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 !!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.'
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.
