The Return of Lo Fi

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...

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

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

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

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.