Happy Happy. Joy Joy.

 

I’m happy to live in Berlin.  Sure, I rant and rave about gentrification and rising rents on my various Blogs, but I am still proud to be living in a city in the midst of change. Yeah, the old hole-in-the-wall joint I used to eat/drink in has become a yuppie hellhole of yoga and whatnot.  But there are other holes in other walls.  Later they will become assimilated by the Yogaborg, but at least I WAS THERE. BEFORE.

Sadly, this is also the hipster mantra: ‘Um, like, I did this stupid ironic thing that I’m doing, like, WAY before it was, like, cool.’

As much as I hate hipsters and yuppies, I do realize that whenever an area in any given city is cheap enough, cool enough, and available enough—it is doomed.  So I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.  I am REALLY surprised that I have lived here this long.  Every year I take inventory of my meager accomplishments. Every year I get drunk and proclaim to all my (few) friends that This is the Last Year I Will Live in This Yuppie Shithole.  Then we all have a laugh and we all have a drink.  I am STILL amazed and the breadth and depth of my hypocrisy.

Still I am here.  Still, like a beat-down, son-of-a-middle-class-bitch, I rise.

RATS!!!

“Just like the Pied Piper led rats through the streets, we dance like marionettes, swaying to the Symphony of Destruction.”  - Megadeth ‘Symphony of Destruction’ (Concerto in D Minor)

 photo by Gabriela Sarževská

It was one of those Sundays where I was completely open to suggestion.  Usually this is followed by waking up in a strange place with a strange person.  But as a happily married man, those days are happily over.

I woke from my S-bahn snooze and found myself in Neukoelln.  I never go to Neukoelln if I can avoid it.  It is one of those New Hip Berlin Hoods where American accents flow over tongues stultified by overuse of the word ‘like’ while Berlin is slowly being buried in thick black glasses and ridiculous beards.  Meanwhile, angry Turkish eyes watch the gentrification process with extreme prejudice.

The café advertised that it would be taken over by rats.  We’d had enough of the mice skittering about in the crawl spaces under our roof, so we thought we would seek the entertainment of free range vermin instead.

I sat across the street from the café with a bottle of beer in my hand.  The wifey went inside the café for a cappuccino.  It was one of those bloody useless cafes which sell only non-alcoholic beer.  I spotted the first rat by the S-bahn station waste bin; a middle aged man was standing with a straw hat and a cane and a hugely-exaggerated rat costume:  double hula hoops for hips and a stuffed tail so long it dragged across the street between cars.  Two female rats appeared on my left, one making sniffing sounds and sticking out front teeth.  A little Sharpie-whiskered nose sniffed my bottle of beer and turned up in disgust.  The things that will disgust a rat are beyond me.  It was a Rathaus Pilsner for fuck’s sake.

A swarm of costumed rat menschen scurried around the crowded outdoor seating of the beerless café.  I finished my bottle and headed over to the raucher kneipe next door to the artsy café.  The usual daytime drunks were holding up an outdoor table and a white picket fence separated the howling hooch commandos from the artsy-fartsy hipsters at the café.  I’m guessing the white picket fence was erected by the café owners to keep the drunks from oozing into their space. I joined the drunks and scoffed at the hipsters along with them.  Raspy-rum-and-cigarette voices slurred and shouted at the performing vermin while uptight art fags and their devoted fag hags gave them the stink eye.  I smirked and was tempted to join in the drunken jeers—only my tank of liquid courage was half empty.

Eventually my wife got tired of drinking cappuccino amid hipster poseurs and joined me on the Dark Side.  A female rat was rapping in German at the café patrons while another rat banged on a trash can.  The quaint, cute, warm and fuzzy idea of a watching a troupe of amateur actors dressed as rats while drinking cappuccino was quickly eclipsed by the need for beer.  Or so I thought.

“Let’s get out of here before they ask for donations,” my wife pleaded. I agreed.  There is nothing more sinister in Berlin than the promise of a free event followed by the heartbreak of a change cup shaken in your face.

Fresh Hell: Finding a Flat in Berlin

Oh yeah, this entire blog has been a thinly-veiled anti gentrification rant:  The Impending Gentrification of Berlin, The Hipster Invasion, Landlords aka Fucklords, and The Current and Very In-Your-Face Gentrification of Berlin.  This blog is a redneck swamp hat with a wide brim shading very angry eyes.  Donuts dangle from strings around the brim.

It’s Fucklord time again.  After yet another one year sublet, we found ourselves looking for another flat.  Not because we paid the rent on time every month for the entire year, not because we never had any neighbor complaints, not because we have money in the bank and a spotless rental history—but because ‘it is a free market and we can rent to whomever we choose’ sayeth the Fucklord.

Oh yes, our hauptmieter gave up her contract behind our backs and the Fucklord saw the chance to kick us out as well, saying ‘you are not our tenants.’  Our hauptmieter told us from her year abroad in France that she was sorry that the Fucklord hadn’t chosen us.  It wasn’t anything personal, you see, they ‘probably just want to raise the rent and get a commission from the next renter.’

Nothing personal?  Jesus fuck.

So off we went into the thick of things again.  Each time we try to get another flat the rents go up 50%, the lines outside the flat viewings get longer and the new metric fuckton of additional paperwork fells another rain forest.

If you are looking for a flat in Berlin, watch out for the poisonous sentence ‘the viewing will be on such-and-such date at such-and-such time.’  This means you will be standing outside the flat (most likely in the rain) waiting for a beady-eyed bald man (most likely in the pub) with a group of 30-40 feckless feckers just like yourself.  If you choose to view a flat that is NOT in Prenzlauer Berg, Friedrichshain, Mitte, or Kreuzberg, you will have to wait outside with slightly fewer feckless feckers.  Maybe only 10-20.

We were waiting outside the shabby, dreary-looking 1940s concrete slab down the road from Mauerpark.  The usual suspects gathered:  hipsters, students, Italians, Spaniards and Spanish-Italian hipster students.  The beady-eyed bald German appeared late as usual.  He led the group of 30 up the stairs and held out his arm.  If he says ‘Heil Fucklord!’ I will strangle him with his own belt and take his keys, I thought to myself.  He did not.  Instead he had us all wait in the stairwell while he showed people in one or two at a time.

This thing must be a tiny fucking shoebox!  Only 2 at a time can view it!  The first couple came out after only 2 minutes and the next pair was let in.  The first couple was grasping an application form in their sweaty hands.  They dropped to the ground in the stairs and started filling out the form.  By the time it was our turn to get into the flat, it was in fact a bit of a shoebox.  But there was no reason to keep us waiting; 7 or 8 could have easily fit inside at once.  But it is the Fucklord’s market in Berlin.  The Fucklord can arrive 30 minutes late and make 30 people sit in the stairs filling out paperwork while mumbling moo-hoo-ha-ha-haaaaaaaaaa under his fetid breath.

When I went to look at the living room I saw why there was a flat tour limit:  a pregnant woman sat on the couch watching television with a very sour look on her face.  I know, honey:  German tv is pretty scheisse.

I asked if we could submit the form online by email, and the beady-eyed Deutschbag smiled and shook his head.  “In the STAIRS!”  If we wanted it badly enough we would have to cop a squat, open up a vein and write it with our own blood.  Pens were not provided.  We decided we were through with this dog and pony show.  We told beady baldy that we would not be sitting in any fucking stairs to apply for any fucking shitbox for any over-inflated price. On the way down the stairs the usual suspects scrawled on their papers in the stairwell.  ‘What do I put here?’ one hipster asked.  ‘That’s your boss’s info’ said the other hipster.  I couldn’t get around them; even though they are skinny fucks in skinny jeans, side by side they are a minor roadblock.  As I tried to step over them, my boot hovered for a bit.  If I stepped too far too fast, my bum ankle would send me crashing down on the poor Italian couple below the hipsters.

My boot hung in the air.  I was tempted to put my size 13 right in the middle of the hipster’s application—or on his empty fucking skull.  One of the hipsters looked up and saw the impending danger.  They shimmied to the side just slightly and let me by.  Then they returned to their feverish scrawls.  They would get this flat. Oh yeah.

Sucking the Jelly Out of the Berliner

A provocative title indeed, one which suggests either:

A)  I've been too busy to post because I have embarked on a lucrative career in the Poor But Sexy city of Berlin, one which precludes any rants on counter culture and/or general annoyances on the lack of proper salsa for my boo ree toes.

B)  I've finally given up my creative dream and have begun a career of sucking.  Something or someone.

To answer those 23 of you who have followed my scratchings thusfar:

NONE OF THE ABOVE.

Still here, still doing The Thang, but less of it.  I did in fact suck down drei pfannkuchen mit kirsch last week; it was the first time in months.  Apparently I'm too fat.  My wife keeps telling me that.

Oh yeah!  I also got married on Thanksgiving Thursday, November 28, 2013 in Gibraltar.  I didn't pick that date.  They did.  We took it.  We're thankful.

Coming to the end of another apartment lease, I have to wonder:

A)  Has our time come?  Have the hipsters and yuppies/yummies finally got a stranglehold on all the available rentals left in Berlin?

B)  When you ask for a reason why you can't renew your lease, your landlord replies "It is a free market.  We can rent to whoever we choose," do you think there's some sort of underground conspiracy going on?

C)  Should I get medieval on some asses?

D)  Where's the next city/country/haven?

I don't care that they blame the hipsters and creatives for ruining Berlin.  Hell, I do the same damn thing on every other blog post.  I do a sticky-sweet donut post, then I do a sour, bitter rant to balance it out.  Maybe that too is a conspiracy; one which plans to lead my very few readers on a bittersweet up and down rollercoaster ride which ends in them clicking on the bipolar pill advert on the right.

Oh yeah, they kicked me off the ad program for foul language.  Well, at least I kept my fucking dignity.

I can't say much more except to say that someone has said it all before--and better--than my humble self.

One such example of How Things Got Fucked in Berlin:

http://thebaffler.com/past/sacking_berlin

Read it and weep.  Or come here and buy a fucking condo.  Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

db

Berlin Hipsters: Another Prick in The Wall

“Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.”

- urbandictionary.com

“Hipsters are a pretentious group of tiny little waiflike creatures (male and female) who dress the same, look the same and act the same—much like any other group of fashion victims.  Upper middle class white kid + liberal arts education + thrift store chic = DOUCHEBAG.”

- Dunkin’ Berliner

O hipster: shall I compare thee to a lump of shit?  Thine large glasses offend me; rip them off and stomp them!  Thou art dressed in skinny jeans which sag at the back!  Contradiction?  Juxtaposition?  Room to carry a load of dung when startled suddenly, timid creature?

I kept hearing the term ‘hipster’ bandied about in Berlin.  It took me a while to give a shit, since all I care about is Berliner jelly donuts and Berliner spaetis.  But then I heard that they are arriving in droves and driving up Berlin rents with their trust funds and ‘lofty’ real estate aesthetic.  So, looking for a new scapegoat for gentrification other than yuppies (who have lawyers, thus making it harder to perpetrate hate crimes with impunity), I decided to research and investigate this neo-nuisance with all the voracity of one who can devour 6 Berliner jelly donuts in one sitting and never even THINK of fitting into skinny jeans.

Classification of the creature Hipsteris Urbanitis is easy when beginning from the top down:

- Cap:  the hipster usually wears heavy wool winter caps that are two sizes too large.  When the temperatures surpass 80 F, the hipster’s movements slow to a crawl.  They often sit in parks with dull smirks on their faces as the burning sun and the thick wool slowly turn their lazy brains to mush.

- Eyewear:  the larger, thicker and blacker the glasses, the better; most of the time the glasses aren’t even prescription.  To a hipster, looking dorky is part of the fashion irony.  Perhaps they think that nobody will hit them if they wear glasses.  Heh.

- Beards:  often a hipster grows a beard to differentiate themselves from the gays and the metrosexuals, who merely have skinny bodies and perhaps only a thin Freddy Mercury moustache.  Hipster beards fall into one of two categories:  Category one: scraggly, unkempt and sparse.  The youngest, skinniest white kids aren’t often able to grow beards and therefore get an A for effort in this category. Category two: heavy, dense and long.  The jury is out on the reasons for this heinous hair growth on such a skinny creature.  Some say it is an ironic attempt at mimicking the hillbilly look.  Perhaps it is a throwback to the Ginsberg days.  Personally, I simply believe they are members of Al Qaeda.

- Smirk:  they think they are smarter, hipper and cooler than everyone else, so they generally are seen with the tiniest of smiles while walking down the street.  To the casual viewer, they may appear to be slightly mentally retarded.

- Torso:  hipsters are all about obscurity in the bands they worship (so I’ve read), so a common hipster t-shirt is adorned with crude artwork and band names like ‘Sonic Death Monkey,’ ‘Squirrel Bucket,’ ‘Trench Coat Weasels’ or ‘Temple of Pooh.’  Many of the band names on their ubiquitous iPods were formed by combining electric guitars, small, furry animals and common home and garden implements.

- Pants:  skinny jeans.  These tight jeans look spray painted onto the hipster’s scrawny frame—except for the ass end, which appears to sag way out of proportion with the rest of the ensemble.  Either they are wearing colostomy bags or they collectively suffer from Diminished Gluteal Syndrome.

- Shoes: don’t get me started. BRIGHT FUCKING ORANGE??? REALLY???

I once sat in a pub in Prague in the late 90s discussing how to tell the hookers from the ordinary Czech women.  The fad at the time was knee high leather boots, high heeled. The jury agreed that the hookers had stiletto heels on their boots; the ordinary Czech girls had blocky high heels.

I once sat in Mauerpark with a group of Germans and one Irish friend.  The German gushed guttural and nonsensical to me, but the word ‘hipster’ kept popping out of the mish mash.  They were pointing out the hipsters.  I was new to this game.  At that time EVERYONE who hung around Mauerpark was a feckless douche.  My damn self included.

Recently I saw an old acquaintance of mine at the Carnival of Cultures.  His previously-braided goatee had burst from its tether and bloomed into a wild and wooly spectacle of chin bush.  I cornered him and said ‘ARE YOU A FUCKING HIPSTER?’ pointing at his wild goat and horn rimmed glasses.  He countered with ‘No! You are!’ while pointing at my sparse, salt-and-pepper gray/black goat.  We took turns accusing each other of being hipsters and heaping bags of douche (in a friendly sort of way).

The word around the campfire is that hipsters don’t know they are hipsters (or won’t admit it), much in the way that serial killers and politicians tell themselves they are answering a ‘higher calling.’ As my psych prof called it, ‘sailing down that famous river in Egypt, Denial.’

Yes, I have black rimmed glasses.  They are not huge.  They are normal sized.  Yes, I have a goatee, but not a beard. And there is no fucking way I can fit my Vegas Elvis ass into skinny jeans.  My head sweats in winter if I wear a standard, garden variety skull cap.  Plus I’m twice the age of the average hipster.  Innocent, Yer Honor.

I still don’t know what the hipsters are up to.  They are probably just the most recent harmless manifestation of pretentious fashion victims who believe that they are iconoclastic when in fact they are doing the same damn thing everyone else born in their circumstances is doing.  They are rather skinny, timid and silent when I spot them.  No need to tear them apart, physically at least.

Unless I find out they are responsible for the rising rents in Berlin and/or gentrification in general.  Then I’m a goin’ huntin’.