Nostalgia Ain’t What It Used To Be

The other day I took a stroll down memory lane.  Don’t ever do that, I’m telling you.

The familiar old neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg was home to me and my lovely wife for 5 years before we were banished to the Berlin hinterlands.  I only mention that my wife is lovely so you will feel sorry for us when I tell you how we got railroaded right on out of there by the gentrification scumlords.  If it were just grumpy old moi, myself und ich (or me and an ugly wife) who lost a place to live, you might just think ‘GOOD! Get rid of the grumpy old ugly fucks and let the new Rich but Sexy Berliners move in!’  As one does.

I initially went down to my old Helmholz kiez (Danziger-Duncker-Prenzlauer Allee) to pick up some second hand lights for sale.  A nice, waiflike couple was sitting in their empty commercial space waiting to sell me their old lights so they could embark upon their new voyage of their new image in their new commercial space.  I still don’t know what in the flying fuck they were selling. There was a counter, a mini espresso machine and some dishes.  And a cat. Their website is just as mysterious. Apparently that’s all you need in Berlin if you are a Trustafarian. The lights weren’t as advertised and I couldn’t use them.  So I thanked them for wasting my time (I did it in a very smooth way, I’m telling you.  The couple looked fragile and earnest, and this combo can still the harshest of tongues. Even mine.) Off I went.

I passed the closed Café Lyrik and remembered the spell cast by the Witch.  Free ‘music’ (using the term loosely) with overpriced drinks and a performance sounding something like a steel kitty in a blender (complete with metallic screams and feverish, glass scratching death knells), followed by a donation cup shaken so vigorously in our faces that everybody had to stop drinking and stare to see how much we WERE NOT putting in.  Apparently 15 EUR was NOT enough for the avant garde scheisse we were watching.  The Witch told me so.  And the Deutschbag at the next table scoffed out loud when I refused to give more.  I won’t say don’t go there.  If you are NOT a brain dead, self important Trustafarian with delusions of grandeur, you probably already have the good sense not to (Dunkin’ Berliner flash mob idea: everybody cram into that tiny ‘art/music’ space, don’t order a damn thing and then dump a sock full of pennies into the collection plate.  Smack those bitches up).

I continued my walk down memory lane (aka Danziger strasse) and passed the empty windows of the Fuss-feti-fisch.  This is a place where you can stick your feet in a fish tank and have swarms of little fish eat the barnacles and toe jam right off your sunken feet. There are aquariums in the windows full of feet sucking fish, lights and signs and benches with towels, but that place is NEVER open.  Meaning: MAFIA MUTHA FUCKAZ.  Don’t go there either.  Hell, if you need your toe jam eaten, let me know.  I know poor artists who will eat your toes out on a stage for loose change, I’m tellin’ ya.

No trip down Memory Lane is complete without a visit to your old flat, the place you used to call home, the place where some yuppie fucks are now living.  Gentrification is a BITCH.  I wanted to see the type of quality human beings who could possibly replace my loser ass, who could possibly be a better tenant than me, who in the HELL would want to pay more than 600 EUR for a studio apartment.  It couldn't be yuppies; they only live in large lofts, not studio apartments. This I already knew.  But I tend to read ahead in the script, so it was no surprise that the new tenant was just a number:  my old buzzer simply read ‘60’.  In fact, most of the flats in our old building were now part of the growing scourge of holiday rentals in desirable hoods. They weren’t even hiding it.  A large banner now hangs above Dunckerstrasse 90A and proudly proclaims BERLINER LEBEN HOLIDAY RENTALS.  Nine of the 12 flats in our building were already owned by Das Leben when we moved in. When we lived there, I do recall an ungodly amount of suitcases thumping up and down the stairs and late night screams in Mediterranean languages.  We were happy to endure it as proud members of the multi-kulti Berlin life (aka Berliner Leben). But we were forced out.  When our contract was ready to be renewed, they refused us (after paying rent on time every month for a year), saying in writing “It is a free market.  We can rent to whomever we choose.” Harsh words from harsh cunts. Why have regular tenants at a fixed rate when you can kick them out and charge 70 EUR per night as a holiday rental?  There is now only one of our original neighbors left in our building:  Riewoldt (pronounced ‘revolt’).  As I recall, the door to his flat had been kicked in a few times and there were blatant splinter/spackle/patch jobs done on the door.  Fight da powah, Herr Riewoldt.

There is a growing resistance to these types of predatory rental investors (scumlords, et al) and laws are being drafted as I write this.  As I was doing my due diligence (Googling), I discovered a fact that would be shocking if I were able to be shocked at this point.  The busy-bodied little man who dogged us the entire time we lived at Dunckerstr. 90A (saying he was the hausmeister) was in fact the very agent provocateur behind the Berliner Leben tenant ousting: Marcus Buthmann (whom we called Buttman) was talking seven shades of scheisse to the press about his proud holiday rentals.  That’s right: the same Buttman who helped us out the door; the exact same cocksucker.  And that’s not libel—the man does indeed suck cock.

http://www.thelocal.de/20140801/two-thirds-of-berlins-tourist-flats-now-illegal

In a city that changes as much, as often and as constantly as Berlin, nobody seems to notice that a very large rug is being pulled out from under our feet.  Sure, sluggish student paralegal interns are rising from their hangovers to wave the flag.  Too little, too late.  The scumlords are winning.

I crossed the street with the mixed emotions of knowing I was right and being powerless to do a damn thing about being wronged. Skinny old American fucks in suits talked on phones in lofty voices while a German teenager in hip hop attire trudged by in high swagger mode, oozing anger in his neo-yuppie hell.  Even the small courtyard recreation area across the street from my old digs was being torn up.  The ruins of the ping pong tables we used to play upon were lying on the ground beneath the plows of the machine.  CAT operators smoked and laughed in the midst of the mayhem.

I switched to high swagger mode and trudged past the usual sushi bars, trendy cafes and yoga holes of Yuppie Central.  Even my old hole-in-the-wall kebab joint had been renovated and neon-ensconced. Dunkin’ Berliner truth: the smaller and grungier the hole in the wall, the better the food.  The bigger the space, the more neon cacti, the more bland the food, the more yuppie it is. Period. This area used to be commie, punk rock, artist, drifter, and dreamer.  Now it is just another non-threatening place for yuppies and breeders to take root and grow money trees.  Because that’s what gentrification is all about: rip out the old, plant the new, harvest the money crop. We who choose to live our lives in pursuit of something other than money are not worthy of living in a cool neighborhood.  We don’t stand a chance. Because we have neither money nor power; nor do we want anything to do with any of that shit.  So They win. Again. Always.

Maybe one day, one of us will snap.  Necks.

The Milky Way

I’ve managed to survive pretty well in the Age of Political Correctness.  I’ve been threatened, cajoled, derided and ostracized.  And that was just for using the word ‘chick’ instead of ‘womyn.’

Jesus F. Christ, bitches:  GET OVER YOURSELVES.

Good.  Now we can get back on track: the tenuous and tricky thang we call human relationships. We’re all in them, donut and non donut munchers alike.

The other day, my lovely wife called upstairs to ask for my help.  She was playing with the Social Media and I was playing with the Video Games.  I hit pause.

She:  Some chick (Heh. I taught her well) just wrote and told me how I shouldn’t use the word ‘tit’ and furthermore I am some sort of bimbo.  She said she had the right to breast feed her baby any damn where she pleased and how dare I use the word ‘tit’ instead of ‘breast’ and so NYEAH.

Me: Honey Bunches of Oats, may I formulate your reply?  Good.

Dear Earth Mama,

We understand that Berlin breeding hutches like Parentslauer Berg, Wedding and Neukoelln are home to all sorts of uppity cows who think they can roll their prams over people’s feet and scream at them for saying ‘boo.’  You also feel that you can haul your bloated breastages out and schluck your leechy bambinos on right then and there in public.  And we’re supposed to forgive that shit; hell, enjoy it as well.

BTW: my wife is not a native speaker of English.  How dare you call her names just because she used the word ‘tit’ instead of ‘teat?’  In your case, I’m sure she meant to use the word ‘udder.’

She:  No, that seems a bit strong.  I think she will be offended.  She said I should just avert my eyes.

Me:  So she can offend you and call you names, but…?

She:  I don’t want to start a war of words.

Me:  I DO.

BREEDERS: you choose to have babies.  Big fucking deal.  You are nothing special.  You are an open-legged receptacle for the baby batter of a monkey man.  Nothing more.  You want to celebrate the joy of creation; I get it.  But you also want to foist it on everyone else.  WE. DON’T. CARE. Your baby is ugly, shriveled and red.  JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHER BABIES.  But you are all hormonal and shit.  And you would like to kill me right now.  Take a deep breath.  Realize you are a hormonal cow.  Then get over it.

CHOICES: I’ve seen cafes with names like Milch Bart (milk moustache/beard... EEWW) in P’berg full of milk mädchens just like you.  Everyone’s got the udders out and all the babes are tapping that shit in broad daylight.  I averted my eyes when I walked by.  That wasn’t my turf.  But when you CHOOSE to bring your little milk vampire into a RESTAURANT during DINNER hours:  How dare you?  Are you white trash?  Were you born in a barn?  A trailer?  What gives you the right to spoil my dinner?  That’s right:  seeing a breast feeding mother in public turns my stomach.  I would really like to be more tolerant and shove my coffee mug under a lactating teat and get the cream of the crop.  But I can’t.  I like my coffee like I like my President: strong and black.

Earth Mama:  Fuck you, male chauvinist pig.  I can’t believe you are intolerant of something as beautiful and natural as a loving mother sharing the milk of her bosom with her darling angel.

Me:  Yes, breast feeding is a natural biological function.  I will take back everything I said and apologize for any offense, IF: you will allow me to urinate in a bucket under the dinner table while you watch.  Biological function and all; fair is fair.

Earth Mama:  PIG!!!

Me: Oh yeah!

LiederLauschen

An Open Air Loony Bin on Helmholzplatz

Now that summer is behind us, I can whine about how the warmest Berlin summer in recent years just wasn’t long enough.  I really miss my sandals.  Really I do.  Toes previously Free To Be are now crammed into shoes designed by tiny, foot-binded Chinese to torture the footloose and fancy free Western Capitalist Pig Dog (and in so doing, procure a tidy sum, naturally); no wiggle room for my little piggies.  I digress:  Berlin open air events.  Like most of cold, gray, dark, depressing Europe (and I’m saying that like it’s a good thing), Berlin suffers from about 300 days of mleh out of 365.  So when the Berlin summer hits, you’d best get your ass outside and do anything and everything under the sun.

Prenzlauer Berg: a gentrified district of East Berlin wherein the previous punk-and-social-welfare-case people get to yell DIE YUPPIE SCUM (in German no less) to the gentrifiers who scream GET A JOB, LOSER back at them.  It’s great to live in a former punk quarter which is slowly turning yuppie, hipster and foreigner and get to absorb the vibe of something old, dirty and skuzzy cleansed by something cold, antiseptic and sterile.  Perhaps sterile is the wrong word, as Prenzlauer Berg packs in so many new families that it is now referred to as Parentslauer Berg.

Helmholzplatz:  a green park in one of the trendier areas of Prenzlauer Berg.  When I first moved into the kiez (‘hood), I recall strolling through the middle of the park and being accosted by a rather inebriated fellow who started shouting at me and my girlfriend as we passed his bottle-strewn, piss-reeking turf.  Yes, Mr. Intoxicunt, clearly we are The Threat.  Together we work to make about the same money as you get for free on social welfare.  And your flat is bigger and you get to drink outside and wax drunken philosophical all day long as your means of employment.  I’m jealous.

LiederLauschen:  some kind of cockamamie music event contrived in the last days of summer to squeeze the last few Euros out of those who would soon retreat behind the thick walls of their altbau (old building) flats and enjoy cop show marathons while pining away for the summer.  I don’t know WTF LiederLauschen means and I’m too lazy to Google it.  As One of Those who is too lazy / refuses to learn another language (read: American), I’ll wager a guess that it means Punk / Parent Mixer, because the usual drunken suspects were greeting the stroller wielding breeders in a one stage, one bar affair.  I was hoping for a riot with beer bottles flung at breeders and a demolition derby of strollers rolling over the scrawny legs of the punkies, drunkies, junkies and other members of the disenfranchised.

A dozen benches held the butts of those who wanted to warm them.  Just behind the last row of benches, one of the indigenous park dwellers was burning a pile of paper while sitting cross-legged with a ghetto blaster on his shoulder.  It was turned all the way up--and apparently had been for some time--as the speakers spewed nothing but flupping, flapping distortion.  Or maybe that was the band.  I’m too square to ever solve that mystery.  The fire burned on and people walked by.  The distortion reached a crescendo and Chief Squatting Bull began bashing his ghetto blaster against his skull in arrhythmic blunt beats.  The passersby passed by.  What the fuck was this guy gonna have to do to get some attention?

The first band was warming up.  One of those folk diva types sat on a stool with a loosely slung guitar around her shoulders.  Some others held their instruments.  I can’t go into details. I’m not a music critic, though the music sounded about as bad as I expected it would.  She finished her mewling and caterwauling and bowed out gracelessly.  Another band got up on stage while I went to the spaeti to avoid buying overpriced event beer.  I took a swig and looked around.  Chief Squatting Bull’s fire had burned out and his tape had ended or was destroyed by the skull thumping.  Behind him, small squabbles broke out with the harsh-voiced demi-homeless bench punks.  A park drunk cadged a fag from two young ladies seated in front of us. One of the girls gave him a cig to pay her dues and make the bastard go away.  Of course he would not.  He then began hitting on them—both—in an attempt to slur and wobble his drunken way into their hearts.  They got up and left.  He cursed at his knees and I got up to support the bar for a couple of beers for the event.  I was being fully entertained and the stage had little to do with my amusement.  Upon my return with our beers I noticed a completely different drunk had plunked his ass down next to my babe.  I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and said that he was in my spot.  I’m trying real hard to avoid conflicts.  Especially since they seem to fly into my face like a crank-addled Vegas lap dancer.

The drunk swung his hand out and pointed my way to sit at the end of the bench.  You see, he needed to continue hitting on my girlfriend.  This was completely understandable due to both the quality and quantity of the chemicals sloshing around in his slushy melon. My babe quickly slid down the bench away from Drunkenova and I plopped my ass in between them.  Undaunted, the Bishop of Bad Breath heaved his amorous airs directly around my head until finally, breathless and feckless, he slowly got up and left.

We took a break from the chaos and left the area for more beer.  Upon our return, the very bench of my babe’s erstwhile seduction was taken over by a new threat:  babies.  A prime example of the Parentslauer Berg tribe was having her attention span stretched so far that a cesarean section would be necessary to cut through:  one child jumped up and down on our abandoned bench while another hung around her scrawny neck like a monkey and the one in her belly kicked in time with the music.  She sat behind our abandoned bench and watched with utter apathy as the bench came crashing down and the bouncing baby boy landed in the midst of beer puddles, cigarette butts and broken glass.  The mother said nothing, as is perfectly normal for German parents with spastic howler monkey progeny screaming and bouncing off the walls.  Ordnung uber alles my ass.

Perhaps butt cheeks generate their own kharma, and chaotic, free-spirited ones such as mine must attract all manner of anarchy.  After the breeder brood had left and someone had righted the chaos bench, it came crashing down yet again as we were trying to reclaim it.   It was the fag cadger, heart breaker, bench flipper.  As I helped him out of the beer/butt puddle, he glared through drunken slits at my face.

We were out of there.  We stopped once more for beer. As we left the circus, the bench flipping ciggy bum was curled up in a fetal position on a small stone wall near the path out of the park.  I told my babe that he still had his bent cigarette sticking out of his mouth.  She looked back at the snoring figure and immediately set me straight:  ‘You’re blind.  That’s not a bent cigarette, honey bunches of oats (she calls me that sometimes).  That’s a big ole snot worm.’

O the snot-nosed drunks and babies of Parentslauer Berg!