caught with none of the above: 40 EUR

Major train service interruptions due to reconstruction (subject to change upon a BVG whim):

- U2 line from Senefelderplatz to Pankow: indefinite. Hell, they’ve been working on that thing since the very DAY I moved to Prenzlauer Berg Over a year ago. It’s a conspiracy. Use the ersatzverkehr (replacement bus service) instead.

- Ostbahnhof S-Bahn station: constant construction that makes you walk down many, MANY muddy, fenced in construction tunnels like a rat in a labyrinth.

Great Asian Food: No Yuppies

2010-11-23T16:44:00.000-08:00

I don't usually review food which doesn't consist of deep fried bread dough and lard stuffed with jelly filling, but bear with me: I've found two great Asian restaurants to get your Chow Fu on in P'berg. The first is a Real Thai Restaurant called 'Tofu,' and the other is a Chinese restaurant called 'Wok Show.' I will tell you more about these two places if you promise me up front that you have read the terms and conditions and check the box which says 'I have read the terms and conditions so lay it on me, fool' below this blog. Those terms:

1) Forgive their silly names. These are deliberately designed to keep the Yuppie Scum out. Coupled with their hole-in-the-wall appearances, both of these restaurants strive to do only good food and no neon buddhas and shit.

2) If you go there, don't get drunk beforehand like some Limey hooligans out for a post piss up curry. If you are a 'Merican redneck, under no circumstances should you push the soup away and bellow "FUCK THIS SWAMP WATER!!! BRING ME SOME FRIED YAK DICK!!!"

3) If you are any way, shape or form a Yuppie, meaning 'materialistic individuals with no souls and high paying jobs out to ride on the coat tails of other people's experiences and raise their neighborhood rents for good measure,' Stay. The fuck. Away.

If you agree to these reasonable terms, please get ready to have some fantastic food.

I discovered Wok Show by reading some expat comment forum listing cheap eats in Berlin. An individual by the name of Sum Dum Fuk said you can get a massive plate of pot stickers (Chinese dumplings) for 5 EUR. I believe the individual was Asian and I trust him implicitly. I have always hated Chinese fast food because it consists of watery, salty sauce on crunchy, barely cooked vegetables. This is why I tend to order pot stickers or those wacky Chinese pancakes with the mixed filling and plum sauce (called 'Mu Shi,' and oh how the Germans chuckle when I order that one). Anything out of the ordinary, other than the usual sheise you normally get in Euro/Asian dumps. I will cut to the chase now: bring friends and get yourselves 3 plates of 20 dumplings with various fillings. The nice lady who is always there will automatically bring you chop sticks, even if you look as white and dorky and clueless as myself. I recommend putting some dumplings in the small bowl in front of you, soaking it in soy sauce and trying to pick those bad dogs out with those sticks. After you've dropped a few on the table, feel free to bow and apologize and order knives and forks. The kind staff will stop laughing at you, turn off the Chinese Candid Camera and bring you the cutlery of your choice. Guten apetit!

'Tofu' Thai restaurant was recommended to me by a Czech friend who has been living in Germany for 20 years. Normally I wouldn't trust the culinary advice of anyone whose culture cooks with ketchup as a rule. But since Milan spent many years traveling to and from Asia and he said the place has the proper portrait of the Thai king on the wall and the staff answers you if and when you speak Thai to them.....it's the shizzle.

I know nothing of Thai food because what I've had so far hasn't impressed me. Cutting to the chase once again, get any of the red or green curry dishes. Or anything. I chose the dish with the highest number of chili pepper icons, which was only two. I had a dish last night called something like 'Gak Tung Burn' which was so spicy that I'm still tasting it when I cough. BRILLIANT. I LOVE spice and find it all but impossible to find spicy food in Central Europe because Central Europeans are a bunch of fuckin' pussies. No flavor other the die sauer kraut.

'Tofu' is not a hippy joint in spite of its unfortunate name. It is a hole in the wall--as is 'Wok Show,' but I have found that the very best food is ALWAYS found in the tiniest, most run down holes you can imagine. You see, without all the neon buddhas, silk dresses and gold tea cups, they can concentrate on making delicious food while keeping the yuppie hordes out.

Tofu - Erich-Weinert-Straße 1, Prenzlauer Berg

Wok Show - Greifenhagener Str. 3, Prenzlauer Berg

Habituation

2010-10-26T05:12:00.000-07:00

"I have become comfortably numb." - Pink Floyd

No, I am not loaded as I write this (for a change); but I DID have a donut this morning (go figure). It's coming up on my 2nd anniversary in Berlin (January) and the process of habituation is nearly complete: I no longer see Berlin as 'Ooh! Wow! Neato! Lookit!' and have become just another expat specimen consuming and excreting with Berlin as a fuzzy backdrop.

This affects my blogging; I was just talking with Lady Snooker about how I used to blog once a week--which slowly faded down to once a month. Has my creative mojo gone? Has my donut filling finally dried up? No, I suspect that Old Rascal Habituation has done its thang on my eyes and ears. It's happened to me before in other exotic locales: London, Dublin and Prague. Right about the time the traveler settled in to the routine; the study program (London), the jobs (Dublin and Prague) and the rent payments, the Buzz decreases, the new becomes familiar, then routine, then Old Hat.

I have noticed my best photographs of a location are generally taken within the first few months of living in a new place. After that, things that were extraordinary become, well, ordinary. This is a psychological process which allows us to protect our senses from the onslaught of new experience, disregard the mundane, and keep a lookout for new stimuli. The wiki article on habituation mentions that soon after a human wears clothing, the sensations wear off. Can you imagine if you could constantly FEEL the cloth chaffing you as you moved around? I believe we would be batshit in about 72 hours. Or city traffic and street sounds would make a New Yorker insane (scratch that; New Yorkers are NUTS) in weeks.

But what is basically psychological protection is damned inconvenient if you are a writer or photographer. The details we pick out as unique and noteworthy start fading into the background. So this is when we need to focus more. Berlin is pegged as an ever-changing city; a city evolving before our eyes. Fortunately, if you look hard enough, you can see the paint drying: the constantly shifting street art, the ever-changing rotation of festivals, events and goings on. I now have more time on my hands than usual (my slow season for work), so my lack of money coupled with my excess of time gives me the perfect opportunity to slow down and observe.

I would like to also point out that many of the things I mention on this blog are cheap or free: Karaoke in Mauerpark (see: Return of Melvis) only requires a bit of nerve and/or liquid courage (and in Berlin, liquid courage is 60 cents per bottle). Taking snaps of local street art is free if you shoot digital. I have been following certain Berliner street artists and noticing their styles. So when the background just starts to get a bit fuzzy, sometimes a new stencil, poster, or art piece will appear in the cacophony of color that is Berlin.

So let me throw out some ideas and we can all be comfortably numb in Berlin--with or without the chemicals.

If you have any ideas for free/cheap things to do in Berlin that Google doesn't know about, please comment.

Festival of Lights photo by Craig Robinson Photography

The Return of Melvis

2010-10-22T18:12:00.000-07:00

Ich bin eine Karaoke addict and a piss-poor Elvisimpersonator. Nevertheless, I HAD tothrow myself into the Berlin Bearpit and dance with the rest of the bears. AGAIN. You may know me as Dunkin’ Berliner,but in a previous life (Prague) I was known as Melvis O’Presky, the hardestworking pelvis in Prague; or His Royal Melvic Region, if you’re not into thewhole brevity thing.

I paid my dues. Icroaked and crooned in some of the smokiest, darkest, least-crowded karaokebars with the warmest, flattest beer a man can swallow without puking. At first it was the usual ‘drunk man findsliquid courage, a microphone and primal scream therapy’ at the expense of theother drunks. The mic hung at the edgeof my soused mouth and I mumbled my Elvis in the dark. Three drunken friendsclapped. One of them yelled ‘GoMelvis.’ I think I scrawled ‘Elvis’ onthe beer-soaked paper and handed it to the KJ (karaoke jockey). Many muffled mumbles later, Melvis was born.

Then came The Suit: All six-feet-five-white-polyester-sequined-hell of it. I had it made by a local Czech seamstress. Thencame The Gig. Melvis entered, grabbedthe mic and hosted many-a-Prague karaoke as MC Melvis, then, sadly (if only forme), Melvis left the building.

They say Berlinis where creative people go to die. No,I just made that up. We’re supposed tobe reborn here, like some god damned Phoenixes rising from the fucking ashes ofCapitalism or something; perhaps this is purgatory. But considering that I’ve been surrounded bythe same wannabe, parent-supported-mediocre-slacker-artist-pretentious-hipstersfor nearly 2 years now, I’m beginning to suspect that I may have to work my wayback UP to purgatory. Again.

Re-enter Melvis. Lastsummer I got drunk in Mauerpark, as a dude does on a sunny Sunday in Berlin. I somehow wound up on stage with a bottle ofwarm Sterni in one hand and a microphone in the other--in front of a LARGECROWD of people. I croaked, I croonedand I really SUCKED ASS. Evidence of myass-suckitude can be found on the Bearpit Karaoke You Tube channel. You really don’t wanna Google that. TRUST me. When I found The Pit it was just getting popular. And as with anything that is just gettingpopular, you wanna be the one who says ‘you were there when it was juststarting.’ And so I am. Er, was. As a veteran karaoke lounge lizard from hellI noticed that the KJ (His Royal Highness, Sir Joe Hatchiban-San, ESQ,hereafter referred to as ‘K to the J’ or just ‘Joe’) had a completely differentsetup: no monitor speakers (those tinysquare ones facing the stage) to properly hear your own voice; no echo to hidethe obvious flaws in every drunk’s voice; no safety net for the obvious karaokefool who thinks he’s all dat and a bag of chips. Joe likes to rumble in with his bicycle ofdoom, dump the heavy load onto the stage, and drop the hapless singers into thepit with the hungry bears.

And the crowd goes wild.

So I had to do it again and again, like coffee or beer orsex. Yeah, like those things, with aMUCH bigger crowd. But the crowds areout of control. Not in theBear-Eat-Drunken-Singer meaning of the phrase; you just couldn’t get a song inedgewise. Fight through the horde,submit your song, wait for 2 hours—and if you’re LUCKY—sing your bad-asssong. Badly. I tried it a few times in the lastmonths. Once I was turned down flat:‘We’re not taking any more songs,’ the nice girl said. Hell, in Ye Olden Days of Yokee, Joe didn’thave the luxury of a nice girl to take songs. Times they are a’changin’ I guess. The next time The Girl put me on the bottom of a list of about 20people. Two hours later, no glory. I left.

This is the part in the story where any sane man would havegiven up, got a job, paid his taxes and died unfulfilled, or any insane manwould have returned with an Uzi and lit up the muthafuckas. But I am neither sane nor insane. I walk the line. I went back. Early. I sat in the front of themuthafucka. After Joe did his intro songhe asked who would be the first singer. I jumped up and flailed my arms. It worked; third time’s the charm. I climbed up on that stony stage andI huffed, I puffed and I blew the house down.

And the crowd went wild.

A 911 Day Spent With Beer Guzzling Czechs in Berlin

2010-09-11T19:07:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: db has decided that some readers may be confused as to which part of a particular Dunkin' Berliner blog is 25% satire, which is 25% comedic rant and which is the 50% bullshit. In order to make it easier, db has decided to italicize and colorize anything slightly bullshitty. The rest you have to figure out yer damn self. Oh, as per usual, 0% faggy poetry.

I packed up the girl and the dog and headed into Neukoelln for a Czech street festival at Richardplatz.

I know what you're thinking: 'yer an American. It's September 11. You're thinking of all the pain, death and mayhem when the towlies took down the Twin Towers. Yer goin' to the kebab 'hood to kick some camel jockey ass, AINTCHA?'

No, dear reader, that would be politically incorrect, vile, violent and offensive. Not to mention I would need a MUCH BIGGER POSSE in that area of town. The real reason I went was because my girl is Czech and she dragged me there to meet her Czech friends. And there was Czech beer on tap. Reasons enough.

I remember thinking I should bring my camera, but this insane little buzzer goes off in my head whenever I am about to go to any event which will consist largely of heinous bier abuse. I don't want to have anything happen to my fancy-shmancy camera, the least of which could include: damage due to droppage, damage due to beer droolage, damage due to pukage, loss due to theft, loss due to drunkenness or loss due to me suddenly at the last minute snapping into post-traumatic-9/11 redneck mode and swinging the camera wildly into Turbanated heads.

So I left the camera at home. Which turned out to be a pity, since this wasn't just a collection of heinous bier abusers standing around and/or staggering into trees. There was actual hootenanny style action with groups of people rolling giant bales of hay around the square for prizes and bier. It was a very photogenic moment sadly missed due to reasons listed above. Now I'll have to try the thousand words method. Fuck.

My girlfriend mentioned before we got there that people would be 'rolling in the dry grass,' which I thought was just Czech code for 'drunken, boorish behavior #243.' No, what she meant to say was 'rolling large bales of hay willy nilly around the square.' I was immediately tempted to teach her one of my redneck English lessons ala 'y'know what a Roll in The Hay means in English, dontcha?' but I opted only for a slightly confusing reference which would leave her slightly confused. Damn, I could've parlayed that cowboy cliche into some actual action later on in the evening. Damn you bier, damn you to hell. Then again, maybe not.

I did note with some degree of smirky-educated-white-trashian satisfaction the sheer insanity of these folksy, redneck style games. I mean, to whit: 1) There's not one stick of hay occurring naturally ANYWHERE in the city limits of Berlin, 2) Neukoellners are NOT farmers, nor have they EVER been farmers, rolled in the hay or rolled hay down squares historically, and 3) one of the bales of hay nearly ran over a breeder and her progeny which were standing oblivious in the middle of the road in a manner typical of Berliner breeder menschen, like 'oh, I've managed to shit out another kid on welfare look at the little blond bastard ain't 'e cute? looks just like his unemployed, drunken welfare-suckin' daddy and don't you dare bump into me with bike, foot, or Gott Verbot a giant rolling bale of hay.' She had to run for cover with baby in tow. No bullshit. I smiled smugly. Fucken breeders. Heh.

So there I was, mid baby hate, mid buzz and mid redneck English lesson, when it occurred to me that these type of games were probably being performed this very 9/11 day in some backwoods, dried-up farmville in the YEW ESS of FUCKIN' AY with actual rednecks, pissy beer and thoughts of 'God damn YEW, towel jockey, yew fucked us REEEEEL gooooood, but today we YEWnite as WON and YEEEEE-HAWWW drink us some pissy swill, bitch about the towlies and roll us some hay bales n try to roll us a cowgirl in actual hay, and HEY! if that don't work, we'll form a posse and look for camel jocks and if that don't work, well God Dammit we'll just hafta cornhole us a drunk.'

The Czech Svijany beer on tap was tasty and came in two varieties: pilsner and unfiltered pilsner. We tried both in slightly-less-than-heinous quantities and were satisfied. I like the fact that the small town of Svijany can peddle its liquid luxury in Big Ole Berlin. It makes me happy that the little brewer can still compete with the Big Corporate Beer. But I suppose that's fairly easy as Berliner bier is sheise. I prefer Bavarian bier, anything with a monk on the label. Or Leipzig bier, anything with a punk on the label. Sternburg aus Leipzig. Mmmmm. Sternburg. Not just for drunken punx! (tm)

In conclusion I just have to say this: Nine years after some fools crashed into some big buildings and plunged us into another godawful long-ass war for all the wrong reasons, it's good to know that we could all just meet in Berlin and hold hands, Czech, American, Berliner and Neukoellner alike, and get our collective buzz on. No bullshit. Except the hand holding. That was figurative. Do you think an American would actually hold hands with a....

Photo by re-ality, taken from Flickr after I read that it was ok to do so.

Art Is For the Dogs

2010-08-27T11:24:00.000-07:00

I was dragged to another art show in Berlin. My excuse for hanging with the Skinny Folks With Large Glasses this time around: my girlfriend’s dog would be in the show; that and the fact that there would be free beer.

Like any event in Berlin promising free beer, we had to get there early. It was a basement space in Charlottenburg (Christ, why am I dragged to Charlottenburg every month?) and it was a beehive of activity. The basement space fairly buzzed with flocks of various skinny dudes with bed head curly hair and those new fad jeans which are skin tight on the legs but droop at the ass to reveal their shorts. I’ll never figure that one out so don’t even ask me to try. Not hip hop. Not ballerina. Something in the middle I reckon.

The Artist (no symbol) let us know her plan: the dogs would each wear an Ipod with speakers for a collar and the speakers would belt out a human voice at just the right moment. WHOA!!! Said I, ‘Where’s the BEER?’ But you could see that one coming a mile away already.

The tension before any art show is about the same as the tension before a prize fight—especially when canines are involved. At the art show the early comers stood around looking poor but sexy (except me; I was an accessory to the lil woman and the dog) while waiting for the beer. I got to gawk at the crowd a bit while they were strapping the Ipods to the dogs. There were the same type of folks you’d expect to see at any art show in any city at any time in history: beardos, waifs and strays, the eating disorderlies, the vamps, the tramps and the one chick you’re not quite sure about because the calves are too thick and the jaw too square and izzit a tranny?

The dogs: a whippet, thin, speckled and twitchy; a beagle, curious, sniffy and hyper; our hund, a black dachshund/Doberman mix, social, silly and asshole-sniffy; and The Rapehound, rapacious, rapey and rapine. I don’t know what breed it was but the dog made it very clear from the get-go that it was on a mission to fuck one of the dogs in the room. That’s not normally a problem; except all of the dogs were male. Viewing this as a minor obstacle, the Rapehound immediately tried to mount our sausage dog. Having none of that, our poor beastie flipped himself like pancake so that his head was where his ass was a split second before. This was not the least bit of a deterrent for Rapehound: he began the face fucking in earnest. I’m not sure what was more disturbing to me: the ungodly act occurring before my eyes or the fact that my girlfriend thought it was cute and kinda funny, in a dog-dick-in-the-mouth sort of way. Some of the waifs and strays started laughing. They thought the show had started.

Eventually the owner of The Rapehound came over, stood and watched. I wondered if I was the only prude in the room. Hey, look, do whatever you want to whomever you want, just: A) consent; B) be of a reasonable age and C) don’t do it my face. The Rapehound’s owner said ‘I don’t understand. He is—how you say—castrata?’

Do you mean to tell me that your facefucker has no balls and STILL feels the need to mount the skulls of other male dogs? This just doesn’t make any sense at all. Now it becomes nothing about sex. Now it becomes all about power and aggression and rape. And I think she said ‘Jawohl!’

I was ready for the art performance.

Breakfast of Champions

2010-07-17T01:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a picture is worth (at least) a dozen words.

DUNKIN' BERLINER

CAPTION CONTEST !!!

Which of the following captions works BEST for the picture?

A) Fruhstuck Weltmeister
B) The girlfriend is on vacation and I'll eat whatever I want to goddamit
C) Punk rock breakfast in Berlin
D) Dude needs some SERIOUS help
E) Other (pick your own)

The winner of the Dunkin' Berliner caption contest will win donuts. Or accolades. Or mention on this blog.

Add your caption in the comment section below to WIN WIN WIN !!!!

Tea Baggersee

2010-07-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the desk fan isn't enough and you have to go out into the sweltering heat and pack yourself into shiny metal boxes on rails to get to the Berlin lakes. We were well prepared with sandwiches, mineral water and wine. I fought my girlfriend tooth and nail on this one.

'You mean we have to go out into the HEAT and BAKE on dirty SHORES with random GERMANS in Speedos?' I decided that I had no choice but to placate the g.f. and get with the program. I couldn't picture the combination of me away from my laptop; sitting in direct sun; drinking; not dying from heatstroke.

Truth be told I haven't been swimming in years. The last time I attempted to haul my elephantine ass into a water scenario was in a lake in the Czech Republic about 10 years ago. I was with a bunch of friends on the shore of a suburban lake outside of Prague. I was standing there in the water minding my own business when a communist relic in a canoe paddled up to me and shouted at me. I said 'niggu, proSEEM' which is Czech for 'nigga please.' I couldn't see my transgression. The man kept gesticulating and pointing at my midriff.

"What?!! My BELLY is too BIG for your BEACH????" That wasn't the case. Many other beer-swilling Czech men with prominent paunches paddled freely about us. No. It wasn't the belly. It was the shorts. After some deliberation I discovered that I wasn't allowed to enter the water without the requisite communist Speedo. There was no use explaining to the frustrated Czech man that Where I Come From Got Dammit Only Fags or Olympic Swimmers Wear Speedos. And that it was a lake. And that no possible damage could come to the lake from my raggedy-ass shorts. I just had to leave.

Ten years later I'm on the shore of a Berlin lake and a helicopter is hovering over us. Me, the g.f. and her friends from work all stared up at the whirlybird from our semi-comfortable perch on the burnt grass shores of Baggersee. We had just completed a full circle of the lake on foot. The girls couldn't decide on which stretch of garbage-strewn shore would work best for their recreational purposes. Now that we had found a spot, we had The Eye in The Sky hovering over us. The chopper had circled the lake a few times before deciding to hover directly over us for several minutes. The girls were getting giddy. They wondered if they were spying on us. Being as we are foreigners. With alcohol. On a German lake shore. Having the godawful audacity to enjoy ourselves. I told them they were paranoid. Foreigners can't be seen from helicopter altitude and they couldn't possibly identify the clear substance in our cups as alcohol. If that were in fact illegal on this particular shore.

"Tango Foxtrot Niner this is Bagger Eins. Do you see the man without the Speedo? Over."
"Negative Bagger Eins, proceed to the man without Speedo and provide areal recon, over."

But then it became crystal clear to me: The chopper would land near us, whipping up a storm of dirt and dead grass. An SS storm trooper would charge our fair beach blanket donut dip and accost us with a lesson in German law with the proffer of an outstretched arm and a Speedo for me. If that were the case, I would have to shed my prudish cultural inhibitions and display my yam bag just like the rest of these deluded Euro-fools. I kicked back on the beach blanket under my straw hat, red Hawaiian shirt, Blues Brothers shades and knee-length shorts. I smiled to der himmel uber and mouthed the words 'Bring It On, Deutschbag."

The ladies were getting very nervous. I was calculating the cost of helicopter fuel and pilots and salaries of the feckless fools hovering 30 meters overhead and deciding that the myth of a broke Berlin was due largely in part to gross administrative waste. The copter hovered. Meanwhile a crew of two garbage cleanup men swept our perimeter. I wondered when the Blitzkrieg would begin. Eventually they all left, ground and aerial recon alike. I looked around wondering what other sight may have attracted the interest of the helicopter police. Then my eyes beheld an awful truth in the tall grass behind us: a buck naked man stretched out on a blanket, no Speedo anywhere to be seen.

I'm not going to digress into my encounters on nude beaches around the world. I'm just going to quote a shy journalist woman from my hometown newspaper who, upon going to her first nude beach for a story, discovered the same Awful Truth that I had witnessed many times up to and including today: "A scrotum is not easy on the eyes."

So the teabagger behind us was probably what drew the helicopter. Or not. It's hard to tell with these Rule Types. After more than a year and a half living in Berlin I still have absolutely no idea what the rules are. So I go where I'm told to go by the crowd, hauling the booze, the chips, the blankets, the donuts, the attitude. But you will never catch my Moby anywhere near anything resembling a Speedo. There are some things you don't need laws for; only common sense.

Photo grabbed off the internet. Nobody would claim credit for an image that bloody obscene.

Summer Time. Easy Living.

2010-06-28T09:27:00.000-07:00

Summertime,

And the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Oh, Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'

So hush little baby

Don't you cry

One of these mornings

You're going to rise up singing

Then you'll spread your wings

And you'll take to the sky

But until that morning

There's a'nothing can harm you

With your daddy and mammy standing by

Summertime,

And the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high
Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

There are at least 150 versions of this Jazz Standard by Gershwin. It is my favorite song of all time.

If you haven't heard this tune oozing over the grimy/sticky balconies of a Berlin late-start summer already; get out more. Or better yet, put your stereos to the windows and press play. It is your pagan duty to welcome the sun. Dance, monkey, dance.

German Chix: Then and Now

2010-06-15T16:29:00.000-07:00

I remember meeting a few expats around various tables in nightspots in Berlin during my first few months here. I don't remember much of what they had to say as it was so banal. My shit was too. But there was this Indian dude at the table who, upon hearing someone say 'German girls,' jumped out of his shell and proclaimed "German girls are so boring."

I'm not sure what this guy meant. Clearly he was one of 'those of the I.T. persuasion' out of the subcontinent who thought he was just, shall we say, Too Cool For School or All Dat and a Bag of Chips. I smiled at him and imagined that the only experience he had with German girls was a glass of beer thrown in his face followed by a sheise storm. Really. Dude. Put down the Kama Sutra. And back away.

If pop music is any indicator of the social climate of a nation (let's just suspend disbelief, OKAY?), the pop songs on the radio in Germany are screaming for attention. Some of the screamers are girls. German girls. Enter: Tic Tac Toe (I'd do it. Heh), a German girl band one hit wonder whose video 'Hey! Mr. Wichtig' (Hey! Mr. Right) caught my attention when I first hit Germany for the first time in 1997. I was visiting a friend in Dusseldorf, he had MTV, they played the beJAYzus out of this video.

Tic Tac Toe - Mr. Wichtig

http://www.myspace.com/ogcjm1982 | MySpace Video

These three amigas were part hip hop, part reggae, part b.s. pop. And all the way feminist. They weren't having any of the usual muscle men with their kleine schlongs or their weak dancing. I'm not sure what they were having. Probably each other. More powah to ya, babies.

That was then. This is now. Enter: Eurovision song contest. I think this is some huge karaoke singer's version of 'Who Wants to Be a Star' or 'American Idol.' Generally there are tragic results. Which means I never hear of the hapless winners. But sometimes, just sometimes, a sickly sweet, infectious pop voice pumps through the shitty speakers of my local kebab joint and I have to wonder to myself "who dis?"

I hate pop music. I hate how it has no soul, no jazz, and no lyrics capable of catering to anyone over the age of 14. But sometimes, just sometimes, a sickly sweet German girl with a slightly-Australian accent hits the speakers and bends my head slightly, just slightly, to the left. And I give it a listen.

Both videos are bouncy, full of grrrrl attitude and all that. Both songs made me bob my head to the left and/or right when I first heard them. Obviously I prefer the second one because it was sung in English and I could feel for the poor young German girl who had 'painted her toenails for you' just the other day. Wow, you've come a long way, baby.

But the first video had its lively island beats and rappy fist pumps to da man who dared to have muscles and nothing else. Both the song and the girls in it had a certain je ne sais quoi. Only in German. So years after I had lived in the Czech Republic and Tic Tac Toe's silly pseudo-Ger-maican pop riffs had faded from my memory, a new beast hits the pop charts. This time, she's wearing new blue underwear, sporting freshly-painted toenails, and is looking for your love. She's your personal satellite. Which is German for 'stalker.'

And Deepak said German girls were boring.

Ludicrous Sports #43: Autoball

2010-06-06T16:33:00.000-07:00

Ok, I got bored and switched on the German telly and I’m here to report—now I’ve seen it all: two tiny European cars and a giant inflatable rubber ball. The object? Drive as fast as you can (not easy for one of these zero-point-two liter-engine roller skates they drive in Europe) into the large rubber ball, knocking it into the opponent’s goal. Of course the drivers skid and slide into each other while chasing the elusive ball; madcap hijinks ensue. And they call this sport Autoball.

The first contenders were from Italy and Ghana. The guy from Ghana had no chance. It seemed that he was just sitting there idling and revving his engine while the Italian drove circles around him. But wait! I haven’t even got to the LUDICROUS part yet! Each time the Italian scored, the German announcer/DJ played some silly schlager music with an Italian bent. Something like “Aye-yi-yi! Pasta-Pizza for me! Aye-yi-yi! Pizza wonderbar!” I shit you not. I shudder to think what they would have played if the Ghana guy had scored.

Next match: Germany vs. Ireland. The drivers skidded and slammed into each other more than the ball. It was the Irishman’s fault. He kept driving on the left (groan). The Irishman’s skidding shenanigans left him in a smoking car. He had to change cars mid match. The German’s car faired better, even though the whole kraut mobile was composed of 50% duct-taped lights and fenders. At one point the Irishman drove his car into the German and pinned him to the wall so he couldn’t keep scoring goal after goal against him. The German, not having any of it, reached out of his window and started banging on the hood of the Irish car. Then he flipped the Irishman off.
What a friggin' Deutschbag.

“OOOOOHHHH!!!! Das grosse finger!” the announcer yelled.

Whenever the German driver scored his numerous goals (something like 5 to 0) against the hapless Irishman, the German schlager music would start up, this time something like “Ja, ja, ja! Ich bin Deutschland! Ja, Ja, Ja!” The Irish driver sadly scored no goals and we did not get to hear the German schlager version of a whisky-fueled jig. But that’s probably a good thing.

For the exciting tie-breaker, chock full of goal upon goal and schlager song upon schlager song, check this video.

Death of an Artist

2010-05-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

I went to visit my old neighborhood of Friedrichshain today. It was one of the few sunny days we’ve had in Berlin for a while and I was thinking it was about time we had some summer.

I stuffed the camera in the backpack and headed out.

Friedrichshain is changing—of course. It became ‘hip’ and therefore it is doomed to gentrification, higher rents, overdevelopment, displaced creative types and worse yet: yoga joints and sushi bars. Well, that shit had already begun when we decided to leave, and thankfully, it’s still gonna be a long time before the punks let the yuppies push them out. Whenever the punks want a can of spray paint to tag an SUV they can contact me here. I’ll buy the fucker.

The old squats on Rigaer strasse were still holding out; new posters plastered everywhere suggested that the battle was being lost. It’s as if the squats were a slowly sinking ship with corporate raiders on the stern and fenced-in youth hanging on the bow, swinging bottles and laughing and living in spite of the hull breach.

I was shooting some pics of the street when our Russian artist friend suddenly took us on a detour off the street through a passage to the back of some flats. I was preoccupied with shooting various kiddie rides in a playground overgrown with tall grass. My girlfriend said that our friend was taking us to meet her American artist friend. She said she was very impressed with his paintings. He was also from California, so naturally she thought I should meet him. I said why not. Nadja pushed the buzzer and I continued shooting. I’ve never been a fan of dropping in on people unannounced. And I don’t like it when they do the same to me. I like pre-arranged fun. But I was following the leader, so gate crash we did.

I heard Nadja shout “WHAT?!!? I CAN’T BELIEVE!!!” A middle aged woman stood on her second floor balcony with a red-headed girl of around 7. The woman said the artist had died of a heart attack last week. It was unexpected and the man was only 42. I heard the girl say “mein papa ist tot.” Nadja was emotional. She said that she couldn’t understand it. The girl, upon hearing Nadja speaking English, simply clarified: “my papa is dead.” I felt like I had swallowed a brick.

These are the kind of moments when perspective smacks you square in the face and all of the little things you bitched about all week—late trains, bad lunches, flat beer—seem like a complete waste of breath. I suddenly felt self-conscious of the fact that I had a camera around my neck. I put my camera back in the bag. I said I was sorry. I’ve never liked the failure of English language to express any real emotion. All I could say was “I’m sorry.” Why? I didn’t kill the guy. But all you can say when someone has lost somebody close is “I’m sorry.” That’s what you say when a mourning woman and her young child are looking down on you from a 2nd floor balcony of the flat of a dead artist. And then you walk away.

Nazi Freedom in Berlin

2010-05-02T06:27:00.000-07:00

Stepping Out for Donuts, Running Into a Wall of Cops

MAY 1, 2010, 15:00 It is now the fourth hour of the lockdown. I cannot leave my own street in Prenzlauer Berg because a bunch of fucking bonehead Nazis have the freedom to march in our fine, leafy, breeder-ridden streets. And the cops protect them. And all of this in a country where Nazism is technically illegal. Apparently there’s a bureaucratic form for everything, even illegal activities. Just sign the appropriate forms and you can waste police money and time for any asinine belief system you follow. Sure, they can’t wear the swastika. Nope, they can’t do the ‘zieg heil.’ But what the hell does it all mean when they can just wear black and obtain permission to walk the streets anyway? It’s as if a group of child rapists got to walk down the street freely and proudly. As long as the cops don’t see any child rape t-shirts on them and they don’t rape a child directly in front of them, alles gut. Same logic, different lowlife.

I saw there was nothing to eat in my flat and naturally I thought of going out to grab myself a fistful of lard-and-fake-fruit-sugar ecstasy as any Dunkin’ Berliner would do. So I stepped out to find a fence at the end of my street with a wall of cops in riot gear behind it. They weren’t letting anyone through—unless they were on their way home and they showed the cops their id with their address on it. We waited. I snapped pics of cops in various bored poses. At least I was able to take their pictures without having my skull tenderized by batons. Try taking a picture of a cop in America and see if you don’t wake up in the hospital with your camera up your ass.

We waited some more. We walked up and down the streets and saw that we were blocked in from all exit points. A friend of mine called me to see if I was going to Kreuzberg for the Annual May First Anarchy March and Yuppie Vehicle Roast. I said I couldn’t go as I was locked down. My friend asked what I was going to do and all I could think of was raiding the police vans in search of stray donuts. There MUST be a box of Berliners in one of those riot vans.

I finally managed to obtain a Snickers Bar and a bottle of Sternburg beer from the only shop open within the police blockade. They had no real food and definitely no donuts, so I grabbed the bottle and the candy and walked down the street trying to blend in with all the other helpless victims of Nazi atrocity. One old drunk was babbling like a village idiot to each and every passerby. At one point he even took his drunken diatribe to the police line. They just laughed at him and rolled their eyes. The cops had special pockets in their riot vests for their juice drinks and apfel schorle. How cute. The drunk? Only a bottle of Sternburg*, no special pockets. No wonder he was ridiculed.

*This Dunkin’ Berliner blog post was brought to you by Sternburg Export Bier aus Leipzig. Discriminating Berliners who know strong, cheap beer choose Sternburg Export. Mmmm, Sternburg….. not just for drunken punks anymore.

Photos copyright Dunkin' Berliner

Animals on the Grass

2010-04-23T04:31:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I found myself lying in the barely-dried spring grass along the riverfront stretch of Treptower Park. Lots of other critters broke out of their winter caves and sprawled out in the sun in the grass in the park on the waterfront in Berlin. Dogs, ducks, swans, punks, breeders, children, joggers, drunks and sausage vendors all broke out of their zoos and hit the open air last weekend. God DAMN, Berlin winters are long. But so are the Prague ones, so after 10 years spent there I should be used to 6 months of cold, gray, frozen hovno/sheise weather. It makes me appreciate the sun even more when I don’t see it for several months.

The shack shutters were flung open and wares were peddled. Bier und bratwurst, ja, but more mysterious foodstuffs could be had by the brave—or locals from a very specific mountain range in Germany specializing in snacks with names like ‘Niedersachsenisch Kugelfliegeln’ or ‘Thuringer schweinenkrustenbraten.’ Of course I made these names up because I can’t remember the original names of the mystery meats. But trust me, unless you wear lederhosen you would have no fucking idea what this food was. We looked at it. We smelled it. We STILL had no clue.

We had our bottles of cheap beer by the river’s edge; me, my girl, the dog and her brother. The brother was sprawled out on the grass wearing the previous night’s hangover like a cement trench coat. The dog watched the swans with curiosity. Or hunger. That little bastard will eat ANYTHING. Couples giggled and smooched on blankets several meters from us even though we had tried to escape such obvious teenage tomfoolery to get down to the serious business of sun-soaking and suds-sipping.

With the river and the sun and the cloudless sky overhead, I welcomed Spring along with all the other animals on the grass.

photos by Dunkin' Berliner

Accidental Urbex

2010-04-01T07:07:00.000-07:00

As long as I can remember I’ve been fascinated with ruins. Medieval castle ruins, crumbling chateaux, or ivy-buried cemeteries seem to call out to me to enter and explore. My main purpose for the exploration was always photographic—to capture the phases of decay. Why? Because decay and decomposition are beautiful. No, I do not wear all black clothing and guyliner. I just happen to think that the aesthetics of ruin is visually and viscerally appealing. Perhaps it’s a statement on our impermanence—and of that which we design and build. Eventually, the Earth takes it all back.

A group of us in Berlin get together in a photography ‘club’ of sorts and explore. We have hit various small German towns and villages as well as miscellaneous Berlin sites and have taken thousands of pics. I’ve noticed that there are those of us who tend to favor the more dilapidated industrial, military and medical sites that have come across our field of view: an abandoned sanatorium in the countryside, a former Cold War listening post or a disused airfield. While we were planning our next outing into a former-Soviet-something-or-other, a new voice chimed in on the bulletin board, one who claimed to be into photography and Urbex. I had to look that one up. An urban explorer is one who enters, creeps, crawls and explores all that is unseen to the average human eye. Many of them take pictures and many of them just like to crawl around in the muck. I am of the former group, as crawling in muck is impractical for a man of my bulk. Some carry bags of spelunking gear and galoshes; I’m often seen in sandals and a Hawaiian shirt with a camera around my neck. Call me the Urban Tourist.

On all of our trips I am the last guy out. I probably slow the group down with my need to explore every corner of the places we conquer. Most often I am found taking pics of peeling paint or rusty metal objects. I am simply fascinated by decay in extreme close up. I fear I may have to purchase a macro lens if this keeps up. On each trip, either shouts from the group urging me to keep up--or my fear of being left behind in a village with no bus service--will eventually pry me from the crumbling decay of the past and back to the quiet bustle of the streets of Berlin.

photos by Dunkin' Berliner

Napalm Wings of Death

2010-03-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

Not a Swedish heavy metal band. Not a Viet Nam veterans group. Not just another bar in Europe serving ‘spicy’ pub grub. The napalm wings at The Bird bar in Berlin will kick you in the face and watch you drag your bleeding ass away.

The Irish barman working at The Bird warned me. But I insisted on calling his bluff: “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before, yer wings are fuckin’ spicy.” He looked at me dead in the face and said, “No. I’m not bullshitting you. People have run out of here crying. Bigger Americans than you.”

Challenge given. Challenge accepted. I told him that I hoped they weren’t the usual soggy chicken wings soaked in ketchup and onions like all the other goddamnmotherfuckineuropeanpussyass establishments I’ve been to in the last 12 years. He smiled.

You may challenge the barman but never challenge the cook. Perhaps my bravado met with a surreptitious scrawl on the food order: ‘kill this cocksucker with the sauce.’

Usage of fire in warfare has a long history; thickened burning compositions proved their advantages.

The chicken wings appeared on a plate of deep blood red sauce. I could smell it from the time it hit the bar in front of me. The usual shrunken, folded chicken meat served in every American bar. I took the tiniest nibble from the first wing and

The firebombing raids on German cities, e.g. Hamburg, frequently caused death by this mechanism; the resulting deformation to the baked corpses was referred to as Bombenbrandschrumpfleichen (incendiary-bomb-shrunken bodies).

My lips burned, followed by the tongue and throat. I gulped my beer and waited for the after burn. It came, it saw, it kicked my ass. I looked at my girlfriend and coughed and spewed ‘honey, you REALLY don’t want to even TOUCH these with your pinky finger.’

"Napalm is the most terrible pain you can imagine," said Kim Phúc, a napalm bombing survivor known from a famous Vietnam War photograph. "Water boils at 100 degrees Celsius. Napalm generates temperatures of 800 to 1,200 degrees Celsius.

I am well experienced in the fine art of eating death-dealing spicy foods in the real Mexican restaurants of any Californian city and the Indian hole-in-the-wall curry houses of London. So this culinary assault went well beyond what I was expecting. I didn’t believe it was real even in the midst of my pain, so I asked the barman to explain to me how they could serve something so insulting to the customers. He hauled out a small black glass bottle and said that he knows an Indian woman who comes in and adds the contents of the black spice vial ON TOP OF the blood red napalm death swimming in front of me. Then he said that the guys sitting to my left were also partaking of the Evil Napalm Death Wings. I couldn’t believe that they had served this blatant culinary fuck you to other guests. What did we do to this barman?

Napalm is suitable for use against dug-in enemy personnel. The burning incendiary composition flows into foxholes, trenches and bunkers, and drainage and irrigation ditches and other improvised troop shelters.

I held my plate up to theirs and said ‘WAITAMINIT!! Your sauce is only brownish red while mine is BLOOD RED!!!’

The two guys seated to my left swore their sauce was just as evil as mine. I swore theirs looked pale brownish red while mine most definitely had come directly from the fiery colon of Satan. But bar lighting is tricky at best. I couldn’t tell what was what and I was still on fire from the first taste. The two guys were from Moscow. Of course. The classic Cold War rivals side by side with only two plates of fire to unite them. I asked them if in their frozen wasteland of a home they had any experience with a hot mouthful of burning death like the ones we were chawin’ on at the moment and they said

In the early 1950s, Norway developed its own napalm, based on fatty acids in whale oil. The reason for this development was that the American-produced thickening agent performed rather poorly in the cold Norwegian climate. The product was known as Northick II

“No!!! What the hell is this stuff? I offered the Russians some of the carrot sticks I had procured from the barman to soothe my burning tongue and fiery lips. One of the Russians walked quickly away and I asked his comrade what was up with his friend. “Oh, he touched his face with fiery fingers.”

The Bird is a New York style bar. This means there are signs saying ‘fuck you’ and other welcome mats in postcard form. The Louisville Slugger bat is also poised behind the bar to add to the Tough City Bar image. I managed to flag down a guy who I suspected was one of the NYC proprietors of the bar. He said he was the manager and I asked him if he would like to try one of the Napalm wings on my plate. “Nope” and he was gone. I kept eating the hot burning coals until Satan had left. The Russians had disappeared as well. A girl behind the bar wearing an Elvis shirt asked me if I was finished. I had 2 pieces remaining from the original six. Seeing that the Russians had left, I smacked my hand on the bar and said ‘NO MAS!!!’

It’s now just around midnight. I handled the heaviest spice I’ve ever had in Europe. No big deal. But what worries me is that I still have to get up tomorrow and face the Burning Ring of Fire.

P.S. If you are CRAZY enough to try the Napalm Wings O' Death, a word to the wise: wash your hands thoroughly BEFORE you go to the toilet. TRUST ME on this one. : o

The Return of Lo Fi

2010-03-16T15:03:00.000-07:00

In the dusty cobwebs of childhood memory I recall first hearing the term ‘hi fi.’ The audio buzz was circulating around the schoolyard, kids talking about their parents’ new ‘hi fi stereo systems.’ Some rich kids, no doubt. High fidelity stereos were not cheap. Most kids’ parents had shitty mono systems with shitty mono records playing at home. But the buzz was in the air and everyone wanted to hear the hi fi. One day a kid captured a bee in a school lunch milk carton and ran up to me and shook it up, pressing it to my ear. The bee buzzed and thumped against the inside of the milk carton angrily as the kid yelled ‘TRAN ZIS TOE RADIO!’ He was no doubt a poor white trash kid like me who was inventive out of necessity; mother didn’t own a hi fi.

In the dusty columns of the Berlin U bahn the kids run around with their mobile phones blasting lo fi mono noise in what appears to be technology gone full circle. Mobile phones are the ‘in’ device for today’s crack smoking yoots. The damn things have radios and tiny speakers in addition to cameras and internet. But rather than spend 300 EURO on a decent ghetto blaster to hoist proudly on their shoulders to share their noise pollution, they buy a mobile phone and blast their hideous music at full volume through the tiniest speaker known to man. I remember the good old days when the yoots would pollute our fair air with bumping, thumping hip hop cooked up in low riding trucks and slung through 1000 watt speakers into the night air. Actually, that is a bit of an understatement. It KICKED through the metal side panels and rattled rivets and screws of the body of whatever poor Nissan or Toyota mule bore the huge musical burden. And they shook the cars next to them. The police issued tickets for noise pollution. Those were the days.

Now BVG (Berlin public transport) has signs on the U bahn trains. The signs feature a cartoon woman who looks like she ran off the set of ‘Run Lola Run’ directly into the unemployment office. With her official uniform, shock red hair and exasperated look, she touts a different message in each sign; such pearls of wisdom as ‘the seats are not garbage dumps,’ ‘don’t eat on the train,’ or ‘travel only with a valid ticket.’ Common sense shit for the white trash of Berlin (and there is a LOT of white trash in Berlin; hmm, subject for future blogs and/or government study money/cash cow). My favorite of all of Lola’s Ten Commandments has to be ‘Ein handy ist kein lautsprecher,’ or ‘a mobile phone is not a loudspeaker.’ Clearly this was meant for those unfortunate yoots whose parents saddled them with a mobile phone rather than a mini hi fi system with headphones. And they are everywhere, sitting and giggling and spazzing out with some dumbass drivel like Whitney Spears blasting through the tiny speakers of the mobile phones clutched in their sweaty, pimply hands. Usually it’s one phone per group of 6 yoots. Poor bastards.

One of the joys of getting older is complaining about the miserable, uncouth youth of today. I don’t do that. Instead I pity them. They gather in small circles with their single shitty speaker and socialize in U bahn trains. “Why in my day….” I pumped up the volume in my $500 car with the $2000 hi fi stereo. Sometimes I even curled up in the back seat with a babe and a beer. Those were the days. The yoots of today? Poor bastards.

I KNEW Angie Was a Donut Muncher...

2010-03-14T18:04:00.000-07:00

A picture of Chancellor Angela Merkel munching ~~carpet~~ a donut.
I always thought the lady was a bit 'special.'
Her first American donut. I'm sure she's old enough to remember Kennedy's donut speech and I'm glad it made an impression on her. It was especially diplomatic of her to realize that Amerikaner donuts beat the SCHEISE out of Berliners. I'm coming to grips with that, slowly.

I will wax poetic (non faggy) when I've gone out and munched a Berliner on Monday morning.

"Always start yer fucking week with a donut."
--Dunkin' Berliner

PIMP MY DOG

2010-03-03T07:56:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s actually my girlfriend’s dog, but as a gift to her, I would like to present her pooch in cyberspace with the intention of Pimping the Dog. And when I say ‘Pimp My Dog’ I don’t mean it in the sense of Pimp My Ride or Pimp My Bride. If we were to add a different word to the phrase to make it more accessible to the Ebonically challenged and the Super Honky, I would say this:

I do not want to pimp my dog UP, i.e., dress him up in bling bling and loud purple fur clothing.

I would like to pimp my dog OUT, i.e. get him LAID. Soon.

My girlfriend is so desperate to get her dog some bitch booty that she is ready to PAY some dog prostitution firm (pet whorehouse) in the Czech Republic up to 100 EUROS to get her doggie laid. There was no use trying to tell her that humans get laid in Prague for less. It’s a losing argument. The dog must get laid. Period. The nightmares are starting. I just had one the other night, wherein the dog in question was so desperate that he was anally raping another male dog while my girlfriend and her brother held the poor ‘catcher’ down and cheered the ‘pitcher’ on with loud, colorful Czech swearing. I felt bad for the both of the poor little bastards. So if you would like to save our dog from the kind of sexual repression seen only in the worst case scenarios of the Catholic priesthood, please help us pimp out this dog.

‘So why don’t you just take the dog to the park and let him run free and let nature take its course?’ you might ask. Well, this poor little old doggie is pushing 10 years old. And he’s a Czech dog. And as a recent immigrant to the land of Big Bad Nazi Dogs and their pathetic little weasel owners (who let their dogs run free to attack anything and everything), our poor little doggie has already been attacked three times. Once he was bitten so badly that he had to go to the vet and get stitches. So we are just a wee bit leery of letting the local German Shepherds take a bite of our little sausage dog. I can fully understand the dog’s dilemma. A few weeks ago I was attacked by a random Turkish yoot on a U bahn train. To this day I find my weekly kebab to have a slightly sour taste.

HUNDCHEN:

NAME: Black (because black is IN, baby!)

WEIGHT: 10 kilos

AGE: Gettin’ pretty fuckin’ old

BREED: Mix of Daschund and Doberman

STAR SIGN: What are you, a fucking HIPPY?

LIKES: Neck and chest rubs, long moonlit walks in the park, begging for food, white bitches

DISLIKES: Large male German dogs, cops (which is so COOL), being cooped up in the flat

How can you RESIST this little HUNDCHEN??? If you have a dog you would like to parade in front of this bad black pimpalicious specimen of canine pimpitude, please add a comment with some pix of the bitch and Black will be happy to respond.

Pooch pics by Gabriela Sarževska; purple pimp dog photo 'borrowed.'

Wake Up Call to American Zombies

2010-02-19T02:23:00.000-08:00

Or: Another One Bites the Dust

I just read about the disgruntled unemployed software engineer who flew his plane into a Texas IRS building like a kamikaze pilot. Before doing so, he left us with his suicide manifesto, which is a harsh (and accurate) criticism of all that is the American Nightmare.

And as a firm believer in the American Nightmare (and one of its many refugees who refused to resort to suicide to make a point), I thought I would post a link to the man's full manifesto before it is taken down by the news gatherers. Today's news is tomorrow's fishwrap. So soak this in. I am sure if you are American (and not a zombie) you will see some truth in this desperate man's criticism of America. I also have my stories. When I think of the friends and family members who have died as literal victims of America, I find myself morbidly wishing they had left suicide notes. Or at least manifestos. Maybe they did. But they didn't take out a government building when they bit the bullet, so it didn't make the news.

When the link below is taken down, I will upload the full file in order to keep the more poignant quotes from the manifesto alive in cyberspace, most notably:

"We are all taught as children that without laws there would be no society, only anarchy. Sadly, starting at early ages we in this country have been brainwashed to believe that, in return for our dedication and service, our government stands for justice for all. We are further brainwashed to believe that there is freedom in this place, and that we should be ready to lay our lives down for the noble principals represented by its founding fathers."

"...the joke we call the American medical system, including the drug and insurance companies, are murdering tens of thousands of people a year and stealing from the corpses and victims they cripple, and this country’s leaders don’t see this as important as bailing out a few of their vile, rich cronies."

"I choose to not keep looking over my shoulder at “big brother” while he strips my carcass, I choose not to ignore what is going on all around me, I choose not to pretend that business as usual won’t continue; I have just had enough. I can only hope that the numbers quickly get too big to be white washed and ignored that the American zombies wake up and revolt; it will take nothing less."

"I saw it written once that the definition of insanity is repeating the same process over and over and expecting the outcome to suddenly be different. I am finally ready to stop this insanity. Well, Mr. Big Brother IRS man, let’s try something different; take my pound of flesh and sleep well.

The communist creed: From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.
The capitalist creed: From each according to his gullibility, to each according to his greed."

The full manifesto is here:

http://www.statesman.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/blotter/entries/2010/02/18/internet_note_posted_by_man_li.html

Slip Slidin' Away Part Deux: Cars

2010-02-12T07:12:00.000-08:00

The Berliners and the foreigners still slide around on the icy sidewalks as the sky keeps on dumping snow and warm spells in equal measure. The snow piles high for days and then it suddenly warms and everything is melted into mush. At night it freezes again and icy sidewalks greet the pedestrians in the morning. The City snow machines can’t keep up and so they don’t even try. Sometimes they just park outside the pub.

Pedestrians compete for the small strips of semi-clear sidewalk that provide the lowest risk. These narrow swatches of pavement contain the least amount of snow and ice and the highest amount of small black pebbles. Often a game of ‘chicken’ ensues; it isn’t always clear who will give way until the last second when one of the walkers takes a chance and veers off onto one of the icy mounds on either side of the safe strip. Invariably the slipping and the sliding starts. Only the children being pulled on small wooden sleds seem to enjoy the icy ridges. But one day their little snow sleighs will morph into motor vehicles and the fun will REALLY begin.

Sometimes a car is wedged in between two snow mounds in its parking spot. The snow from the streets gets pushed into a massive ridge behind parked cars and a second ridge forms in front of the car on the sidewalk side. Over the last few weeks I’ve got to watch many frustrated motorists trying to get their heavy metal out of its berth and on the road. Tires slide and spin and go nowhere. Sometimes whole groups of people have to push and guide the car out into the street. This is the part of the story where I smile at the frustration of others and take satisfaction in the fact that I choose not to drive in Europe. If I had a California highway and a killer stereo in a vintage ride it would be another story.

The other night an Asian woman called out to me from behind a struggling car. I only heard the ‘entschuldigan’ part. The rest I could figure out by looking at the situation. The man inside the car was revving and sliding a bit before he gave up. I looked at the back of the car and the icy mound below my feet. I was well off the safety strip and standing on the Deadly Ice Ridge of Doom. I looked at the beckoning faces of the helplessly stranded. I looked down. I visualized myself pushing the car as my feet slipped and slid away from under me and my brains were bashed out on the trunk of the car. How long would it take before my gray matter froze onto their car? Would they pause to chisel my brains off and be late for the opera? When thoughts like these last more than 5 seconds, I have to stop and admit that I am a paranoid mofo. But I’m sorry: I just don’t want to be that guy who sinks to his icy, watery grave so that one tart can live. That’s just not right.

So something made me grab the back of the car and push. I put some of my own intuition into the push along with the brute force. If you merely push the car forward as the guy revs and spins you will get nowhere. So I applied one part forward push, one part downward bounce push and one part Hail Mary. It worked almost instantly, as if I had owned a car in a snowy place and had done this ritual many times before. I stood there slightly surprised: my brains were safely in my skull and not stuck to the back of the car. The couple grinned and waved and shouted thanks. I stumbled over the ridges and back to the safety of the narrow strip of pebbly/icy sidewalk that led me to the pub.

Bush Meets Merkel, Gets Bitch Slapped

2010-01-26T20:15:00.000-08:00

Or How I Imagine The Conversation Went

“It’s okay, George….the doors have been sealed for our protection and privacy,” Chancellor Merkel assured.

“Uh….yeah…uh…well. heh. You see, Ms. Merkel, it’s like this: I’m not sure I trust a country that said ‘Fuck you’ to America when we needed you.”

“All of your SS agents are outside guarding you, just as mine are. Would you like some tea? Or maybe something stronger, like a….how do you say? …Jack on the Rocks?”
“Well, thank yuh….I just might do that—ah mean, drink that.”

“Coming right up! Anything for a freund, right George?”

“I’m used to people calling me ‘Mr. President,’ Ma’am.”

“Of course you are, Mr. George, of course you are. And rightly so.”

“Why did you ask me here?”
“It’s because you say you are a Christian, George.”

“Of course I am! Who’s sayin’ ahm not?!”

“Nobody, George, nobody!”

“Well, Angie….uh, can ah call you that, Ms. Merkel?”

“That’s Angela, or MRS. Merkel, to you, Mr. George.”

“Why don’t you call me ‘Mr. President’ like everyone else?”
“Well, I think that’s not the important thing right now---by the way, how’s your Jack?”
(taking a gulp) “Heh! That’s the ticket! Nothin’ like a taste o’ home.”

“Good, George! I’m glad we can be of service to our freund in America.”

“Look, I’d be much obliged if one of my boys was in here with us, y’know what uh mean?”

“You fancy boys, Mr. George?”

“Whaddaya mean? Ahm talkin’ about muh boys in the secret service!”

“Oh, of course, your SS boys. Like I said, they are waiting outside. Shall I get them some Jack Rocks as well, Mr. George?”

“Look, Merkel…uhhh….you cain’t scare a Texan with all this Euro-Femi-nazi….crap! I know Germans voted for you, and prob’ly some Frenchies as well. But they said you was a CHRISTIAN, GOD DAMMIT!”

“George, you’re upset. Take a drink.”
(gulping) “Ahhhh. Right. Like ah wuz sayin…”

“You want to know why I asked you here, George?”

“Uh, now would be the time, Merkel honey. Heh”

“Well, after you invited me to your ranch and shoveled all that beef down my neck, I had to return the favor.”

“You got beef for me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Heh! Not that it would hold a, y’know, candle to Texas beef!”
“Of course not, George. We have no beef with Texas. Here we deal strictly in schwein. Schwein of the highest quality.”

“Well, let’s pork!”
“Whatever do you mean, George?”
“Let’s get animal! Physical! Ah wanna get ANIMAL! Let’s get into animal, lemme hear yer body talk, body talk!”

“I’m calling the SS boys in now, George. You are acting strange.”
“NO!!! NOT THE SS!!! Uhhh. Wait... Yours or mine….heh heh”

“I’m going to tell you something you are not going to want to hear, George.”
“uhhhhhhh…”

“The fact is, George, you are about to be replaced by a black man. Yes, it terrifies you. A good old Texas boy like you, sure it does. But they are taking over the world. One nation at a time. I just spoke with him last week and—“

“—NOT HIM! Tell me yer not talkin’ bout HIM!”

“—that’s right, George, I’m talking about Mr. Barack Obama.”

“STOP!!!! RED ALERT!!!! EAGLE IN TROUBLE!!! CRASH THE OVAL OFFICE!!!”

“George, you’re being silly! Nobody can come in here! I told you that. And we are not in your little Oval Office.”

“bb…but, I AM THE PRESIDENT! Of the YOU NIGHTED STATES!”

“Of course, George, we know that. Take another drink. Here, have the whole bottle.”

(glug glug glug) “Ahhhh. That’s better. Yuh got any coke, Angie?”

“Ein Coca Cola? Sure! One mome-“

“NO! I meant the white powdery refreshment, baby cakes.”

“Now George, my Christian Democratic Party wouldn’t approve of me giving the U.S. President anything other than bier, bratwurst, pretzels, or Jack Rocks.”

Secret Tiki Bar

2010-01-13T15:47:00.000-08:00

Voodoo Drinks and Pagan Idolatry
in the Lush Jungles of Berlin

It’s an underground thang. The owner specifically told me not to blog about his bar. This after he had poured me some of the best cocktails I’ve ever had. This after my friend had snapped a pic of my outrageous Tiki bowling shirt with the hula-girl-grass-skirt-party on my back. How did he know I was a blogger? “What if I were to say something like ‘there’s a Tiki bar in Berlin, but I don’t say where it is?” The owner seemed to accept this proposal for the time being. Then I asked him to explain why it was so important that customers NEVER FIND HIS BAR. I’m always open to new ways of marketing in troubled economic times. I also respect the idea that some people just don’t want to work to make a living. Because, y’know, like, customers are like, so lame. They make you work and make drinks and stuff. But this was not the case with the Big Kahuna at the Secret Tiki Bar. He was pouring and shaking and measuring up a storm. Good Tiki drinks take time and effort to make.

I told him the secret was already out—at least a few clues. He asked me how and why. I needed another drink. Then he could ply me with his questions. The next drink was what my granny would call ‘a doozy’ if she drank. The mixmeister said it was a creation from LA in the golden era of Tiki bars, when said bar was surrounded by Tiki bars and said bar needed a drink to compete with them. A rum drink, to boot, and strong. He said the name at least 3 times but all I can remember is this: it was strong. It had lots of rum and a strong bite with a blackberry pucker. He makes all his drinks from memory. Why? Because he is a professional. The man runs a bar in a space you will never find if you walk by five times in a row. If you got the address from a very clever Tiki bar website, you would STILL walk by the place. It has no markings whatsoever on the outside of the building. If you pressed your face on the dirty glass of the abandoned storefront hiding the bar, you wouldn’t see much; maybe a shadow moving in the back amid shafts of dim lighting. You would probably think it was just a hoax or bad info.

“I just don’t want large groups coming in here,” the owner said, “I’m trying to cater to the locals and my regulars. I don’t need big groups of drunks coming here to fill the space.” Well, that was an understatement. Ten people could fill the space. A friend of mine had a home Tiki bar in the basement of his Prague flat. It was only a little bit smaller.

“What about the front space?” my drinking partner added, “You could easily add tables and chairs and….”

“I just don’t want to do it,” The Man proclaimed. Well, it was his bar. Why have menus when you have the whole shebang in your head? Why have customers banging on your door when you have 6 feverish locals who can pay you a few bucks a night? Why have the hassles of more customers? The Big Kahuna added that he welcomes die hard Tiki bar fans and locals rather than drunken college kids. (If any freaky Tiki people are reading this, I’ll be happy to give you the address of The Secret Tiki Bar. But you really have to be freaky about Tiki; I mean with a profile on Tiki Central Dot Com and Tiki mugs in your house).

The Secret Tiki Bar’s mojo is working and the camouflage is in full effect. Before we got there that night I nearly walked by the bar again. I had been there a few times before, once by myself, once with another friend, and this time with a different friend. We walked in the snow for a while and I nearly lost him in it. When we finally got there and pushed through the dark façade into the inner sanctum of the Berlin Tiki gods in the ultimate unrecognized underground Tiki bar, my friend said, “I’m impressed!”

And I guess that’s the point.

Tiki shirt photo by Niall O'Hara

One Year as a Berliner Jelly Donut

2010-01-06T05:58:00.000-08:00

Today I made it: one year in Berlin. As a 12 year American refugee in Europe, I find that making it in a new country for a year is something special. In my case, this is only the second time I’ve done it. The first time was in Prague (where I stayed for 10 years with the odd interruption) and now here in Berlin. I lived in several other countries for 6 months each, no big deal, really.

I’ve decided that the best way to celebrate this anniversary is by gorging on Berliner jelly donuts. I plan to hit at least 3 bakeries and sample at least one Berliner from each one in order to give my palate a wide diversity of deep fried lard and sugar.

Now this isn’t as easy as it seems. For one, Real Live Berliner Jelly Donuts are as much of an urban myth as was JFK’s Ich Bin Ein Berliner speech. I imagine an authentic Berliner to look like something in my blog header: big, round, fluffy, sugar coated, oily and fairly oozing fruity goo out the side. Unfortunately I’ve been getting a lot of impostors at most Berlin bakeries. The ubiquitous pfannkuchen, which APPEARS to be a Berliner, is merely stuffed with sour plum sauce. Ewww. They do have other varieties, but sadly, either the filling is fake cream or the donut is smothered in thick, white icing made of pure sugar—which completely destroys the flavor of whatever meager bits of jam might be inside.

In order to embark on my romping, rollicking, culinary tour de force, I needed to do some research: Google by Thy Name. After some very precise search terms (‘where in the hell does a ninja get a REAL Berliner jelly donut in Berlin?’), I found this person’s blog post on the subject. I must thank the person for the hints. I had no idea that a 100 year old Berlin bakery was just down my street. I should get out more. I decided to more or less follow their list, omitting the bakeries in West Berlin for obvious reasons (well, if they’re not obvious, make some up; I ain’t got time to school ya).

Siebert bakery on Schoenfliesser str. 12 is at LEAST 100 years old. You can tell by the old, bent and twisted black pans on which the bakery items were displayed. This must be for A) the appearance of an Old School Bakery; or B) for the old ‘flavor’ the saturated iron gives the pastries. I joined a queue of at least 8 people waiting for their baked goods. Since it was after 11am, this was a good sign that all the fresh stuff wouldn’t be gone by 8am or some other ungodly hour. It reminded me of the lines of people outside the Paris bakeries, only without the Parisians. I judged by the line stretching outside Siebert’s that this is where the Berliners go. I saw the ubiquitous pfannkuchen mit pflaumenmus (nasty plum filling) and avoided it. I pointed and mimed and managed to get a CHERRY filled donut. It was a glazed donut rather than my preferred powdered sugar one, but I munched away. Mmmmm! Thousands of Germans over a hundred years were right!

I limited myself to one donut (a Herculean task) and plodded on through the snow to the next place. I’m not at all complaining about the ice and snow. All the snow flakes on my coat covered up a multitude of donut glaze sins. And when you are pigging out in Berlin, you must LOOK GOOD. Krautzig (Uh-HUH huh) Konditorei was just down the road on Schoenhauser Allee 126. Once again, the tired old sour kraut, er, sour plum filling. I asked if they had pfannkuchen ohne pflaumenmus (donut without nasty ass plum sauce), and they said NEIN! Side note: the list on the blog mentioned above says there are many names for donuts (including ‘Berliner Ballen’ and ‘krapfen.’ I cannot order either of those with a straight face under any circumstances), so perhaps I was missing the Berliner donut train by not asking for a Berliner specifically by name. But when ordering a ‘Berliner’ in Berlin there is always the off chance that they will trot out a drunken punk swinging a bottle of Sternburg. So I left the premises at once.

I had exhausted all my neighborhood bakeries on previous visits. Now I boarded to U bahn to head to the center for the next on the list: Thuermann bakery, Karl-Liebknecht-str. 9. I don’t like the wide open spaces of Alexander Platz because I am ALWAYS on the wrong side of the street. After walking for about 500 meters I found Thuermann. It was a proper sit down café/bakery establishment, which means they would have overpriced crap coffee and marginally decent baked goods. But at this point I needed my second donut and a coffee, pronto. Also it was -5 outside. The donut was decent, glazed, but filled with strawberry jam. It was light, fluffy and edible. The coffee was crap. I hate being right.

As I was brushing the snowflakes and donut glaze off my overcoat I wondered where I would get my third donut. The remaining bakeries on the Google list were in West Berlin. Screw that. So I was trudging, trying not to slip slide away, looking down at the ground, when I saw THE SIGN: a crumpled Dunkin’ Donuts bag lay at my feet. I looked up and my head jerked around (this was partially due to heavy doses of sugar and crap coffee). There MUST be a DD somewhere nearby. Germans would NEVER carry their litter too far from the source before dropping it. So, like a donut munching bloodhound, I proceeded back to Alexander Platz. I figured the DD would be inside the train station, as many of them are. I was right. This Dunkin’ Berliner was close to home: overpriced, overly sugary donuts from my homeland. I entered and they had a whopping selection. By not farting around with bread and pretzels, this place could provide the highest chance for me to get what I wanted. Yes, I was previously looking for a Real Berliner donut. Yes, the person in the blog had to wear dark shades and skulk in to DD to get theirs, but I’ll be DAMNED if I’m gonna spend a whole day chasing donuts. I have drinking planned. So I noticed that they charge 1.30 EU for ONE stinking donut. Since this was nearly double what the Berliner bakeries charged, I decided that there was only one possible choice: get a 6 pack! It was only 5.49 EU! Cheaper by the dozen! So I lumbered home with my pirate’s booty (as in TREASURE booty, sicko) and opened the box. There they were, bright blue(?), dark brown and puffy white. I no longer cared about my mission. After all, Dunkin’ is the name of this blog, so I was having a fairly narcissistic moment as I reached for the most decadent in the lot: blueberry with blue icing. This one donut alone could do me in. Eating 6 overpriced donuts from an international chain could result in me needing to pursue overpriced, non-nationalized healthcare after the resulting coronary. I live on the edge, so I jammed the bright blue slab of sugar into my gaping maw and shuddered. It wasn’t from the cold.

SOUR KRAUTS

2010-01-01T16:55:00.000-08:00

Sorry. I wasn’t going to talk about Sour Krauts until well into the New Year. I figured that unleashing one blatantly anti-German slur in one year was enough (see: ‘Deutschbag’). But the bitter old DDR commie biddies wouldn’t stop bitching and moaning and screaming as if someone had shot their dog. And now that I’ve picked up a few German words, now whenever I hear some tired old repressed bag of Deutsch scream in public about something someone is doing ‘to offend them,’ the bitching seems to be closer to home.

I’m no stranger to bitter biddies. The absolute Queen of Bitch has to be, hands down, old Czech women. In the morning they slam their shopping carts into young and old in order to get to the bread bin with cheap rohliky (bread rolls), and then proceed to plow through the stale bread on top to get to the apparently better bread on the bottom. Elbows fly. Occasionally harsh words are spat through yellow dentures. They get their bread and then board the local transport to displace all the poor bastards on their way to work. They whip out their Old Retired Commie Bitch I.D. and scream at people to give them their rightful seat. I have seen them actually hit people with their canes and scream curse words that American truck drivers from the Deep South haven’t yet learned. And their poor lives are so hard that getting a free flat from the government and a meager pension is cruelty to them. So they take it out on the rest of us.

Back to the DDR biddies: same worm-ridden dry old husk of a rotten brain in a shrunken skull, different language. But the body language is the same. Enter: yoots. I use the word ‘yoot’ a lot in my blog. For those unfamiliar with derisive New England slang, yoot means youth. But I’m not from New England. Maybe they just can’t say ‘youth.’ Anyway, yoots enter. They enter and proceed to do what yoots do everywhere on Earth. To whit, they make noise. They laugh, have fun, drink and generally enjoy life. This pisses off Old Commie Biddy to no end. Her life is nearly over. She remembers the Good Old Commie days when yoots shut the fuck up and gave their Commie elders their due respect. Not any more. With the advent of global freedom, strapping young yoots with Mohawks need not take any shit from the system, the cops, the government and certainly not from some tired old Commie relic with antiquated delusions of grandeur.

I ignored most of the biddies’ minor misdemeanors this year because I had seen worse in Prague. This year I largely ignored them as they yelled at dog owners who let their dogs run free, screamed at people in markets for no apparent reason, or the usual spitting at all things younger. But today I understood that there is a certain type of biddy who is beyond redemption. She unleashes her foul Commie stench in a familiar way, but with a uniquely Deutschbagischer way: Rules. The Sour Kraut isn’t content to watch idly as rambunctious yoots desecrate her sanctimonious silence with their bacchanalian whoops of joie de vivre. Today I saw an old German woman yell at three obvious tourists with a camera. This took the cake. As a photographer, I am well aware that German people have way too much control over what photographers can do with their cameras. Even in public places. So when I heard this screeching Sour Kraut demanding that the tourists (from Spain or Italy, I couldn’t hear their speech, but they seemed to be Latin) produce their ausweis (I.D.).

“Are you the press?” She demanded more than questioned, “Show me your I.D. Otherwise FOTO VERBOTEN on public transport.”

The offending foreign yoot with the camera wasn’t even pointing it at the shriveled old Sour Kraut. He was simply photographing his lovely young lady, who was wearing a very nice black hat reminiscent of a Spanish matador or the equivalent Italian thang (if I knew anything about fashion and/or Italians and Spaniards). I followed the whole episode because that is what I do. I observe humans of various cultures in mundane daily routines and dip them into a bucket of ridiculous satire later in the evening after I’ve had my tipple. Eventually the three Latin yoots moved on down the train to another compartment in search of relative peace and freedom to snap pictures in pastoral urban scenery where the local goats don’t bleat so bitter. I wanted to stand up. I didn’t. I wanted to step forward as the Voice of Freedom and give her the tongue lashing she so desperately deserved. I wanted to scream in loud German that I haven’t yet learned: “Entschuldigen sie bitte, Frau Sour Kraut. I just overheard your conversation and you need to know that you are not only a Sour Kraut, but a Deutschebag as well. Your perfunctory and parsimonious performance in public suggests that you need to take a time out. In fact, you have obviously lived a long, productive Commie life in the factory producing metallic sheise for the glory of the dead empire. Now you have but two duties left: Sign the will and get into the Gott Damn Box.”

Slip Slidin' Away

2009-12-23T10:56:00.000-08:00

Y'know the nearer the destination, the more you're slip slidin' away.

The Berlin winter hit fast and furious this year with snow and ice and -15C. Today was a mild minus five, but the deadly ice was in place under the Christmas crunch last minute shoppers' feet. I saw two people fall down on the sidewalk today at different times and places. When it happened--once to a guy and once to a girl--they each winced, shook their heads and got up. Then they proceeded with their previous walk at full tilt boogie speed. Damn! They must be locals.

Each winter, whenever I fall down on the icy sidewalks of Central Europe (Czech, Germany, same frozen winter wasteland, different languages), I twist a knee or an ankle. Then I sit there for a while cursing and waving my arms around. Then I slowly get up and proceed to limp for the next 3 weeks. This is because A) I am not a local; B) I have California legs (I am bloody Barishnikov on beach sand--I don't fall down or NOTHIN'); and C) The bigger you are, the harder you fall. I am 6 foot 5 inches of donuts and beer.

So today I slid along, shuffling my feet, shifting my weight, staring at the ground. Every year when I do this, I have to wonder why they put the tiny pea gravel 'anti slip' rocks UNDER the ice. I can see them there under the thin layer of sidewalk ice, suspended like little black bugs in amber, useless and dead. Some business owners throw dirt over the ice on the walkway into their shop. This is because having dirty icy mush tromped in all over the shop floor is de rigueur in Berlin's trendiest shops. But every inch of the 50 feet of sidewalk between the shop entrances is an iceberg waiting to sink my personal Titanic. So every winter I slip and slide around Prague or Berlin, flail my arms, hold onto walls and miss the days when I used to drive a car. In a sunny place.

But at least I finally know the meaning of a White Christmas.

Happy holidays, however you celebrate them.

db

CHARTS

2009-12-21T15:41:00.000-08:00

I’ve always hated charts. Especially pie charts. So much promise in the name, no pie anywhere to be seen. As a donut muncher, the best chart I have ever seen in my life is this one. It's a nice little pigeonhole for the Right and the Left. Although I'll have to say that the colors are weird. Left is red, blue is the right. I thought we were looking at charts of the Blue States (Democrat) and the Red States (redneck Republicans). Maybe in this chart Left means 'Commie Reds' and blue means 'Bluebloods.' Click to make it bigger, read thoroughtly and talk amongst yourselves.

Obama With a Hitler Mustache and Some Pretty Confused German Kids

2009-12-17T17:03:00.000-08:00

What?!? WTF? MY president? A FASCIST? Say it isn't so. Well, y'know, the German yoots are AWFULLY tired of having to bear the burden of their ancestors' sins. They're just a little bit bored of hearing about Hitler every time they raise their hands to hail a taxi (hint: German kids, don't all raise your hands at once to hail a taxi, this looks suspicous; just one previously-elected-in-a-ridiculously-bureaucratic-ritual group representative is enough).

They didn't whip out the Obama Hitler photo right away. They simply had a slightly dumpy, bespectacled young chick step in front of me while I was walking the dog the other day. She seemed harmless. I thought she wanted me to join Greenpeace or Oxfam or something or other. She ranted about eco fascists, genocide, the New World Order, and so on. Then I told her that I didn't speak German. So she had to repeat the whole tirade in English (I'm wicked). I may be evil, but DAMN, the fact that she could rant in 2 languages was fairly impressive. So I continued to listen. She started condeming groups like Greenpeace, etc. as the eco fascists. I was being entertained (the only thing missing was popcorn), so I went along with it.

"You mean, the big bunch of green kids is wrong to try to save the Earth?" said I.
"Are you kidding?" said she, "They are the WORST fascists of all the ultra liberal groups!
(at this point I wanted to stop her and suggest that the term 'fascist' ONLY applies to the right wing, but why not let the poor sons and daughters of stormtroopers writhe in irony?)

"BARK!!! BARK!!! Woof!" the dog chimed in.
"Oh, your dog has an opinion, too!" she went on.
"No, we've just been walking for a half hour in minus 5 and he's telling me to get my white ass inside."
"He said that? What's his name?"
"Black."
(quizzical look from the Hitler Jugend) "Well, you should read our literature. Have you heard of the LaRouche movement?"
"No, but I don't watch German TV."
"They're not German," a tired looking guy in the group added, "but you should know about them, being American."
"I'm the typical ignorant American you've read about," I explained.
The girl put a magazine in my hand, and since it didn't have pictures of Jesus and beams of light on it, I actually held it for a minute or two. Then I flipped it over and saw the O-BOMB-A:

"Now you seriously don't think that there is ANY connection between Obama and HITLER, do you?"

"Yes!" They blasphemed, "With his healthcare and his genocide and his fascism and his..."

"Sorry, hon, you are out of your TREE."

"Vas?"

"Never mind. But seriously, comparing Obama to Hitler is like comparing Jesus Christ to Hitler (at this point I was yearning for the Jesus in beams o' light pamphlet instead). They are not even CLOSE. GET IT??"

"Would you let me finish?" she begged.
"Rant on, sister."
"Blah blah BLAH. And some BLAH. And to BLAH BLAH that, there was BLAH!!!!!"
"TRILLIONS!" the haggard faced male said.
"And do you believe that Obama is HELPING the sick?" a new voice joined. A black voice. An African yoot joined the chorus of Hitler Jugend Gegen Obama, Inc.

I think he saw my jaw drop. No, really? I thought. You. Can't. Be. Serious. How much are these SS progeny paying you? Please, brother. Give anotha brotha a chance. Stop associating with these SS ass clowns and get a real job. I just can't take it.

He must have heard my thoughts or saw the flabbergasted look of shock and horror on my face. Or maybe his English wasn't up to snuff. He left the conversation.

"Ach!!! Bad dog!!! Look! Your bad dog has PISSED on our booth!" she chastised.

It was really hard to hide a grin. I wagged my finger in the dog's face and said 'bad.' No exclamation point. I found it funny.

"Well, maybe you find it funny to talk with us, but you really don't want to accept the Truth," she proclaimed.
"No, I didn't find it funny. I think 'fun' was the word you were looking for, and it wasn't fun either. Entertaining, yes."
"Meeting me was the best thing that happened to you today. And you want to leave before you can hear the Truth," she pontificated.

Damn, the Moonies got NOTHIN' on these cats.

"The day is young," I said, "it could always get better."
"You are the man who is going up the escalator and passes all the pretty girls and hopes to get a prettier one," the tired man chimed in (what was he? Her PIMP?).

I didn't want to insult the young lady, so I apologized for the piss on the booth, tipped my hat while leaving and said

"Yup."

ZOMBIE ATTACK IN PRENZLAUER BERG

2009-12-06T19:10:00.000-08:00

Or just some random art attack on the streets of Berlin.

Who would know the difference?

Very few words this time.

My local Schoenhauser Allee U-bahn station was graced by a visit from a pile of bloody rags. The aftermath of a Zombie Walk? Or just another Berlin artist desperate for attention? Either way, gore works for me.
And props to my home slices in Sactown: Trash Film Orgy (according to wikipedia), the ORIGINATORS of the Zombie Walk. Keep on shufflin', C & D.

BICYCLE! BICYCLE!

2009-11-30T17:01:00.000-08:00

PART DEUX: SECOND CHANCE SECOND HAND BIKE

I bought another black, beat up, flea market piece o' crap bike. The first one was stolen just 3 weeks after I had bought it. I simpered, I whined, I blogged about it. The blog included a completely unrelated video of the Bicycle song by Queen. It was catharsis with a Capital ARSE. Damn it felt good.

Now I have another one. It is black. It is beat up. The lights don't work and the brakes are sheise, just like my previous bike (sob, sniff). So I decided to take my new/old bike on a long ride in the German and Polish countryside. Or rather, that was decided for me. As I mentioned in my previous bike blog: I ONLY OWN A BIKE TO CARRY BEER CRATES ON THE BACK RACK. But someone dared me, nay, DOUBLE* dared me. Anyone sense a theme here (crap, db, you say 'double,' 'deux' and 'second hand' more than anyone I know)?

We had planned to go on a day trip to Poland for pierogi and vodka, as you do from time to time when you get tired of the BILLIONS of things to do in Berlin. There was to be a stop in a German village or two for castle and countryside snapshots. Being a photo dude, I opted in. One hour before the train was scheduled to depart, I got a message which read, 'Listen, bitch, git yo honky ass on yo bike and bring it wit yo dumb ass to da train, nigga.' Actually, the message was 'They said you had a bike, bring it with you', but a British person in the group told an American in the group that I had a bike and the translation went completely downhill from there. Then it got filtered through my fragile ego as a dare. Hence the careless use of the N word.

So, here is a picture of my NEW/OLD bike. Note the old scratched out paint at the top of the photo: '63.5 km to Berlin.' I would like to say that I biked all that way and took a brief pause to take a photo. But nobody would believe a man who has a jelly donut for an avatar.

*Sponsored by DOUBLEMINT Gum. MMMMMmmmmmm. MMmmmmMINTY.

PROMISES, PROMISES

2009-11-29T15:56:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the donut, dear blog reader. I did in fact have several donuts and a large coffee the day after someone clicked on the BUY ME A DONUT button located on the right side of this blog. However, I didn't rush right out and throw words to the blogroll as I said I would when I issued my ~~begging~~ plea for donuts and coffee in the previous blog. I was distracted. The day after that blog, I turned 43. Not an unusual number, but for some reason it hit me like a ton of bricks and I had to be off the radar for a few days. I am now shopping around for my Official Midlife Crisis Tattoo. I have no tattoos. I was holding out. I wanted to be the last kid on the block with a tattoo. Then the Midlife Crisis hit me (whatever the fuck that is). So now, dear blog readers, what kind of ink should I slap on my lily white skin? A giant donut with 'Berlin Uber Alles' in Gothic font? Or maybe just 'Official Midlife Crisis Tattoo' between the love handles?

BUY ME A DONUT!

2009-11-16T00:26:00.000-08:00

A dearly departed friend o' mine once commented that I had certain 'Homer Simpson-like qualities' that he admired. I suppose he meant one or more of my personal traits that Mr. Simpson might exhibit in any given episode, such as: A) The way in which I say 'beeeeerrrrr', B) How a jelly donut causes an actual Pavlov's Dog salivation reaction in my mouth.

I'm not a sweet tooth by nature, nor am I by any means 'starving' over here in Planet Berlin, but I just decided that blogs need fuel, and nothing fuels a good ole comedic rant like a Real Live Berliner Jelly Donut. So I've decided to completely WHORE MYSELF and put a 'donate' button on my blog. If you have somehow come across these words, and by some strange miracle have read through to the end of the rant/parody/satirical experiment, and by some even larger miracle have ACTUALLY had a chuckle or a smile, or even an LOL moment, please feed me a donut. My donate button is located on the right. If you send me some donut money (like a buck or two), I promise to stuff it in my face and start a fresh fury of feverishly fluff filled blogging that only a man with hypoglycemia and too much time on his hands can unleash. And if I'm feeling particularly saucy, I may add A LARGE COFFEE to that jelly donut and REALLY CUT LOOSE.

By helping me fuel my donut addiction, you save an old lady from having her handbag snatched outside a Berlin bakery. The 'BUY ME A DONUT' button is located by my profile on the top right side of this blog. Click today, I munch away tomorrow morning!

Soggy Happy People Holding Hands

2009-11-11T08:04:00.000-08:00

Berlin Mauer Mob Braves Rain and Darkness to Form a Human Chain

It’s nearly impossible to get me out to photograph the constant stream of events, protests, demonstrations and celebrations which occur in Berlin. Usually my excuse is either my fear/hatred of crowds or the long, boring walking and standing required while waiting for something interesting to happen. But on November 9, 2009, a group of people decided to get together and form a human chain of hand-holding people several kilometers long. They decided to do this on the 20 Jahre Mauerfall, or the 20th Anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. They decided to do this in the pouring rain in the pitch darkness. My curiosity was piqued. I went down to the nearby Bornholmer Street Bridge, a former checkpoint site in the former Berlin Wall. I knew that my camera would get wet and the photos would come out dark and crappy.

But I went anyway. I just had to see if the idealistic, hand holding hippies would actually show up. As it happened, many people showed up—and not just hippies in need of a shower from above. There were all types of people of all ages, all of them getting wet in their group effort to symbolize the wall falling. The Mauer mob group was organized by some idealistic artist and may or may not have been connected to any of the Flash Mob events which occur in Berlin and other places. At the Bornholmer Street Bridge, many people also lay candles and flowers on a memorial marker.

Prenzlauer Berg: Don’t Drink the Water

2009-10-20T17:30:00.000-07:00

They said Prenzlauer Berg was a yuppie hellhole. They said it was gone, lost to gentrification and exorbitant rents. They said only “certain types” of people lived there. For the record, all of it is lies. I was afraid of The Prenzl, mainly because of what ‘they’ said. I fear gentrification and its effects on average people. So I swallowed the lies and lived in Friedrichshain for the bulk of this year. That neighborhood, my friends, has been sold to The Devil: Yuppie be thy name. F’hain is the doomed ‘hood, the one which is being sucked down the pipe by the real estate demons who lurk beneath the slimy surface of all that purports to be, ahem, ‘hip.’ But what I found when I left The Hain to move into my new P’berg flat was that the people in Prenzlauer Berg were not yuppies and not average, they were worse: they are all a bunch of God damned BREEDERS.

I don’t know why every other person in P’berg is a mother pushing a stroller. I can’t figure out why the only entry for Prenzlauer Berg in the TTG wiki has no actual information about the neighborhood except that it is “fertile.”

http://www.toytowngermany.com/wiki/Prenzlauer_Berg

Perhaps it is in the water. P’berg water is lukewarm from the tap even after being run for several minutes. If city water isn’t icy cold from the tap in October I just don’t trust it. If it doesn’t come from deep enough in the earth, it’s as if it’s been circumvented, redirected, adulterated and redelivered. Or maybe it isn’t a PROconceptive agent released into the water, but more of a psychotropic substance which, when applied to the water supply and the bloodstream of a healthy female P’berg resident, causes sporadic and unnatural advancement of the biological clock. Skip the prom, the drugs, the fun; go directly to motherhood. Fuck. In. Ell. I hope my girlfriend’s birth control can hold out against the chemical onslaught.

Or maybe it is in the System itself. I can’t verify the figures, but I get the distinct impression that the German government pays people to breed. Yes, there is this thing called social welfare, or Hartz IV, and some people say it pays punk rockers to party, while others say it is a much needed antidote to the Berlin economic sickness. In layman’s terms: no work, no worries, the rest of Germany pays.

It doesn’t matter to me personally what the wymyns choose to do with their uteri, or what the German Government does with its peoples’ tax money. But I will go on record: the next white trash bitch who slams her stroller into me and shouts at me to move will have her progeny ripped from the pram, weighed, measured, processed and barbequed right there on the sidewalk. Turkish kebabs ain’t got NOTHIN’ on my baby back ribs…

Yet Another Friedrichshain Protest

2009-10-12T03:13:00.000-07:00

ROWDY YOOTS FULL O' PISS N VINEGAR GATHER;
MATING RITUALS ENSUE

The Mohawks gathered round Friedrichshain the other day and made some noise. Again. Apparently ‘They’ weren’t listening to the Mohawks. Again. But that’s okay, that won’t stop kids full of piss and vinegar from grabbing some fabric and spray paint and waving their flags in an open invitation to compare Mohawks. The hawks were awful purty at this particular shindig: blue ones, red ones, pink ones and black ones were everywhere. I caught several rows of kids with the same color hawk; rows of pink Mohawks held up a bright red banner which read ‘Brunnen Bleibt’, which means literally ‘Pink Mohawk Social Club.’ Rival factions of blue-and-black-haired punks held up a black sign with letters which were so unclear that several members of the club were caught scratching their heads trying to decipher their own messages.

But what are the Crips without the Bloods to counter them? The various colors of Mohawk gangs milled about waiting for any conflict that might be on its way from what the Punx like to affectionately refer to as
‘der schweinenmenschen’ or literally ‘The Pigs’, aka the Fuzz, the Heat, Five-Oh, Bacon, Cops, or your friendly neighborhood Berlin riot control officers. I’ve seen a few of these Berlin protests before. The Berlin police like to fence the punks in with a nice row of Paddy Wagons. Usually about 25 riot vehicles, or roughly 1 vehicle for every 3 protestors. I mean it is complete overkill, the police presence. At this particular protest they even brought in the van of geek cops with laptops and satellite gear. Apparently, you’ve got to keep one step ahead of these pink, blue and black haired devils. They even brought in the Super Soakers: huge water tanks on wheels with twin nozzles for spraying the unruly mob. My girlfriend asked why the nozzles were so narrow on the ends. She thought if fired the cannons would only yield but a drizzle. I explained the effects of concentrated water pressure through a very narrow opening. A standard, S.F. hippy protest would have Super Soaker vehicles with standard sized water cannons and wide nozzles. The purpose of this was to give the stinking hippies a much needed group bath. However, the Berlin cops like to fire the same amount of water with great pressure through tiny twin steel nozzles. This not only gives the Berlin punk squatters a much needed group bath, but the pressure from these babies will literally knock them to the ground and roll them across the street through a brick wall.

And after all, being flung about like a sack of beer-soaked taters by the Super Soakers at a Berlin riot is the Number 2 Requirement for membership in the Pink Mohawk Social Club.

Seat Nazis

2009-08-30T02:47:00.000-07:00

I had no idea the Seat Nazis existed. I knew about Soup Nazis, mind you; Jerry Seinfeld and Co. sat me down for 30 minutes and explained that one to me quite clearly. You stand in the line; you don’t ask questions, you have your soup order ready before you get to the front of the line. When your turn has come, the Soup Nazi screams at you to step forward, eyes forward, order your soup. You do. You have no choice.

So, fumbling around with my movie ticket in Berlin as usual, I wonder if it will be the same as in Prague: the queue, the surly ticket salesmonkey, the language problems, the usual. You give them the money and they decide where you sit. Or you decide--if you want to grab them by the neck and twist their screens and their necks to do your bidding. Even after doing the Twist, I still fuck it up. Every single mother fucking time. I can’t do this European cinema seat thing. No, really, it’s completely ridiculous to anyone with a half a brain (as I have). I like to pay and sit in the seat of my choice as all God fearin’, freedom lovin’, rootin’ tootin’, red neckin’ Americans do.

The seat that was assigned to me was already taken. As usual. Apparently, I am supposed to skulk up to the offending bastard and say ‘Entschuldigen, getten sie aus mein sitzplatzt, schweinhund.’ But I am not a Deutschbag. So I don’t say it. I usually just sit in another seat in the vicinity of my originally-assigned seat. Which is all fine and dandy, no blood, no foul…until the Seat Nazi comes in. And suddenly I’m in THEIR seat. They stuff their ticket stub in your face. You fumble for yours. You throw a ticket block, already knowing that you are in THEIR seat and THEY know it. So you have to play the dumb auslander, which pleases them to no end. Or just try to explain it. In this case, the number of the seat was not lit up or posted in shiny letters. It was sewn into the dark red plush fabric in slightly darker red thread. On the seat back, directly behind my back. Imagine my confusion.

‘What? Huh? Oh! You paid for THIS EXACT SEAT, huh? Like, Oh. My. God. I am SUCH an idiot. Mea Culpa. But somebody is already in my officially-assigned seat and I don’t want to have to stand up and walk over there and displace them, looking like a fucking Deutschebag in the process.’

The teenage couple stood hovering over me. The GIRL goose stepped forward, blonde hair and blue eyes flashing in the half light. She looked like Julie Delpy’s cheery, cheeky Hitler Jugend character in ‘Europa, Europa.’ ‘Ja, gut. Zo. Zo you vill shtand up und valk over there, ja.’ It wasn’t a question. It was an order. From the blonde haired, blue eyed member of the Neue Hitler Jugend. I imagine that to certain guys this could be a turn on. Perhaps to sad, lily livered milksops. I can see why the skinny, quivering teen boy had his girlfriend to speak for him in these awkward cases. He was the effeminate, emasculated German Moby male to his girlfriend’s Strong Deutsche Frau. It was a rather pathetic display, a teenage German girl barking orders at a middle aged American man. But what could I do? I was certainly not going to stand up and bitch slap his girlfriend, nossir. I am not a cad. So I stood up, flashed Blondie a condescending smile and did exactly as she told me. She plopped down in my warm seat and gave me the kind of dismissive wave reserved for the blondest members of the Master Race. Cunt.

So I had to push some people over a seat or two. I apologized. I showed them my ticket. They saw me get shifted down by Blondie. They knew I was in the wrong seat and needed my original seat. So they moved. Shit rolls downhill. But as I sat down, the middle-aged German man to my right—the same man who moved his jacket off my seat to let me sit—told me the secret: ‘yes, there are normal people and there are the Seat Nazis.’

‘Yes, I believe I just met one. But she is so young,’ I said, loud enough for the whole row to hear. ‘I can’t believe that young people here are so fucking anal retentive. She should have a Mohawk and a head full of chemicals for Chrissakes.’ As I sat there chewing the fat with the good-humored German gent, I thought about how I really would have no gripe if the cinema was full. Sure, you want yer goddamn pre-planned seat so you don’t have to crane your neck in the front row or the side seats. But every single time the Seat Nazi has pounced on me in the past, the cinema was at half capacity at best. So if someone can’t be flexible enough to forgive the foreigner’s faux pas and find a seat directly in front of or directly behind their originally-assigned seat, this is the hallmark of a Seat Nazi. It is the absolute NEED to flash the party badge (ticket) and send someone to the concentration camp (another seat).

There we sat, 2 middle aged men, one German, one American, discussing ‘these crazy kids nowadays.’ I thought it was backward somehow; don’t the youth of today complain about the rigid, conservative Nazi old people? I imagine a Seat Nazi has no age. It could be anyone with a low self esteem, somehow desperate to cling to any chance to grab a bit of ‘power.’ I was reminded of a quote from ‘The Office:’

“Wow. That is the least amount of power I’ve ever seen go to someone’s head.”

BAU-WOW-WOW!!!!

2009-08-27T13:30:00.000-07:00

EATEN ALIVE BY THE GERMAN CONSTRUCTION MACHINE

The Conspiracy is complete. It has achieved total and unequivocal dominion over my existence. I now just accept it with a wry smile and a slap to the forehead. The Conspiracy has followed me everywhere I have ever lived in the past 15 years. Whenever I move into a new apartment, within 1 week the construction starts just outside my window. At 7am to 6pm, every single fuckin’ day. Even on weekends.

It’s true that I have lived in some of the worst former Communist Eastern European urban shitholes ever devised. But still. You would think that I would have numbers on my side at some point. I mean, they are not reconstructing every single flat in the city at the same time, are they? No, Dunkin’, just yours. Yes, they have been rebuilding Eastern Europe since the fall of the Iron Curtain, but why do they need to drive the iron rivets home just outside my window?

Case in point: my current flat. A sublet, as usual, my 2nd this year. Why sublet? A) Because German realtors offer flats that are completely empty, no fridge, no oven, no stove, no kitchen sink. Not even a single light fixture. For 600 euros a month you get a roof, doors, windows and a crapper. Like prison, only without bars and much more expensive. B) Because German bureaucracy is idiotic. The worst I have ever seen. I used to think that nobody could possibly conceive of a more deliberately retarded system than the Czechs. I was wrong. The Germans sit around devising new bureaucracy daily. Just to piss me off. These Deutschbags sit around devising new bureaucracy and circle jerking. So, while we’re waiting for Gunter and Dieter to answer our fucking emails about available flats (and awaiting the ludicrous shit storm of paperwork to follow any offer), we sublet. (deep breath).

‘Geez, Dunkin’, you’re much more grumpy and cynical than usual,’ you might say. Well, I haven’t slept much this summer. I was almost getting used to the pounding jackhammers, the shouts and screams of the workers (or maybe the workers were merely talking and German ALWAYS sounds like barbaric screams) and the heavy drilling on the property next door. It is a vacant lot that will host a new fancy shmancy building which will house the latest batch of yuppies who will soon be shat out of the ass of Corporate America, England, etc. onto the streets of Friedrichshain.

Construction progress has been slow. With the amount of noise they have generated over the last 3 months, you would think they would have the foundation laid and at least the 1st floor erected. Nossir. In 3 months, this small 300 metre lot has got a thin layer of iron mesh on the ground. They dug the whole lot up and filled it in with dirt again about 12 times. I guess the masons, concrete pourers and bricklayers are all busy filling out their paperwork before they can begin. As you can tell, I know just about zilch about construction work (amusing, since I should be an expert by now if I had bothered to look out my windows over the last 15 years). But they brought in some crude noisemaking machines I didn’t know existed. I’ve seen my share of Caterpillars, John Deers, dump trucks, scoopers, bulldozers, steam rollers and cranes. But they brought in something from another planet. It was a tall, twisted mass of steel with a giant central cylinder with a tank for a base. It looked like an oil drilling rig had fucked a panzer tank and the bitch-on-treaded-wheels gave birth to the ungodly progeny right under my window. I still don’t know what the Evil Beast was devised for, other than to accentuate my personal construction conspiracy and to punctuate my occasional hangover. Every day at 7 am on the nose the Beast went to work. BOOM!!! Thump-thump, BOOM!!!! (repeated for 9 hours with a 1 hour lunch break). The cylinder churned and thumped for a month.

Then one day, just like that, the Beast was gone. But another noise began in its wake. It was familiar, the sounds of the workers in the dawn getting ready to wreak havoc on my beauty sleep (and if you’ve seen me, I need ALL I can get). By the end of the day, a scaffold had been erected in front of my building and my windows were covered in plastic. It’s as if the agents of the Construction Conspiracy were gloating at the surveillance tapes of my misery and decided to up the ante. Fifteen years of metal fire and brimstone right next door weren’t enough: there was something in German on a piece of paper stuck on the wall downstairs. I managed to pull a few words out of it. It said not to open our windows for 2 weeks. There would be construction.

Meet the Berliners

2009-08-13T14:47:00.000-07:00

Christiane is the social butterfly of our Friedrichshain kiez. She knows everybody—and if she doesn’t—she gets to know them. She slowly glides into the bar, the park or the Turkish kebab shop and disarms you with her style and ease. She is a well-preserved 60ish sort with a vintage movie star style all her own and a smooth, contagious élan. When I first saw her in the late winter, she walked into the room wearing a black sleeveless dress and a black velvet hat with a jeweled hatpin. She had black arm coverings from wrist to elbow, the kind of thing a jazz singer from the 20s or 30s might wear. She always has a cocktail in her hand but she is never drunk. She is a Lady.

Yesterday we met Christiane at the new neighborhood bar across the street. We knew it was a new bar because of the sudden late night noise drifting through our windows in the wee hours of the night. Nobody was inside the bar because it was one of those rare recent summer nights where it wasn’t dumping rain or clammy cold. Sitting on the bench outside was Christiane, some flowers in a vase, a leather case with cigarettes and lighter and the ubiquitous cocktail. Her usual vintage Jazz Singer outfit had morphed into the summer version: White crocheted hat worn askew, minor hatpin with no jewelry, turquoise dress and arm coverings. My girlfriend and I are both taken by Christiane and her genteel charms. We take a seat across the bench outside the bar. Drinks arrive and she starts The Pitch. Christiane likes to announce the various social causes she is involved with, and then, when she sure you are following what she is saying, nicely asks how you can help her with her cause. Sometimes it is a pitch for money, other times it is an invitation to a neighborhood event. We like to attend the local events and bring booze and/or food. Money is a different story. So it is in Berlin.

After a few beers, various locals started to join us at the table; a few recognizable faces from the local taverns and cafes, the usual suspects. Then The Bomb dropped. ‘HallO-oh,’ said the thin man in the women’s makeup and the high heel shoes, ‘I’m Inga, the tranny from the house across the street,’ (s)he said. Inga immediately bypassed my nervously-outstretched handshake and went straight for my girl. ‘I love the way you dress, girlfriend.’ My honey bunny gave a nervous smile and thanks. I had to wait for the handshake. I was irrelevant for a moment. The girls had to chat.

Later summer sun means kids in the streets at 8 or 9pm. Now that I’m older, I really hate kids. They piss me off with their energy, their jokes and their spastic monkey dances—especially when I’m trying to have a drink and meet the Berliners. I imagine they pissed Inga off slightly more that night. I can’t follow the German language, but I can follow the taunting. It’s the same everywhere. There were the childish caterwauls by the oldest boy in the group. It was clear that he was taunting Inga. The other children, all aged 5 to 10, joined in the group taunting. (S)he said something in German about the children hounding her up and down the street. It was said matter-of-factly. Inga must get that all the time. Christiane defended the children, saying that they were from conservative families who didn’t understand that a man could love men or a woman could love women. ‘But this is Berlin,’ I ventured, ‘surely Inga is not the only unusual person on the street.’ I looked at the kids and smiled at the irony. They were mostly Middle-Eastern looking, probably Turkish. I imagined they could have been picked on as well by some of the blonder, bluer-eyed kids at school.

The older spastic prepubescent kid on the bike did several shouting strafing runs on his bike. I don’t know what he shouted, but I’m sure of the meaning and intent. Inga went inside the bar. Soon the barman came out and chased the kid away. I like how barmen protect their patrons. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling knowing that our table is safe while drinking in the fold.

Inga got a new pair of shoes. They were badly wrapped in a paper bag adorned with colorful string, hearts and fake pearls. (S)he said ‘It’s not even my birthday!’ After picking at the wrapping with scrawny fingers for a spell, (s)he asked one of the stronger women to help her. The wrapping finally came off and there was a pair of very used, very abused black leather high heel shoes. The sides were worn and torn and neglected. They were probably the most pathetic gift I have ever seen. But Inga’s eyes lit up. ‘My new shoes! I love them! I will try them on, now. Pardon me, but I must go inside. A lady never takes her shoes off in public.’ And so they don’t. After a spell, (s)he shimmied out of the pub on those worn shoes. (S)he worked them like have never seen old, tired shoes get worked before. Everyone had to take turns complimenting Inga on her new shoes.

A young German kid of about 23 joined the table. He was light, airy, and gregarious. An effeminate man in the de facto Berliner army-clothes-cum-Anarchist garb sat across from him. I figured I had stumbled into Gay Night at the Local Pub. That’s okay. I had my girlfriend at my side as a human shield. The young kid asked what I do. I said I’m a photographer, blah blah blah, the usual chat. I usually mention that I’m a professional photographer only after people ply me with questions. I used to announce it proudly straightaway, but it seems that every time I do that in Berlin, people ask me to take pictures for them. For free. Anyway, I gave him my card because he asked, then apologized in advance for the lack of Berlin pics on my Berlin site. I said I was trying to change that. He looked like he was going to jump out of his seat. ‘You need more Berlin pics? Well, I have this theatre group, you see, and we have no money (of course), and we would be happy if you could take pics of us at rehearsal, at shows, and all the way up the primrose path until we are no longer idle dreamers and posers and we at last take our turn in the limelight up in the clouds with the gods of the arts and finally, oh, finally, we eat and drink the Bacchanalian eat/drink/pukefest we are destined for. And you are invited. Don’t you feel lucky to have met me?’ I said yes.

Jazz Church

2009-07-08T12:29:00.000-07:00

The Church of Jazz meets in an abandoned chapel in Friedrichshain on certain Tuesdays. The building is a small pile of bricks in an East Berlin neighborhood; a disused chapel type building with no need for God. But the holy spirit of jazz inhabits the place, warms the place and sometimes blows the roof off the dump.

Normally, all previously-God-forsaken Commie-seized holy halls were reclaimed by some church or another; bought back by the Supreme Rulers in Vatican City, or Anglo-Protestant oil holdings, or whatever. Not this one. It is special. It stands between a cemetery and a kebab shop. In Berlin there is only one solution for a building of this type: Art the Living Bejesus out of it. And they have.

I’m not sure what the target audience for the disemboweled rat poster outside the church is. But the poster is there and is hard to look at, especially after just coming from a kebab next door. I think it says theatre-something-or-other. In addition to disemboweling rats, the old church-cum-kunsthaus hosts Jazz Almighty.

Call it a jam session for new converts. I bust in and I see them skulking in the corners with their dates, boy/girl, girl/girl, boy/boy. Mostly young party animals and freaks. Mostly white, nobody over 40 except me. Mostly posing. Somebody told the deviants that jazz was hip. And deviants are hip in Berlin. I don’t care what color flag you fly, just don’t make it your raison d’etre. As for me, I am so straight and square that my girlfriend may leave me at any time unless I bring out the gimp from Pulp Fiction. Or at least I imagine so. But I digress.

I am a longtime jazz fan. I know this because I have short hair, glasses and a goatee. I noticed other goatee-sporting, bespectacled dudes of my ilk in the pews of the Jazz Church the other night. They are jazz fans as well (or just really crafty poseurs). It reassures me, knowing that the Old Faithful and the New Converts can come together under one roof.

Thankfully, there is no sermon, no preacher, no choir. There are only musicians, jamming it up and spiraling solos and nodding graciously to the warm applause. Some of the musicians really LOOK the part; as if dressing Jazz will light up the low notes. Others dressed in torn shoes and jeans stand there nervously and stare at the audience, limp trumpet or sax in hand, waiting for their turn to jam. It’s an informal affair with pleasing results. I start to nod and bob my head with the beat. I’m the only one doing it but I don’t give two shits. I’m there to enjoy the music. It has its moments. Nothing earth shattering, nothing that will save your soul. The better musicians play early: piano played in frantic, chopping motions by skinny fingers, stand up bass picked, battered and swinging in time to the syncopated skins. By evening’s end, anyone with an electric guitar or violin can step up to the stage and fuck it all up.

It works on donations. And as you would expect in any church, some twitchy huckster oozes on up to you while you’re in mid head nod and sticks a hat in your face and says: “For the musicians.” The first time I attended the Jazz Church, I thought it was an odd concept. I knew there was a donation, saw a box by the door, asked if that was the donation box, and dropped the money in. Halfway through the jam, though, the dude with the hat was in my face. I told him I gave generously at the door, but he kept explaining, extolling, extorting me for more. I told him to go fuck himself. He oozed back down the drain from whence he came. Ya gotta know how to deal with hucksters.

My second night in the Church of Jazz was only slightly different than the first time. The same poseurs were there. It was packed again, and people were eager to get a pew. I was wedged in between a very bright stage light and a young German couple. When the desire for another beer became too strong to resist, I asked the girl next to me to watch my seat. She tried to be funny and say something clever, but being German, this rarely works. Maybe it’s the language barrier. She said ‘Yes, I will watch it closely, and….” I just smiled and waved and walked away before she could embarrass herself any further. Upon my return with the beer, she continued, “I watched your seat and it was there and it….” “GREAT!!” I said, “and here’s your reward!” I shoved a bowl of Cheetos cheese puffs under her face. She declined so I shook them vigorously in her boyfriend’s face. He meekly took one. God I love Germans. Give them a church, some jazz, some booze and some Cheetos and you’ve got yourself a party. Then the piper showed up right on cue with his hat. I was ready for him. I peeled off a fiver and chucked it in the hat and waved him away with my hand. Ya gotta know how to deal with hucksters. I feel right at home with my people skills. I go to the Jazz Church for a vertical relationship with the musicians on high, not for a horizontal relationship with the hucksters, the poseurs, the ‘clever’ people. There is a special word for people like me. That word is ‘asshole.’

The Church of Jazz gets so crowded I shouldn’t tell you exactly where it is (Hint: It’s on Boxi between the kebabs and the headstones). Maybe I’ll see you there. I’ll be the slightly drunk guy bobbing his head with Cheetos and beer in my goatee.

Gentrification = Yuppiescumification

2009-06-10T06:41:00.000-07:00

The following is a letter sent to Exberliner Magazine after reading that they want us to 'Save Berlin.' I am all for it. Hence the letter I sent them:

Open Letter to a Foreign Media Publication on the Impending Gentrification of Berlin

By Craig Robinson

I want to save Berlin. I want to give that big ole bear a human hug and throw innovative ideas into the whirlpool of creativity. I want to stop the Atomic Bomb of Mall Culture from being dropped onto the last ‘island of affordable civilization for outcasts and dreamers’. I shouldn’t have any right to care about Berlin as I’ve been living here for less than 6 months. But I do. Over the last 15 years I have witnessed the gentrification of every place on earth I’ve ever lived in for any significant length of time.

Sacramento, San Francisco, London, Dublin, Prague. I came. I saw. Yuppies conquered. The cost of living in each of these places has gone up tenfold in as many years. But the average wages stayed way below the new high water mark.

Submitted for your perusal: Notes on the Global Gentrification Wars
as witnessed by concerned citizens, friends and comrades.

I am not submitting any ideas to your ‘Save Berlin’ action, as obviously I am too late. But please consider the following, especially in light of the fact that your current issue is about ‘the yoga craze.’ Even though I do not have adequate authority as a gentrification expert—only as a witness—I still feel obligated to point out the glaring hypocrisy in declaring your intent to ‘Save Berlin’ from gentrification, mallification, etc., when you clearly are serving up heaping portions of brine to the yuppie larvae in the form of a ‘yoga issue.’ Yoga is New Age Bollox. It was invented by well-meaning Indian gurus 1000s of years ago and appropriated by ex-hippies-turned-new-age-yuppies in California in the 90s. It spread like a disease from there. The only people who follow the yoga craze are certain neo-hippies and yuppies. The neo-hippies don’t have the money for these highly priced yoga courses and such, but their rich parents do. Please consider who you accept your advertising income from and who your target audience is. I fully intend to buy your yoga issue and read it. Perhaps I am wrong and it is a parody on yuppie life, in which case I will be extremely pleased and offer my sincere apologies. In the meantime, the following is a list of warning signs that will signify the beginning of the end of any neighborhood, to whit; gentrification is coming fast and furious.

SUSHI JOINTS – few foods suggest yuppie scum like sushi. Unless you are born in Japan, if you eat sushi on a regular basis, you may as well have a gold card and a Beamer parked up your ass.

YOGA – yuppies without soul shop for religion. They already jog, but that’s free (except for the $500 jogging gear). What better way to satisfy the exercise instinct AND the craving for something ‘meaningful’ to fill their empty, materialist lives?

GALLERY / ARTIST LOFT DISTRICTS – this one needs no explanation. First comes the cheap gallery / artist loft spaces, next comes the barrage of Beamers (God, I hate Beamers, but you may substitute whatever trendy piece of crap the yuppies are driving these days: Lexus, Hummer, etc.). Here’s an actual authority: http://einstellung.so36.net/en/ps/524. And a concerned post by myself (dunkin’ berliner) on the gallery/artist space rental situation in Berlin: http://www.toytowngermany.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=91587&st=0

UBER BRAND CAFES – Starbuck’s, etc. Overpriced ‘half-caff-triple-latte-lemon-bullshit’ is for yuppies. Nobody else drinks that shit. Ever.

Following is a historical timeline of some grass roots struggle for our turf. Call it Crips vs. Bloods with slightly fewer bullets.

Thwarting Gentrification Strategy I: Grass Roots Class Warfare

San Francisco, CA, mid 1990s:

Threatened District: The Mission District, predominantly Hispanic families, students and artists.

The Threat: Encroachment from neighboring hip districts, rising rents displacing generations of original residents.

The Response: Whatever vehicle the yuppies were parking in the Mission District too long would receive a welcome basket in the form of a bumper sticker applied to many a BMW, Lexus, etc: ‘Die Yuppie Scum.’ The Mission does not fuck around. They managed to thwart gentrification much longer than most other S.F. districts. In the end, the dot com craze swept almost everyone under the income level of 80k per year (who didn’t already own their property) out of the City. Permanently.

Sacramento, CA, late 1990s:

Threatened District: Midtown Sacramento and surroundings, a mix of every race, income level and lifestyle.

The Threat: Suburban yuppies stuck in gridlock on the way to their downtown offices are drawn to the newly-renovated Victorian architecture in the old Midtown neighborhoods, which happened to be much closer to their offices. In addition, a large influx of Bay Area urban refugees hit Sacramento, driving up the rents.

The Response: Sadly, almost none. Residents sat around for years with their thumbs up their collective asses and watched their rents go from $400 per month up to $1200. Then they left. One response of note: a punk rock couple who ran an independent video store in a prime district in Midtown Sac fought back. Their store bulletin board was designed for other musicians, artists and film people to post notes to each other. A preponderance of irrelevant New Age fliers started to appear, aromatherapy workshops, yoga lessons, etc. The staff responded by placing a large notice on the board: NO FUCKING YOGA FLIERS!!!!

Thwarting Gentrification Strategy II: I Wish I Had One

But in lieu of a competent strategy, I would suggest that all foreign language media publications (i.e. anything not published in German language) start a disinformation campaign or at least a misinformation campaign. Everybody who has read anything about Berlin knows that it’s ‘poor, but sexy.’ That unemployment is high. This doesn’t discourage anyone from coming here. Especially yuppie scum. They are desperate to be hip. They can buy almost anything with their salaries and their credit. But they can’t buy cool. I am not cool. Nor are most of my friends. We are mostly poor. But we care about our neighborhood, our city and our lives. Dear Editor of a Foreign Language Publication in Berlin, pretty please, with sugar on top: tell the yuppies to fuck off. How you do it is up to you. A little hint: don’t advertise ‘penthouse flats with a view of Berlin for only 1200 euros per month!’ That’s a start.

Sincere thanks,

Craig Robinson
Veteran of the Gentrification Wars

Crap! Forgot to Blog About the May 1 Kreuzberg Riots!

2009-05-18T09:03:00.001-07:00

Oh, yeah, they didn't have any this year. The rioters were too affected by the Global Crisis, Inc. to afford Che Guevara shirts and gas for their Molotov Cocktails. That and I got too pissed from drinking beer in the sun all day to post. I slept for 20 hours or something. I did manage to get some purty punk pix, though. See some of my punk pics and commentary here.

Currywurst uber alles?

2009-05-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

Normally I’m not the kind of guy to go to another country, live there, and then tell the natives how to cook. I just accept the global cornucopia of culinary goodness in whatever country I lay my head. I revel in the vast diversity of the worldwide palate. If I’m in Prague, I am a smazeny syr (fried cheese) addict. When in Mexico, give me carne asada in a fresh, warm corn tortilla. And when I’m in London, I bask in fish and chips, Guvna. That and curry.

But then there’s the Berliner Currywurst. Good God. When I wasn’t basking in fish and chips in London, I did curry. A lot. I think I can say with reasonable certainty that I know what a proper curry tastes like (don’t say India, please. I’m sure theirs is full of worms, field mice and dysentery or something. Give me a London curry any day). Then I heard that in Berlin they eat something called currywurst. Hmmm, I thought. In Munich I’d had the obligatory Bavarian sausage feast with pretzels, mustard and beer. Beer in very large mugs. I thought maybe the Berliner variety of sausage would combine the best of Indian culture and German culture. Y’know, like, sausages in (perhaps) a spicy curry sauce. Cuz in Berlin they say ‘multi-kulti’ a lot. Good GOTT no. They take a hot dog—not even a decent sausage, mind you—and smother it in (wait for it….) KETCHUP. With about 20 flakes of curry powder sprinkled on top. And these people eat this sheise.

Once again, talk amongst yerselves, feeling a little verklempt ovah heah.

BICYCLE! BICYCLE!

2009-04-22T13:53:00.001-07:00

"Someone stole my bicycle
Someone stole my bike.
I want to ride my bicycle.
I want to ride it where I like."

-Sung to the Queen tune 'Bicycle Race.'

I had never heard of this Queen song before I lived in the Czech Republic. Then I heard it almost daily on any radio station they had. Perhaps it was the only Queen song they could get for under 50 bucks. I would have thought 'Bohemian Rhapsody' would have been more appropriate while living in Prague. But they sure played the living fuck out of 'We Are the Champions' when they won the Olympic Hockey Thing.

But now the Bicycle song runs through my head every day. It follows me as I walk the streets of Berlin. Yes, I walk the streets now. Before I used to ride my BICYCLE!!!! before some random street junkie Deutschbag stole it.

I really want to ride my bicycle. I really want to ride my bike. It was the first bike I had since I was a teenager. I was flying down busy Berlin boulevards and seeing things I wouldn't ordinarily see while walking (and at higher speeds).

My bike was the most beat up piece of flea market shit loose change could buy:

- scratchy black paint
- rusty chain
- torn, wobbly seat
- broken lights and reflectors (all of them)
- bad brakes bolted on backwards

And yet, locked inside my apartment building's entrance, wheels locked to the frame, alongside at least 20 bikes locked the same way, 20 other bikes worth at least 100 euros each--they stole mine.

My bike cost 35 euros including the chain. I mean, Jesus H. Lapdancing Christ, are you SERIOUS? What kind of CRACK can you score from this heist???!!!!!???? I hope your 'fence' laughed his ass off when he saw your 'score.' I hope he sold you some watered down heroin soaked in paint thinner. Seriously, dude. You're a fucking loser. Heh.

Bring Out The Pimp

2009-04-12T14:02:00.000-07:00

And the third Prez makes a hat-trick.

Kennedy, Obama, and Clinton. They all have a special place on my blog. They came to Berlin. They saw. They bought a donut. They dunked it.

I love Berlin Graffiti. You will see a lot of it on these pages, all three of you who read them. The one thing I love more than graffiti in Berlin is political graffiti in Berlin. Not 'Anarchy,' 'Fight da Power' and all that tired bullshit.

I like the graffiti that states an obvious yet frivolously humorous fact. Perhaps we can call it 'wikiffiti.' Fact: Bill Clinton is a Pimp. In the hip-hop sense of the word. Like, 'he da man, da playah, all dat and a bag a chips.' Not to be confused with an ACTUAL pimp, i.e. the purveyor of female flesh to the oldest customers of the oldest profession. Not to say that Big Bill peddled flesh of the back of the White House when he was The Dude In The Chair.

But I wouldn't put it past him. I mean, why not? He's da Pimp.

Word.

More Chiseling Away at History

2009-04-01T08:07:00.000-07:00

They've got the head of Nefertiti in Berlin. I know this because I read that an important German once said 'Bring me the head of Nefertiti.'

I jest. Actually, the news today said "Experts Discover Second Face Under Nefertiti Bust." Once--just once--I'd like to read something in the news where 'experts' were in no way involved. Something like:

"Random Turks in an Alley with a Pair of Pliers and a Blowtorch Discover..."

Rebuilding the Berlin Wall: Smoother, Cleaner, More Commercial

2009-03-27T13:41:00.000-07:00

Call me a skeptic, but are we really to believe that they are completely destroying the East Side Gallery (Berlin Wall with purty pitchers) in order to 'preserve, reconstruct and remember' the monument? They talk of the history of the wall, the artists who came from all over the world to commemorate the fall of communism in Berlin with a blast of paint on the one remaining segment that wasn't torn down.

And that they're destroying all that history--get this--to preserve the Wall. Ahem. Why in the Flying Fuck are they putting bureaucrats in charge of anything 'historical' or 'artistic'? Can't the Mighty B's be happy making our lives miserable in the usual way--parking, registration, jobs, etc.? No, they wanna be part of art and history.

OK, cut back to my arrival in Berlin to see why I'm actually pissed off. I was planning on getting around to the important monuments of Berlin once it wasn't January 10th, minus 10 Celsius. I was thinking a jaunt around town with my camera would wait until the thawing of the frozen dog turds on the street, at the very least. In late February I took a walk by the East Side Gallery section of the Berlin Wall (the only preserved section left, other than a few chunks by Potsdamer Platz--which are dwarfed by the massive skyscrapers above) on the way to a party on a boat. Well, Berliners do that party thing, so we went. We passed a long section of painted wall and realized that it was the famous East Side Gallery section of the Berlin Wall. We saw some cool artwork in addition to some added bad graffiti and such. I looked down the street and saw that the painted wall continued into the distance. I swore I'd get back with my camera. When the frozen dog turds thawed.

So a few days ago I went back to get those pics. After some months of some pretty craptastic weather, I had to go. Even though I was in charge of my girlfriend's sick dog while she was away, and the little bastard was was puking and shitting in the flat, I had to go. I took the sick dog for a nice drag for a couple of km's down to the Wall. I started snapping, leash in one hand, camera in the other. A few blocks on down the wall I noticed a construction fence. And the noise of jackhammers. I was looking forward to getting snaps of some of the more famous wall paintings--the kissing commies, the 3 cartoon faces in Pop Art style, etc. But I was greeted by a long stretch of gray, bare wall and the sound of construction. As I continued down the road I met a few confused tourists scratching their heads and an individual handing out flyers to the tourists. I took one. It said 'Europe is closed for renovation to better serve you' or something like that.

My only bitch about this whole thing--other than not getting my photos of the 'original' wall--is this: you know damn well they're gonna have McDonald's, KFC, Nike and other ads on this fucking thing when they finish it. Who else is gonna pay for the 'historical reconstruction of an important part of European history' smack dab in the middle of this 'Global Crisis, Inc.'?

I plan to document the entire reconstruction process, right up through the time they "bring the original artists back to repaint the wall", here.

Meanwhile, you can take a photographic virtual stroll down a section of the wall as of yet undisturbed by the jackhammers here: http://berlinphotographer.net/berlinwall.aspx

One Presidential Fast Food Deserves Another

2009-03-11T07:24:00.000-07:00

Found in the 'American Food' section of my local Berlin supermarket.

Yes, you're reading it right:

OBAMA FINGERS.

Like, Oh. My. God.

Just when I thought that the JFK / Berliner jelly donut thing was wacky enough....

I'm not sure which part of the product would insult Obama more: having his name on a frozen fast food box, or the whole 'fried chicken' stereotype reference.

Talk amongst yourselves, I'm feeling verklempt.

P.S. They taste pretty good, by the way.

Berlin Cops Adore Nazis, Push Antifascist Demonstrators Around A Bit

2009-03-07T13:25:00.000-08:00

I've always heard that Nazi or Neo-Nazism is illegal in Germany. Wearing the swastika or other Nazi symbols, singing 'Deutschland Uber Alles' and doing Hitler's high-handed salute, are all verboten.

Recently I've come to realize that this is total bullshit. I first had my suspicions several years ago on a visit to a small town in the former East Germany. There was a large tent with a party going on and a bonfire outside. After waltzing into their tent for some fun, I noticed that everyone was bald. With bomber jackets, camo pants and high-laced boots. I had walked into a skinhead party in a village field. So, casually, I ate some of their munchies, drank a few of their beers and slowly strolled away without speaking to anyone.

Upon my arrival in Berlin a couple of months ago, there was a fashion issue of the local English rag 'Exberliner.' I despise fashion as any red-blooded heterosexual from the States would (ich bin ein Redneck), but I picked up the mag anyway hoping to find ads for pubs and grub. I found that they covered all areas of fashion in Berlin, including NAZI FASHION. WTF? I thought this Nazi b.s. was unacceptable. Well, the clothing had some mods (I dunno, maybe a pretzel on the armband instead of swassie), but it was undeniably clothing for goose-stepping fools with too much time on their hands.

Today I was awakened from my Saturday afternoon nap to the sound of shouting. Usually the Berlin party crowd waits til after midnight to begin their drunken howls under my balcony. Not today. I stepped outside to see a large crowd of young whippersnappers wearing black clothes and bandannas pulled over their mouths, marching. Various street punks joined in to provide some local color. I was drowsy as any fat slob who eats pizza and beer all the time would be after a nap, but I snapped to attention when a white-helmet-sporting-cop started pushing one of the protesters around. The kid wasn't doing anything. In fact, he was headed AWAY from the shouting youth. But the cops wanted him fenced in. I went for the camera and took a couple of mediocre shots from the balcony. I headed down to the street to find out what was going on, and while people were milling around on the street corner I discovered the following: the shouting miscreants were various members of anti-fascist groups protesting the opening of a new(neo?)Nazi clothing store. I have to wonder where these brain dead boneheads get the money for designer fashions (one such brand I read about is Thor Steiner, a Norwegian designer who makes clothing for fascists)? Maybe they pay for their swag with gold teeth ripped from the mouths of dead Jews.

I hung around to get some snaps, but I got a bit nervous when one of the cops started video taping me as I was taking pics (see above left). I'm not usually keen on photographing cops in any country, especially ones where the cops actually wear jackboots and grimaces as part of their uniform. Today's coppers wore jumpsuits and helmets as well. In a country where Neo-Nazism is technically illegal, why does the largest city in Germany not only tolerate fascism, but recruit some of them as cops?

Ein Berliner Deserves Another

2009-02-27T16:53:00.000-08:00

OMG! Like, Obama speaks German!

Ich Bin Ein Berliner

2009-02-22T03:00:00.000-08:00

Some friends made it clear that they'd never heard of Dunkin' Donuts or possibly even JFK. Poor, wretched, huddled masses. Never had a Jelly Donut or a President who was shot. For my homies:

The Big Berlin Freeze

2009-02-21T13:53:00.000-08:00

People stop in their tracks in the cold Berlin winter. Some are mid sentence, some are engaged in a kiss. Sometimes a man walking a dog will freeze, beer to his mouth, while his dog tugs at the leash in his frozen master's hand.

Other people notice the phenomenon and the video cameras and cell phones come out. It's quite an amazing sight to behold: busy Alexanderplatz, full of 1000 or more people, most of them frozen stiff, others wandering and weaving amid the motionless figures with cameras.

Apparently this has happened many times before. This time I was a part of it. I can't tell you how great it feels to have a cold beer gripped in a freezing hand and pressed to chapped lips in February.

But we did it.

Video by Gabriela Sarzevska

Berlin Film Scene: Glitz n Glam or Grime n Grunge?

2009-02-16T13:17:00.000-08:00

I used to be a film fest junky. I would travel to obscure film festivals, get in line for hours to get tickets and even sleep outside on the ground when hotels were booked. I've seen world premier films in San Francisco, Dublin, London, Karlovy Vary and Berlin. I've shaken directors hands after sitting through double features and impossibly long film lectures with other pasty-faced film geeks.

Then I discovered Berlin's underground cinema scene. After planning to spend way too much money on films no one else would ever see at the Berlinale (Berlin Film Fest) last week, my eyes were opened and I saw the flickering light: Squat Cinema. That's right, bootleg copies of scratchy anarchist films projected through gray smoke clouds onto cracked bar walls. Drinking semi-warm bottles of the cheapest German beer while watching films with characters who fight the police, fight the landlords, fight the U Bahn ticket inspectors and fight the system. Watching these films in German when I don't speak 10 words of the language.

Many of these ad hoc cinemas have sprung up in the grungier areas of Berlin: Kreuzberg, Friedrichshain, etc., where punks and anarchists find refuge in grafitti-ridden block house squats. Often you wouldn't even know there was a cinema--let alone a functioning bar--in these buildings if you were leaning on the front door. From the outside, many of these bars have shuttered windows plastered with punk posters and about 450 layers of spray paint. One such Friedrichshain squat cinema down the street from where I live has impressive red velvet curtains which are ceremoniously parted at showtime to reveal the weathered plaster wall which will receive the evening's images of anarchy. Once you've snaked your way through the bowels of the squat/bar/cinema, you can see an eclectic mix of Berlin characters: punks, anarchists, leftist intellectuals, unemployed slackers and shiftless night owls.

And maybe in the corner, a former pasty-faced film geek, wondering how he might look in a mohawk at age 42.