Vitamin D

Attack of the Killer Donuts!

It was only a matter of time...

 

Donut Worry, Be Happy

This Is The End

The desk fan goes whuppa whuppa whuppa in the humid Berlin bog.  I take my donuts in my left hand and prepare to leave the place where thousands have come and gone before.  I stuff them in my mouth, verily, one at a time, in remembrance of Berlin.  The thousands first, then the donuts.  I am voracious.

Where?  The Next.  The next cheap place where creative people go to piss about and throw fairy dust at the sky while waiting for the wrecking ball. We won't be assimilated.  There was a respectable time in human history wherein one could live and die in fields or coal mines.  Now there is only the sad promise of a sad cubicle in a sad office space.  Moving up?  Nosir.  Moving down.  Give me black lung disease, motherfucker.  At least my body will die before my brain.

The Next Place will have donuts.  Yes, they will be the death of me, but I choose a glorious, deep-fried, jelly-filled sugar coma.  Alcohol will be my anesthesiologist.  He's the only one I trust.  I will go there, to The Next Place, and start another blog.

Maybe it will be titled something like Notes of an Old Fart.  I'm pushing 50.  It would be a good time to give up the donuts and go for the laxatives.

This is the end, my friend.

But only of my life in Berlin.  In the past 20 years in England, Ireland, Czech Republic and Germany, it has always been a bit unsettling when The Big Change comes round. Then I settle in.  Then I move on.

There will be other lives in other cities.

Danke. Dankeverymuch.

A donut donation from The Honourable Husband at Deutschland über Elvis caused the Dunkin’ Berliner to buy a whole box of donuts, dress up like Elvis and stuff those tasty puppies into his Viva Las Vegas face.*  Buh-huh huh.

Achtung!  The following blog post contains excessive food porn. And Elvis impersonation.
You have been warned.

A well my hands are shaky
and my knees are weak,
I can't seem to stand on my own two feet,
Who do you thank when you have such luck?
Thanks, Honourable Husband (burp),
I’m all sugared up.

Buh-huh huh. Ooh. Yay-uh-yeeaaaaah, yeah!

I created a donate donut button (TOP RIGHT. Can you see it? Dontcha wanna press that puppy RIGHT NOW?) on this site.  That little hound dog takes PayPal and/or credit cards.  In the blog post introducing my donation button (called Blog Whore or something), I stated that “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.”  Or something like that.  I have received a few donut donations (mostly from my mommy, Thanks, ma!) over the years and I am very thankful that people care enough to reward this barely employed writer/photographer.

I’d like to up the ante and state here and now and for all to see:

Any and all blog donations will be met not only with the aforementioned fresh fury of feverish fluffery, but in addition, you, your name and your website will be named, thanked and linked.  Maybe even in that order.  And I will take photos of me stuffing the very donuts that YOU BOUGHT for me into my face.  I might even wear a costume.

Today’s thank you goes out to:

The Honourable Husband, whose blog Deutschland über Elvis is not really a blog about Elvis at all, much in the same way that my blog (JFKFC for the Masses) is not about Kentucky Fried chicken or JFK conspiracy theories.  I just like the mashup of JFK and KFC.  Waitaminit.  I started this paragraph thanking someone.  How did it get back to me?

Anywho, I’d like to thank the Honourable Husband for his kind blog donation of exactly enough money to buy a whole box of donuts.  You are a gentleman, a scholar and a cunning linguist.   (Ahem. At least when he talks about tits. ;)

 

In the immortal words of Private Elvis Presley stationed in Munich:

“Danke.  Dankeverymuch.”

Buy a sad Elvis impersonator a donut today; save an old lady from a purse snatching tomorrow.

-----

Elvis impersonator:  Me, aka Dunkin’ Berliner, aka Melvis.  Melvis is my karaoke stage name.  Buh-huh huh.

Costume:  Some Czech chick; probably named Jana or Petra (Hey, it was along time ago, man.  I forgot).

Photography:  Gabriela Sarževská

*Ok, I didn’t eat the whole box at once; whaddaya, nuts?  That could kill a Bull Moose elephant.  I divided the box into two 3-donut dances.  Oh yeah!

Every superhero has his origin story.

See my other blog, Wide Body Jetsetter for more Melvis action.

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

National Donut Day 2013: GIMME ONE!!!

Of course I chose to live in Europe, wherein they celebrate the weirdest of holidays.  Berlin, May 1: National Kreuzberg Car Burning Anarchy Day and Molotov Cocktail Olympics.  The night before that they burn witches in parks.  Hard to imagine there are any witches left.  The rest of the time they are celebrating some person or event nobody has cared about for 500 years.  Once it's on the calendar, it can't be taken off without burning more cars/witches and/or throwing more Molotovs.

I'm a pacifist.  Make donuts, not war.  Sure, the sugar of 3 or 4 juicy Berliner jelly donuts makes me as giddy as a schoolgirl, but I am a 6 foot 5 inch tall man (ubergrossenmensch for y'all Deutschers) and that would be funny to see.

THEY DON'T CELEBRATE NATIONAL DONUT DAY IN GERMANY.

Yes, I considered reaching for my pistol, but they took it at the airport.


The only thing left to do (other than inserting bullets manually into my head) is to beg.  That's right, I'm on my hands and knees ovah heah.  Gimme donuts.  There's this button on the top right that says DONATE!   Buy Me a Donut!

If you do that I will love you.  Long time.  And hurry, please.  My knees can't take kneeling much longer.

If you send me a donut donation, I will take a picture of myself stuffing donuts in my face holding a sign with your name and/or website on it.  Think of the power you could wield with one click!  If you DON'T help me out with a donut, a not-so-young man may wind up committing crimes for his fix.  And that's just ugly.

Hochlander Fünf: Die Hoffnung

Or “David Hasselhoff Returns to Berlin Lookin’ For Freedom”

Thank the tiki gods; the Hoff is on the case.  Just when all Berliners had lost hope, just when the Evil Capitalist Swine were about to tear down a protected (nod wink) historical monument, aka East Side Gallery—the Hoff swooped down from the sky like a hawk to save our dignity and maybe even our Berliner jelly donuts.

The man is all about dignity.  Sure, his hero’s cape is stained with (hamburgers, beer and puke) the excess of his slow decline into the dustbin of kitsch pop culture history. Yes, he talked to a car in a tv series.  Sure, he ran slo mo on fictitious beaches watching bouncing breasts as his mostly teen audience watched his bouncing belly.  Und jawohl! He sang in German on stage to throngs of squealing mädchens.  He also wore a sparkling lounge lizard suit at the Berlin Wall in 1989 and sang ‘Lookin’ For Freedom.’  And that’s all you need to know.

I’ll take any hero I can get.  Because the gentrification war is not being won by anyone but the Usual Suspects, Those Who Hold All the Cards: The Man.  I’ve read the comments on the news forums.  Nerdy lawyers types suggest that all property is for sale to the highest bidder—who have the right to do whatever they see fit with that property. On the other extreme, drugged out party kids want to have techno raves and free love on the former Death Strip behind the wall.  And the rest of us wonder just how in the fuck the status of a public historical monument can be sold for a few million to shortsighted investors.

I’m just going to come out and say it:  Berlin tourism ain’t all dat.  With the exception of a handful of architectural pieces of antiquity and a few trendy neighborhoods, Berlin is just a vast expanse of disco dance floor space waiting to be filled with a vast expanse of empty heads looking to bob those heads in/on ecstasy.  These poor but sexy kids dance the night away while their parents sell the few meager scraps of heritage left.

The excitement of an ever-changing, culturally evolving city is quashed and quelled by simple, stupid, base profit motive.  The East Side Gallery / Berlin Wall monument is number 2 on the list of tourist attractions.  Brandenburg Gate is number 1.  I don’t even know what the others are, there are so few left.  War razed Berlin, developers raped Berlin.  High rise luxury condos in Berlin are about as out of place as high rise luxury apartments in Warsaw. The end most certainly does not justify the fucking means.  And the mean fucks are fucking Berlin. Meanly.

An aging icon girds loins for war.  Stained and stigmatized, our icon finds renewed hoffnung (hope) decades after the shame, the derision and the controversy.  The icon has been cleaned up, propped up and presented to the masses. Some want to forget the aging icon and bury all associated memories at the end of its heyday in the 80s.

But the Hoff and the Berlin Wall are still standing.  For now.

UPDATE: The fuckers managed to steal (for it is theft clear and simple) 3 more sections from the wall before I could write and upload this story.  Either I need to speed up or developers need to slow the fuck down.

De-whored by Google

Google AdSense Threatens Dunkin' Berliner, Gets the Sticky Finger

I have de-whored myself.  I've cleaned up my act and will no longer be showing ads on my blog.  You may go ahead and scroll down my large, ample, glazed body of work to see that I am free of all ads, crabs and STDs.  Not because after only one year displaying zillions of ads I got only 7 dollars, not because I have no Ho Sense, but because they sent me a threatening email.  Bitches:

Hello,

During a recent review of your account we found that you are currently displaying Google ads in a manner that is not compliant with our program policies:http://dunkinberliner.blogspot.com/search/label/Confused%20Berlin%20kids

VIOLATION(S) FOUND: ADULT/EXPLICIT TEXT: As stated in our program policies, AdSense publishers are not permitted to place Google ads on pages with adult or mature content, including sexually explicit text.REQUESTED ACTION: Please make all necessary changes in the next 72 hours. If the violations are corrected within the aforementioned time period, ad serving will not be affected. If changes are not made and/or other policy violations are encountered during the review process, ad serving will be disabled to your site.

YOU CAN’T FIRE ME, I QUIT!!!

Google, you can take your seven bucks and change and
cram it right up yer cyber-pooper!

I wonder how many millions of bux these fux made by serving ads on peep’s blogz for years, then, oh, gee, my o my, gosh darn it, YEARS later find an F word or two.  It’s a scam.  The exact same kind The Rich have been pouring down the gullets of We Poor for eons.  How do I know it’s a scam?  Because Google crawlers cache results after a few months, then you can find me in 0.03 seconds if you don’t have a 56k modem.  I know this because I look at the charts.  No, really.  I have WAY too much time on my hands.
So now I've disabled the ads, thrown away my potential for pennies.  I won't change my content for anyone; kinda defeats the purpose of having a blog if I can't drop F bombs every time I have a brain fart.  If that's the case, I might as well get an internship writer's job at a weekly Amish newspaper (printed by hand, no machines).  So this old whore is hanging up the high heels, getting off the ad crack, saying goodbye to his Google pimp.  You won't see me peddling my ass for pennies and pizza delivery any longer.  I'm now an uptown ho, a right proper call girl.  The only way you can pay me is to click the Exclusive 'donate donut' button at the top right of this blog.  I'm more discreet, no more random ads peddling their wares on MY street corner of cyberspace—but I'm still a relatively cheap ho.  I mean, how much can a donut donation cost?

The Sum Total of Human Knowledge on Strike

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

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

Dunkin' Berliner is a Big Fat Whore

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

Eating Berliners in Grand Style

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?

Famous Donut Munchers

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

Douchebags and Donuts: A Little Leary

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!”

Habituation

"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

db

Breakfast of Champions

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 !!!!

I KNEW Angie Was a Donut Muncher...

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

One Year as a Berliner Jelly Donut

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.

BUY ME A DONUT!

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 top 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!