Da sitze ich also, in der neuen Campusbibliothek. Meine Vorurteile waren ebenso groß wie es jetzt Überraschung und Enttäuschung sind.
Man hat mich, man hat uns aus dem Schoß, aus dem tiefsten Inneren der Albertina herausgerissen. Die Abteilungen KMW, Informatik, Mathematik und BWL ziehen in die „Campus“-Bibliothek. Wo zur Hölle ist dabei die wissenschaftliche und soziale, wo ist die optische Schnittmenge zwischen uns und den zwanghaft masturbierenden Unterhemdenträgern der Mathematik oder Informatik? Was haben wir mit den promiskuitiven Koksschlampen der BWL zu schaffen?
Welches kranke Hirn denkt sich so etwas aus?! Wer zwängt uns Geisteswissenschaftler zwischen diese Zahlen-Freaks?! Das ist wie bei „Einer flog über das Kuckucksnest“ und wir sind Jack Nicholson.
Wenn ich ein englisches Buch brauche, muss ich zur Albertina fahren, brauche ich ein „Werk“ der Soziologie, fahre ich in die Albertina. Brauche ich etwas aus der Germanistik, Literatur oder Politik – ich muss zur Albertina. Hätte die Vorsehung in Gestalt der Planungskommision nicht einen anderen Autistenstudiengang hier unterbringen können? Biologie, Maschinenbau, Diplom-Perversion?
Das Gute ist, ich kann mich nun in meiner kleinen Miniwelt aus Seminargebäude, Mensa und KMW-Bibliothek bewegen. Mit viel gutem Willen und dem zu Tode gepflasterten Innenhof könnte man sogar von einem Campus sprechen. Außerdem hat diese Bibliothek 24/7 geöffnet. Ich brauche keine Wohnung, ich lese einfach mehr!
Doch, welcher soziophobe Naziabschaum zeichnet nur für die Innengestaltung verantwortlich? Wie kann man eine Bibliothek nur so verbauen?! Das Gebäude gibt doch so viel mehr her. Gerade jetzt schaue ich durch die großen Frontfenster direkt auf die Moritzbastei. Hier möchte ich in Ruhe lesen, wenn gegenüber Wollpullover tragende Indipendent-„Künstler“ meinen open air spielen zu müssen.
Die Leseplätze sind wie Schulbänke angeordnet: hintereinander. Aber nicht etwa in der Art, dass man den „Saal“ oder die Zugänge überblicken könnte. Nein! Man sitzt da, wie Schäfchen in der Schlachtbank-Schule, ohne eine Ahnung, was hinter einem passiert, oder was die Blonde hinter mir trägt. Feng Shui oder ein gesunder Menschenverstand gelten hier nichts – sobald die Tür aufgeht, habe ich entweder einen Nackenkrampf, oder der Säbelzahntiger hat mich am Arsch. Die Tische sind zu niedrig, und die Stühle lassen sich nur schlecht verrücken, wenn ich mich ausstrecken will, komme ich räumlich an meine Grenzen. Es scheint, als wäre das gesamte Interieur von soziophoben Asiaten für ganz kleine oder gelenkige Asiaten gebaut worden. Ahhhh! Meine Universität wird übernommen von taschenrechnerkauenden Über-Chinesen! Armlehnen fehlen auch, und die Tischkante schneidete böse in die Ellenbögen ein. Im Bereich der verschärften Verhörmethoden spricht man von Stresspositionen. Hier nennt man es modernes Ambiente. Dafür kann man kippeln. Das Arbeitslicht beleuchtet die Tastatur anstatt das Buch, und die Kante der eingelassenen Kunststoffarbeitsfläche schubbert mir gerade die Haut ab. Selbst unter trockensten Konditionen hinterlässt man glänzende Schweißflecken auf diesem PVC-Traum in ziegelrot.
Welches faschistoide Drecksarschloch hat nur die Innenräume getaltet?! Fest steht nur eines, er wohnt noch bei Mutti und hatte nie eine Freundin. Mit Sicherheit hatte er auch nie das Vergnügen den Lesesaal einer Universität während seines Faschistologie-Studiums zu besuchen. Der gesamte Lesesaal (der KMW – in die Spinnersäle habe ich nicht geschaut) ist ein einziges großes Verhütungsmittel. Nur pure Bosheit und blanker Hass auf jeden zeugungsfähigen Menschen können ein derart kontakt-unfreundliches Umfeld hervorbringen. Es ist unmöglich, durch den gesamten Saal zu flirten. Nicht nur, dass man wie in einem Gefangenentransport hintereinander sitzt, und der Blickkontakt damit ausscheidet, nein, auch zur Seite hin hat dieses vom Wahn zerfressene Arschloch bauchnabelhohe Sichtschutzwände in allerdeutschester Eiche-hell Optik verbauen lassen. Im Sitzen sehe ich gerade mal die anscheinend immer noch nicht aus den Köpfen der Innenarchitekten getilgten Käseloch-Decken.
Der sogenannte Kommunikationsbereich wirkt in diesem Zusammenhang wie ein anthroposophischer Zynismus. Tanz deinen Namen, aber wenn du dich bewegst, hack´ ich deine Füße ab! Was nützt uns, was nützt mir diese gemütliche Ecke mit bequemen Sofas und plüschigen Hockern? Was nützt mir diese Ecke, auf der man sich – eingedenk der 24h Öffnungszeiten – mit so mancher Journalistin ausgiebigst vergnügen könnte, wenn die gesamte Gestaltung des Innenraumes einfach nur absolut kontakt-, kommunikations- und flirtfeindlich ist?!
Ich mag das Klopapier nicht, dass sie hier haben.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
On the 25th London-Fashion-Week
Some real cool introduction.
Pro: Polka-Dots are the new black
Contra: Cleavage is totally over
Enormous shoulders are back, aint I look hip (as you can see)?!
Pro: Polka-Dots are the new black
Contra: Cleavage is totally over
Enormous shoulders are back, aint I look hip (as you can see)?!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Der Demokratie wurde Genüge getan
Leipzig – 8:00
Eigentlich wollte ich vor dem Wahllokal stehen und feststellen „Meine Uhr geht 2 Minuten vor.“ Aber ich schlafe – auf dem Bauch.
Leipzig - 10: irgendwas
Der Bedeutung dieser historischen Wahl trage ich mit einer Krawatte unter einem sauberen Hemdkragen Rechnung. Das Wahllokal ist voller Rentner. Magenkranke Graukappen verstopfen die Gänge mit ihren Gehhilfen.
Hinter dem 3-flügeligen Papp-Paravent öffne ich ein Bier. „Shit!“ Es suppt.
Die Kreuze sind rasch gemacht, ich packe den Flaschenöffner ein und ein übelstes Grinsen aus.
Mit einem offenen Bier in der Hand schreite ich die Parade wahlhelfender Staatsbediensteter ab. In ihren Augen erblicke ich Anflüge von Fassungslosigkeit und Entsetzen. Nur der Mann an der Wahlurne – an seiner Brille erkennt man seinen bildungsbürgerlichen Anspruch – scheint meine Idee und meine damit einhergehende Verachtung des Politikbetriebs zu begreifen.
Mit einem offenen Bier in der Hand wandele ich hinter magenkranken Rentnern durch die Flure einer Schule. Die Sonne strahlt, ich stelle mich an die Treppe, lasse meinen Blick abschätzig über die versammelten Kohorten CDU-wählender Stützstrumpfträger schweifen. Mit einer Mischung aus Demenz und „Diese Jugend heutzutage!“ blickt man auf den trinkenden Jüngling.
Ihr nehmt die Wahl doch alle ernst! Aber ich muss in der von Euch gewählten Zukunft leben, während Ihr längst verrottet! Ihr nehmt die Wahl doch alle ernst, und macht Euch zum Gespött der Politiker.
Eigentlich wollte ich vor dem Wahllokal stehen und feststellen „Meine Uhr geht 2 Minuten vor.“ Aber ich schlafe – auf dem Bauch.
Leipzig - 10: irgendwas
Der Bedeutung dieser historischen Wahl trage ich mit einer Krawatte unter einem sauberen Hemdkragen Rechnung. Das Wahllokal ist voller Rentner. Magenkranke Graukappen verstopfen die Gänge mit ihren Gehhilfen.
Hinter dem 3-flügeligen Papp-Paravent öffne ich ein Bier. „Shit!“ Es suppt.
Die Kreuze sind rasch gemacht, ich packe den Flaschenöffner ein und ein übelstes Grinsen aus.
Mit einem offenen Bier in der Hand schreite ich die Parade wahlhelfender Staatsbediensteter ab. In ihren Augen erblicke ich Anflüge von Fassungslosigkeit und Entsetzen. Nur der Mann an der Wahlurne – an seiner Brille erkennt man seinen bildungsbürgerlichen Anspruch – scheint meine Idee und meine damit einhergehende Verachtung des Politikbetriebs zu begreifen.
Mit einem offenen Bier in der Hand wandele ich hinter magenkranken Rentnern durch die Flure einer Schule. Die Sonne strahlt, ich stelle mich an die Treppe, lasse meinen Blick abschätzig über die versammelten Kohorten CDU-wählender Stützstrumpfträger schweifen. Mit einer Mischung aus Demenz und „Diese Jugend heutzutage!“ blickt man auf den trinkenden Jüngling.
Ihr nehmt die Wahl doch alle ernst! Aber ich muss in der von Euch gewählten Zukunft leben, während Ihr längst verrottet! Ihr nehmt die Wahl doch alle ernst, und macht Euch zum Gespött der Politiker.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Pre/ Pro Life
Just to get in the right mood...
Guardian 7/10:
Guardian 7/10:
While it's true that men are most directly responsible for warfare (which is horrible), women are most directly responsible for human overpopulation (which is even more horrible). "Octomom" is an entirely female phenomenon. Billions of women on this planet want nothing more than to make babies no matter how overcrowded and environmentally stressed the planet continues to become. And now this "journalist" is cheering new technologies straight out of Octomom's wildest fantasies. Testosterone can create madmen. Equally, oestrogen can create madwomen.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
été
French for: 1st) summer; 2nd) (have) been
I.) Let´s start with a funeral
II.) Retirement
III.) Retardation
IV.) Resurrection
Let´s start with a funeral.
For the first time in 14 years I had a dinner with my parents and my sister –my core family. And, like 14 years before, nothing has changed, me and my sister were fighting the whole evening, my parents didn´t even have a chance to say a word. It was mostly about politics and campaigning for the upcoming elections. My sister is pretty bright, maybe smarter than myself, shit, she did her law exam after 9 semesters and I´m still stuck in the basic courses. She attends debating classes, is member of a debating society and takes part in contests. But, nevertheless, when it comes to me, she is not capable to make a point. She is my verbal proofing ground, if I can take her, I can take everyone.
She tried to keep the discussion in a “They (CDU) make bad politics” way, hence I tried to convince her that “they” do pretty good PR. “Kannst du mal bitte deine scheiß-arrogante Art lassen?!” My parents were kind of pissed.
The next morning: I woke up, didn´t even have my first espresso, when I´m telling my sister about my party-text. Imagine me in top-form, without coffee. She gets angry, leaves the kitchen. And when she closes the door I yell “Fascist!” Baaaam! The door opens, and a tomato-coloured head is to be seen, yelling: “Willst du ne Anzeige wegen Beleidigung?!” I feel a grin on my face. Now, she is done. I plead on freedom of speech, and as I put it to her, it´s not an insult, because fascist is an objective description, so in a worst case, it´s a libel. She is not only pissed, she is mad, a 75 kilo of wrath, anger and pure hatred. I point out that she is the one, who behaves antidemocratic by impeding the free exchange of opinions. Now, she is only a gibbering wreck, not able to form even one decent sentence. In less than five minutes I ruined her day. Yeah! On the way to the funeral, my father forbids me to speak even a single word, just to calm down my sister.
At the cemetry, it was stunning to see my whole family, everyone except my two great-cousins with Down syndrome. All by the name of Angermann. I understand the ritual of burying someone and I know that - for certain people - such a ritual is important. But to me it meant nothing. I thought, at least I would cry at the funeral, but I just saw my family in tears. Not really a nice view.
They played horrible easy listening from some creepy kind of “Kuschelrock” CD. I just saw the coffin, it meant nothing. For me, my beloved great grandmother is long gone, and that’s just a wooden box with a lump of old meat in it. Nothing I care about.
I decided to get a gay actor for my funeral speech, reading the “high-water-mark”-piece by H.S. Thompson. Why a gay actor? Well, a female voice wouldn´t work the way I want it, and there is no such thing like a straight male actor (except of Daniel Craig). The “thing” doing the speech on my grandma´s funeral was a bad joke of Mother Nature. She was a creep with a horse´s head and the talent and understanding of an accountant. Her pronunciation and melody were terribly bad, it sucked.
My grandma has a nice grave facing a tree, in the sun. She would have liked it.
The strange thing about seeing the whole family united is, in fact, that my sister and I are in some atavistic and overcome way the last hope of our family. When I was 16, my grandfather was afraid that I might be a faggot. Theodor Storm put it this way: in the third generation, the meat is becoming weak. My grand cousins are either gay or retarded, so, there are no children to expect. One of my uncles is father to a step-daughter and two slightly-retarded girls; my other uncle is gay too. So, in my generation there are only me and my sister. In my grandfather’s point-of-view, women have to take the name of her husbands. So, I am his last chance to assure another generation of Angermann. That’s a kind of implicit pressure, but I´m sure my sis is too sophisticated and aware of her status to lose her name.
So I am free to fuck up.
Retirement
My uncle and his husband were on vacation in Germany, when my grandma’s death occurred. They invited me to spend a few days down in Helvetia. After 5 months permanent working without rest, after weeks, and months of coffee-abuse and stuff, after my Italy trip had to be skipped work wise, I needed a break.
The last months I tried so hard to keep up my pace, that it took me days to slow down and to do nothing more than eat, sleep and take naps. Whenever I woke up, I could walk downstairs and Chrigus mother feed me with cake, sandwiches, cookies and gallons of Ovo. Oh good ole Ovomaltine. Without any decent ride (ICE: no bikes allowed) I spent most of my days lying somewhere in the garden reading (Clifford Geertz, Helmut Schelsky, Iris Bahr). After enjoying Geertz´ anthropology about Micronesian societies, I thought it would be a clever move to blend in with the local gay community. In other ways one can say, my uncles took me to their “Stammtisch”.
I felt like these crazy woman – Jane Goodall - who spent most of her life with chimps. But mine were less hairy. It is important to draw some knowledge out of them, until there are no more gays. The good thing is, all of them knew that I´m “normal” and my ass stays virgin. So I could stand easy. It´s like sitting in a room full of blokes: you feel free, you don´t mind anything, if you feel like sitting there in underwear, you do, if it itches you scratch, if you want to make jokes about faggots, go ahead. I felt comfortable (except, that all of them had manicured fingernails). I confronted them with my (splendid) idea for rent-a-gay. Not the callboy thing, it´s about. “Hmm, which tie should I wear to these shoes…?” “We need a gay!”
I am afraid of these unfriendly shop assistants, these teenage-women-in-their-thirties. I don’t want to ask them, if these particular pants fit my leptosome physiognomy. So, in this case, every reasonable man needs a gay to tell him: “Gosh, you look gorgeous!”
After some more weird gibberish (mostly from my side) it led us to a discussion about men´s bottoms. Damn! Never ever I´ve imagined that I would be involved in something like that. Although, I see myself as an dedicated expert on women´s bottoms, quite a master in this general area; I have no idea, what suits the back end of a man. When I´ve been told few weeks before, that I have a nice one, I just answered “I use it mostly for scratching.” So, imagine me, in the middle of ten cock-sucking, butt-fucking, huge quantities of moisturizer using people, debating about the part of a male body I care least. Think, I like mojitos.
Not far from Schaan, where my uncles live, there is Bregenz. A town mostly known for its “Seebühne”: a technical masterpiece. Instead of letting down the curtains, they move parts of the stage, it´s like a high-brow version of Transformers. This season, they play Giuseppe Verdi´s Aida, and we went there. It was awesome. The stage within the lake, 40 or somewhat actors, fireworks, great acoustic. With the distance, with all the actors mere confusion was spreading. But never mind, actors are worth shit. We came to listen to Verdi´s music, not to watch bulimic fags. I checked: for students, the cheapest ticket is only 8€! Can you dig it?! Imagine an 8€ ticket in the (public alimented) Semper Oper! Oh it was just so great, days later I was still totally aufgebürschtelt.
I like my uncles´ house, Chrigu, who used to work as an interior designer (now he is a postman!) decorated the whole thing. “My” bathroom is covered with James Dean postcards all over the place. Though, take the kitchen table, it looks as it would float. And they have a lay figure in their major bathroom, like a full size Barbie (all the important parts, no head).
Well, Switzerland – not really helpful in a war – but great fondue!
The last day of my trip into the land Ovo and Toblerone, I spent at an old friend´s of my parents in Bern. She is a hippie in the most euphemistic way one can imagine. I know her since way back, since I was a little ten-year-old and both of us (and my parents of course) spent our holidays on some hippie/LOHAS/no-caravans-allowed campsite in Hungary. She is an old school hardcore feminist, without being mean or a man hater. Not looking for weaken men, though empowering women. I told her about my “pro life/pro choice” idea. She didn´t get my point and get slightly angry. Though, I knew I was right, it didn´t bother me, and eventually she (hopefully) understood what I was up to. (Text is coming up next/ within few weeks/ months/ till March 2063).
And here is the thing: I stayed in her bedroom, while she was staying in her daughter’s. So, I had to check out her book rack. I found feminist “erotic” literature (better known as porn). Yeah! It is similar to Hustler-Magazine, but without pictures and a lot more text in it. I remember the discussion in the guardian/around British non shaving feminists about how porn oppresses women. But, although these particular books displayed strong, self conscious women: in the end they all want to get laid. Forty years of boy´s haircuts and violet bib-and-brace and this is the outflow?! Alas, these books weren´t even any good. Badly written, like the paperback version of some cheap 70s (male) hardcore porn. But fun anyway, now it strikes me, I have leverage against hard ass feminists. At least, I think so. (“Hey, I have read feminist porn! I know, you´re just an ugly cunt need to get laid!” Quite a cruel death…)
Retardation
Back at home, I couldn´t get back into my old habits, could not get back into my old work pace. I didn´t feel exhausted like the weeks or even months before, but I was 100% apathic. Felt like a vegetable (but some cool vegetable like carrots or snails). The best thing I did was to buy a sheep, more exactly half of a sheep. It´s more like a sponsorship (Patenschaft vs. Patenschaf), and when it comes to slaughterization, I either get the meat, or they pay me out. I like the thought of having absolute power over (50% of) a living being. Or maybe I just like organic lamb chops. But until now, it´s just a fluffy lawn mower.
Friends of mine came to L.E. to spend me a visit and do some serious biking.
Doctors say, when it´s hot, don´t do sports outside in the high noon, drink plenty, but no alcohol or sugared beverages, stay out of sun. Of course, they are all wrong. We went in the brutally burning sun through L.E. towards a secret bike-spot. Like a 12-year-old I attacked my mates at any single ramp, just to achieve the “virtual” Mountains-classification. Pretty stupid, eh? At the spot, we all had a nice cold beer - due to dehydration.
Later the day, we went to a near lake to do some “swimming”. One cannot imagine the picture B. and I sitting in the water up to the neck, a beer in hand, screaming like mad when G. came in. “Die Wellen, die Wellen! Scheiße ist das kalt!” If there is a world´s greatest sissy award, we definitely had won it. Out of the water, I got cramps in both of my legs. Maybe, the doctors were right? No! Since we had a death-brutal-no-sense-at-all-absolute-stupid time-trial back home. Drafting all the way back. G. was so tired, he couldn´t do any of the pacing. On every single steep ramp, I attacked out of B.´s slipstream, to gain more “points” for my Mountains-classification. They were not able to counterattack, bitches. Due to I am actually an altruist, I did some pace work for G, therefore he was too tired to close the gaps by himself. Did I mention that I still had cramps? Back home, we all were in need of some magnesium and ASS. It didn´t make sense at all, wasn´t necessary and from a medical point of view kind of unhealthy. Though, we were gorgeous, technically and tactically perfect! In the evening, we were already fit again to hit the streets.
Resurrection
If there is any season I enjoy most, it must be late summer. I love the colours, the light, the smell, the tepid air. It´s like an orange sepia dream of promise and last chances. It´s like a last burst of beauty until the year is going to die. I like sitting outside of cafés and bars. Walking along the streets of my beloved Neustadt.
Two weeks, ago, on a Thursday evening, M. and I went through our old quarter, sipping Carlsberg. Next to the Kecha, there was a gypsy/folk/treehugger/whatever band, playing handmade music. Maybe fifty people stood around, listening and having a good time. There was one of these rare moments when everything seems to be in perfect harmony, when everything seems to fit. Quite peacefully. Fucking LOHAS, wannabe punks, Yuppies, girls, and even three bums were enjoying the moment, having a great eve. I like the thought, that these poor homeless/whatever beings did not have many of these moments, and I like the fact that in this particular moment, at this particular place everybody was equal, even these poor guys. This is what Neustadt was once famous for. A sixpack (police car) drove by, they looked what was happening, and went off. The band was playing some Spanish stuff, with sax. All their payment was the joy of the people. They had a Spanish looking guitar-player, M. and I agreed that Spanish guitar players, no matter how bad they are looking, can get every girl. And so we decided to hate him eagerly.
Last weekend, Krupka-deathride-from-Mars upcoming, I had to make it up to my friends. Somewhen in July I decided to quit drinking. Not, that I pushed it too hard, but I was concerned. The nasty outflow was, that I had been in a pretty fucked up mood, when M.s birthday party came up. I did nothing wrong, but I felt somehow guilty in a strange way. So, I took M. and M. to a bar in - guess where - Neustadt!
When I, when we lived there, I came along this bar at least twice a day. I am now living in L.E. for almost four years and this bar is still open. What, in terms of Neustadt-locations is kind of a miracle. Though, we never went there. M. and I wanted a cozy place, something with club-chairs and sofas. Eventually, after all these years, we made our way to the “Wohnzimmer”. Damn, were we stupid, this is exactly that kind of place I am always looking for. Nice atmosphere and wallpapers, reasonable (not cheap) prices and cozy furniture.
M. and I were debating all evening about the pro´s and con´s of our couch in comparison to the one on the other side of the place. I think, the girls on it must have thought they were our topic, but it was all about the plushy meuble. I had one of my best chocolate milkshakes in my life, and one (!) state-of-the-art mojito. But, here´s a tricky one: try to look cool, going down the stairs whilst one is slightly drunk. Hell yeah! Remember? Only one! The poor taxi driver had to stand all of my gibberish. But enough…
Next day, we went to Krupka, doing some serious downhill-mountain biking. Shit, I even had my tires changed, my Moped was in best conditions, and so did I. Covered in my body amour, I looked like one of these Ninja-Turtles. German riders, on Czeck trails listening to Russian drum´n´bass – that´s globalization! Eventually, I ended up as a blue and black beaten lump of tree hugging, soil grinding, stone touching meat. In short: I missed a landing after a drop (by only one meter) and my right foot said: “Excuse me: Ouch!” Overstretched or something like that. Nothing serious, I can still walk, and I even was able to do some running on Sunday with M. Though, this bugger is still hurting today. But never mind, my only way right now is to Albertina and back home…(as you find covered in my “Stille”-pieces).
__________
Though, I just wanted to punch out some short notes about my summer and how I spent the last weeks. Just a few episodes. Nothing big. It seems to me, it got out of control… So for now, I will cease fire.
I.) Let´s start with a funeral
II.) Retirement
III.) Retardation
IV.) Resurrection
Let´s start with a funeral.
For the first time in 14 years I had a dinner with my parents and my sister –my core family. And, like 14 years before, nothing has changed, me and my sister were fighting the whole evening, my parents didn´t even have a chance to say a word. It was mostly about politics and campaigning for the upcoming elections. My sister is pretty bright, maybe smarter than myself, shit, she did her law exam after 9 semesters and I´m still stuck in the basic courses. She attends debating classes, is member of a debating society and takes part in contests. But, nevertheless, when it comes to me, she is not capable to make a point. She is my verbal proofing ground, if I can take her, I can take everyone.
She tried to keep the discussion in a “They (CDU) make bad politics” way, hence I tried to convince her that “they” do pretty good PR. “Kannst du mal bitte deine scheiß-arrogante Art lassen?!” My parents were kind of pissed.
The next morning: I woke up, didn´t even have my first espresso, when I´m telling my sister about my party-text. Imagine me in top-form, without coffee. She gets angry, leaves the kitchen. And when she closes the door I yell “Fascist!” Baaaam! The door opens, and a tomato-coloured head is to be seen, yelling: “Willst du ne Anzeige wegen Beleidigung?!” I feel a grin on my face. Now, she is done. I plead on freedom of speech, and as I put it to her, it´s not an insult, because fascist is an objective description, so in a worst case, it´s a libel. She is not only pissed, she is mad, a 75 kilo of wrath, anger and pure hatred. I point out that she is the one, who behaves antidemocratic by impeding the free exchange of opinions. Now, she is only a gibbering wreck, not able to form even one decent sentence. In less than five minutes I ruined her day. Yeah! On the way to the funeral, my father forbids me to speak even a single word, just to calm down my sister.
At the cemetry, it was stunning to see my whole family, everyone except my two great-cousins with Down syndrome. All by the name of Angermann. I understand the ritual of burying someone and I know that - for certain people - such a ritual is important. But to me it meant nothing. I thought, at least I would cry at the funeral, but I just saw my family in tears. Not really a nice view.
They played horrible easy listening from some creepy kind of “Kuschelrock” CD. I just saw the coffin, it meant nothing. For me, my beloved great grandmother is long gone, and that’s just a wooden box with a lump of old meat in it. Nothing I care about.
I decided to get a gay actor for my funeral speech, reading the “high-water-mark”-piece by H.S. Thompson. Why a gay actor? Well, a female voice wouldn´t work the way I want it, and there is no such thing like a straight male actor (except of Daniel Craig). The “thing” doing the speech on my grandma´s funeral was a bad joke of Mother Nature. She was a creep with a horse´s head and the talent and understanding of an accountant. Her pronunciation and melody were terribly bad, it sucked.
My grandma has a nice grave facing a tree, in the sun. She would have liked it.
The strange thing about seeing the whole family united is, in fact, that my sister and I are in some atavistic and overcome way the last hope of our family. When I was 16, my grandfather was afraid that I might be a faggot. Theodor Storm put it this way: in the third generation, the meat is becoming weak. My grand cousins are either gay or retarded, so, there are no children to expect. One of my uncles is father to a step-daughter and two slightly-retarded girls; my other uncle is gay too. So, in my generation there are only me and my sister. In my grandfather’s point-of-view, women have to take the name of her husbands. So, I am his last chance to assure another generation of Angermann. That’s a kind of implicit pressure, but I´m sure my sis is too sophisticated and aware of her status to lose her name.
So I am free to fuck up.
Retirement
My uncle and his husband were on vacation in Germany, when my grandma’s death occurred. They invited me to spend a few days down in Helvetia. After 5 months permanent working without rest, after weeks, and months of coffee-abuse and stuff, after my Italy trip had to be skipped work wise, I needed a break.
The last months I tried so hard to keep up my pace, that it took me days to slow down and to do nothing more than eat, sleep and take naps. Whenever I woke up, I could walk downstairs and Chrigus mother feed me with cake, sandwiches, cookies and gallons of Ovo. Oh good ole Ovomaltine. Without any decent ride (ICE: no bikes allowed) I spent most of my days lying somewhere in the garden reading (Clifford Geertz, Helmut Schelsky, Iris Bahr). After enjoying Geertz´ anthropology about Micronesian societies, I thought it would be a clever move to blend in with the local gay community. In other ways one can say, my uncles took me to their “Stammtisch”.
I felt like these crazy woman – Jane Goodall - who spent most of her life with chimps. But mine were less hairy. It is important to draw some knowledge out of them, until there are no more gays. The good thing is, all of them knew that I´m “normal” and my ass stays virgin. So I could stand easy. It´s like sitting in a room full of blokes: you feel free, you don´t mind anything, if you feel like sitting there in underwear, you do, if it itches you scratch, if you want to make jokes about faggots, go ahead. I felt comfortable (except, that all of them had manicured fingernails). I confronted them with my (splendid) idea for rent-a-gay. Not the callboy thing, it´s about. “Hmm, which tie should I wear to these shoes…?” “We need a gay!”
I am afraid of these unfriendly shop assistants, these teenage-women-in-their-thirties. I don’t want to ask them, if these particular pants fit my leptosome physiognomy. So, in this case, every reasonable man needs a gay to tell him: “Gosh, you look gorgeous!”
After some more weird gibberish (mostly from my side) it led us to a discussion about men´s bottoms. Damn! Never ever I´ve imagined that I would be involved in something like that. Although, I see myself as an dedicated expert on women´s bottoms, quite a master in this general area; I have no idea, what suits the back end of a man. When I´ve been told few weeks before, that I have a nice one, I just answered “I use it mostly for scratching.” So, imagine me, in the middle of ten cock-sucking, butt-fucking, huge quantities of moisturizer using people, debating about the part of a male body I care least. Think, I like mojitos.
Not far from Schaan, where my uncles live, there is Bregenz. A town mostly known for its “Seebühne”: a technical masterpiece. Instead of letting down the curtains, they move parts of the stage, it´s like a high-brow version of Transformers. This season, they play Giuseppe Verdi´s Aida, and we went there. It was awesome. The stage within the lake, 40 or somewhat actors, fireworks, great acoustic. With the distance, with all the actors mere confusion was spreading. But never mind, actors are worth shit. We came to listen to Verdi´s music, not to watch bulimic fags. I checked: for students, the cheapest ticket is only 8€! Can you dig it?! Imagine an 8€ ticket in the (public alimented) Semper Oper! Oh it was just so great, days later I was still totally aufgebürschtelt.
I like my uncles´ house, Chrigu, who used to work as an interior designer (now he is a postman!) decorated the whole thing. “My” bathroom is covered with James Dean postcards all over the place. Though, take the kitchen table, it looks as it would float. And they have a lay figure in their major bathroom, like a full size Barbie (all the important parts, no head).
Well, Switzerland – not really helpful in a war – but great fondue!
The last day of my trip into the land Ovo and Toblerone, I spent at an old friend´s of my parents in Bern. She is a hippie in the most euphemistic way one can imagine. I know her since way back, since I was a little ten-year-old and both of us (and my parents of course) spent our holidays on some hippie/LOHAS/no-caravans-allowed campsite in Hungary. She is an old school hardcore feminist, without being mean or a man hater. Not looking for weaken men, though empowering women. I told her about my “pro life/pro choice” idea. She didn´t get my point and get slightly angry. Though, I knew I was right, it didn´t bother me, and eventually she (hopefully) understood what I was up to. (Text is coming up next/ within few weeks/ months/ till March 2063).
And here is the thing: I stayed in her bedroom, while she was staying in her daughter’s. So, I had to check out her book rack. I found feminist “erotic” literature (better known as porn). Yeah! It is similar to Hustler-Magazine, but without pictures and a lot more text in it. I remember the discussion in the guardian/around British non shaving feminists about how porn oppresses women. But, although these particular books displayed strong, self conscious women: in the end they all want to get laid. Forty years of boy´s haircuts and violet bib-and-brace and this is the outflow?! Alas, these books weren´t even any good. Badly written, like the paperback version of some cheap 70s (male) hardcore porn. But fun anyway, now it strikes me, I have leverage against hard ass feminists. At least, I think so. (“Hey, I have read feminist porn! I know, you´re just an ugly cunt need to get laid!” Quite a cruel death…)
Retardation
Back at home, I couldn´t get back into my old habits, could not get back into my old work pace. I didn´t feel exhausted like the weeks or even months before, but I was 100% apathic. Felt like a vegetable (but some cool vegetable like carrots or snails). The best thing I did was to buy a sheep, more exactly half of a sheep. It´s more like a sponsorship (Patenschaft vs. Patenschaf), and when it comes to slaughterization, I either get the meat, or they pay me out. I like the thought of having absolute power over (50% of) a living being. Or maybe I just like organic lamb chops. But until now, it´s just a fluffy lawn mower.
Friends of mine came to L.E. to spend me a visit and do some serious biking.
Doctors say, when it´s hot, don´t do sports outside in the high noon, drink plenty, but no alcohol or sugared beverages, stay out of sun. Of course, they are all wrong. We went in the brutally burning sun through L.E. towards a secret bike-spot. Like a 12-year-old I attacked my mates at any single ramp, just to achieve the “virtual” Mountains-classification. Pretty stupid, eh? At the spot, we all had a nice cold beer - due to dehydration.
Later the day, we went to a near lake to do some “swimming”. One cannot imagine the picture B. and I sitting in the water up to the neck, a beer in hand, screaming like mad when G. came in. “Die Wellen, die Wellen! Scheiße ist das kalt!” If there is a world´s greatest sissy award, we definitely had won it. Out of the water, I got cramps in both of my legs. Maybe, the doctors were right? No! Since we had a death-brutal-no-sense-at-all-absolute-stupid time-trial back home. Drafting all the way back. G. was so tired, he couldn´t do any of the pacing. On every single steep ramp, I attacked out of B.´s slipstream, to gain more “points” for my Mountains-classification. They were not able to counterattack, bitches. Due to I am actually an altruist, I did some pace work for G, therefore he was too tired to close the gaps by himself. Did I mention that I still had cramps? Back home, we all were in need of some magnesium and ASS. It didn´t make sense at all, wasn´t necessary and from a medical point of view kind of unhealthy. Though, we were gorgeous, technically and tactically perfect! In the evening, we were already fit again to hit the streets.
Resurrection
If there is any season I enjoy most, it must be late summer. I love the colours, the light, the smell, the tepid air. It´s like an orange sepia dream of promise and last chances. It´s like a last burst of beauty until the year is going to die. I like sitting outside of cafés and bars. Walking along the streets of my beloved Neustadt.
Two weeks, ago, on a Thursday evening, M. and I went through our old quarter, sipping Carlsberg. Next to the Kecha, there was a gypsy/folk/treehugger/whatever band, playing handmade music. Maybe fifty people stood around, listening and having a good time. There was one of these rare moments when everything seems to be in perfect harmony, when everything seems to fit. Quite peacefully. Fucking LOHAS, wannabe punks, Yuppies, girls, and even three bums were enjoying the moment, having a great eve. I like the thought, that these poor homeless/whatever beings did not have many of these moments, and I like the fact that in this particular moment, at this particular place everybody was equal, even these poor guys. This is what Neustadt was once famous for. A sixpack (police car) drove by, they looked what was happening, and went off. The band was playing some Spanish stuff, with sax. All their payment was the joy of the people. They had a Spanish looking guitar-player, M. and I agreed that Spanish guitar players, no matter how bad they are looking, can get every girl. And so we decided to hate him eagerly.
Last weekend, Krupka-deathride-from-Mars upcoming, I had to make it up to my friends. Somewhen in July I decided to quit drinking. Not, that I pushed it too hard, but I was concerned. The nasty outflow was, that I had been in a pretty fucked up mood, when M.s birthday party came up. I did nothing wrong, but I felt somehow guilty in a strange way. So, I took M. and M. to a bar in - guess where - Neustadt!
When I, when we lived there, I came along this bar at least twice a day. I am now living in L.E. for almost four years and this bar is still open. What, in terms of Neustadt-locations is kind of a miracle. Though, we never went there. M. and I wanted a cozy place, something with club-chairs and sofas. Eventually, after all these years, we made our way to the “Wohnzimmer”. Damn, were we stupid, this is exactly that kind of place I am always looking for. Nice atmosphere and wallpapers, reasonable (not cheap) prices and cozy furniture.
M. and I were debating all evening about the pro´s and con´s of our couch in comparison to the one on the other side of the place. I think, the girls on it must have thought they were our topic, but it was all about the plushy meuble. I had one of my best chocolate milkshakes in my life, and one (!) state-of-the-art mojito. But, here´s a tricky one: try to look cool, going down the stairs whilst one is slightly drunk. Hell yeah! Remember? Only one! The poor taxi driver had to stand all of my gibberish. But enough…
Next day, we went to Krupka, doing some serious downhill-mountain biking. Shit, I even had my tires changed, my Moped was in best conditions, and so did I. Covered in my body amour, I looked like one of these Ninja-Turtles. German riders, on Czeck trails listening to Russian drum´n´bass – that´s globalization! Eventually, I ended up as a blue and black beaten lump of tree hugging, soil grinding, stone touching meat. In short: I missed a landing after a drop (by only one meter) and my right foot said: “Excuse me: Ouch!” Overstretched or something like that. Nothing serious, I can still walk, and I even was able to do some running on Sunday with M. Though, this bugger is still hurting today. But never mind, my only way right now is to Albertina and back home…(as you find covered in my “Stille”-pieces).
__________
Though, I just wanted to punch out some short notes about my summer and how I spent the last weeks. Just a few episodes. Nothing big. It seems to me, it got out of control… So for now, I will cease fire.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Rock macht schwul und vom Gitarre spielen fällt der Schwanz ab
Absolut eigentlich und total womöglich sollte das hier eingefügte Muzzzzikkk-Video in der Menü-Spalte zu finden sein. Aber die Vorsehung meinte es nicht gut mit mir: die Subline geriet zu lang.
Schon die Tatsache, dass ich diesen Track das erste mal hörte, während ich auf einem Friseurstuhl angeschnallt war (bei mir ist ´s nötig), sollte einem zu denken geben. Dass ich dieses Musikstück auf einer Plattform zur Vermarktung von Handyklingeltönen, Tampons und Clearasil (MTV) sah, rückt das Geschehene schon fast in den Bereich wild herbei assozierter Bilder vorangegangener Drogeneskapaden oder schierer Fiktion. Aber es ist wahr, MTV spielt auch Musik. Ich schwör! Fragt die Friseurette! (Sie versteht zwar kein Wort Deutsch, hat aber nen geilen Bauch.)
Das ganze Stück ist Pop, gut produzierter Pop, gut zu hörender Pop.
Wenn wir optimistisch sind, könnten wir annehmen, solche Tracks locken mehr Frauen auf gute Parties. (Gut im Sinne elektronischer Tanzmusik exklusive House). Aber ach, wir wissen wie das endet. Das übergewichtige Dreckstück von Gesangsauswurf hält sich mit einem Mal für eine „Künstlerin“. Wenn es gut läuft, landet ihr nächster Track auf Platz 86 der Charts. Doch wenn nicht, werden wir zugeknallt mit einer beschissenen Herz-Schmerz-Schmacht-Weichspül-Nummer nach der anderen, so miserabel produziert, dass nur Frauen sich den Scheiß anhören. „Aber die hat so ne tolle Stimme!“ mag frau einwenden (nicht aber die Schwulen, denn die haben Geschmack).
Singing is worth shit.
Vor Jahren, als ich in meiner ersten WG wohnte, saß ich nach der Schule mit Freunden bei mir und wir haben uns irgendeinen drum´n´bass-mix (das Santorin - Misision Tape) angehört. Einer, ein grobschlächtiger Bauer sanften Gemüts und passiver Naivität fragte: „Was singt der denn?“ und meinte mit „der“ den MC. Ich antwortete ihm, ich wisse es nicht, und außerdem wäre es scheißegal, weil es doch um die Musik geht! „Aber man muss doch wissen was der singt!“
Vocals are worth shit.
HipHop fing an mit Straßenparties zu denen einfach Platten im Freien gespielt wurden. Der DJ war der Held, der Musiker. Der MC war ein Hanswurst. HipHop-Musik wird heute von Producern gemacht, doch der Kasper auf dem Cover ist ein Rapper. Ohne den Rapper wäre die Musik immer noch da, ohne Musik im besten Falle noch ein sprachbegabter Lyriker. Das gilt für alle Musikrichtungen.
Lyrics are worth shit.
Ich habe einen Gabba-Track aus Rotterdam. Ein echt hammergeiles Stück, produziert von „Kale Vandalen“. Wir konnten nie so recht herausfinden, ob die Vocals nun „G.I.“ „Ski Heil“ oder „Sieg Heil“ lauteten. Ob es um „White powder“ oder „White power“ ging. Es gibt nur diese beiden Zeilen in dem Nazi-Track. Es ist mir scheißegal, die Musik klingt geil, und der Text hat damit nichts zu tun. Dumm nur, dass ich das hier weder posten noch verlinken kann, will ich doch keine Faschopropaganda machen.
Wenn „Texte“ so wichtig für die „Musik“ sind, warum sollte man Angst vor NPD-Schulhof-CDs haben? Wird Musik denn durch beschissene Texte schlecht?
Das gesamte Konzept von Weird Al Yankovic würde scheitern, wenn der Text, der Gesang etwas mit Musik zu tun hätten. Hätte John Lennon „Slaughter Your Friends“ gesungen, das Lied würde genauso funktionieren.
Wenn überhaupt, sind Vocals nur ein weiteres Instrument, eine weitere Spur auf dem Mischpult. Alles andere als notwendig, und absolut austauschbar. Ich mag gute MCs zu meinen DnB-Tracks, ich mag gute Stimmen als ein weiteres Instrument. Aber Gesang, Text oder gar Inhalt haben an sich keinen Mehrwert für die Musik.
Schön „Miss Platnum“ singt fehlerfrei und vermag den Ton zu halten, es tut nicht weh. Aber letztlich füllt ihr Geträller nur die Pausen zwischen den geilen Parts (ab Minute 1:00 und 2:10). Sie hat die Musik nicht produziert, sie ist ein Instrument, eine fette Geige. Und ja, ich habe gerade eine Frau zum Objekt degradiert. Fühle mich gut. Betet zu einer höheren Entität, dass sie ein One-Hit-Wonder bleibt.
Schon die Tatsache, dass ich diesen Track das erste mal hörte, während ich auf einem Friseurstuhl angeschnallt war (bei mir ist ´s nötig), sollte einem zu denken geben. Dass ich dieses Musikstück auf einer Plattform zur Vermarktung von Handyklingeltönen, Tampons und Clearasil (MTV) sah, rückt das Geschehene schon fast in den Bereich wild herbei assozierter Bilder vorangegangener Drogeneskapaden oder schierer Fiktion. Aber es ist wahr, MTV spielt auch Musik. Ich schwör! Fragt die Friseurette! (Sie versteht zwar kein Wort Deutsch, hat aber nen geilen Bauch.)
Das ganze Stück ist Pop, gut produzierter Pop, gut zu hörender Pop.
Wenn wir optimistisch sind, könnten wir annehmen, solche Tracks locken mehr Frauen auf gute Parties. (Gut im Sinne elektronischer Tanzmusik exklusive House). Aber ach, wir wissen wie das endet. Das übergewichtige Dreckstück von Gesangsauswurf hält sich mit einem Mal für eine „Künstlerin“. Wenn es gut läuft, landet ihr nächster Track auf Platz 86 der Charts. Doch wenn nicht, werden wir zugeknallt mit einer beschissenen Herz-Schmerz-Schmacht-Weichspül-Nummer nach der anderen, so miserabel produziert, dass nur Frauen sich den Scheiß anhören. „Aber die hat so ne tolle Stimme!“ mag frau einwenden (nicht aber die Schwulen, denn die haben Geschmack).
Singing is worth shit.
Vor Jahren, als ich in meiner ersten WG wohnte, saß ich nach der Schule mit Freunden bei mir und wir haben uns irgendeinen drum´n´bass-mix (das Santorin - Misision Tape) angehört. Einer, ein grobschlächtiger Bauer sanften Gemüts und passiver Naivität fragte: „Was singt der denn?“ und meinte mit „der“ den MC. Ich antwortete ihm, ich wisse es nicht, und außerdem wäre es scheißegal, weil es doch um die Musik geht! „Aber man muss doch wissen was der singt!“
Vocals are worth shit.
HipHop fing an mit Straßenparties zu denen einfach Platten im Freien gespielt wurden. Der DJ war der Held, der Musiker. Der MC war ein Hanswurst. HipHop-Musik wird heute von Producern gemacht, doch der Kasper auf dem Cover ist ein Rapper. Ohne den Rapper wäre die Musik immer noch da, ohne Musik im besten Falle noch ein sprachbegabter Lyriker. Das gilt für alle Musikrichtungen.
Lyrics are worth shit.
Ich habe einen Gabba-Track aus Rotterdam. Ein echt hammergeiles Stück, produziert von „Kale Vandalen“. Wir konnten nie so recht herausfinden, ob die Vocals nun „G.I.“ „Ski Heil“ oder „Sieg Heil“ lauteten. Ob es um „White powder“ oder „White power“ ging. Es gibt nur diese beiden Zeilen in dem Nazi-Track. Es ist mir scheißegal, die Musik klingt geil, und der Text hat damit nichts zu tun. Dumm nur, dass ich das hier weder posten noch verlinken kann, will ich doch keine Faschopropaganda machen.
Wenn „Texte“ so wichtig für die „Musik“ sind, warum sollte man Angst vor NPD-Schulhof-CDs haben? Wird Musik denn durch beschissene Texte schlecht?
Das gesamte Konzept von Weird Al Yankovic würde scheitern, wenn der Text, der Gesang etwas mit Musik zu tun hätten. Hätte John Lennon „Slaughter Your Friends“ gesungen, das Lied würde genauso funktionieren.
Wenn überhaupt, sind Vocals nur ein weiteres Instrument, eine weitere Spur auf dem Mischpult. Alles andere als notwendig, und absolut austauschbar. Ich mag gute MCs zu meinen DnB-Tracks, ich mag gute Stimmen als ein weiteres Instrument. Aber Gesang, Text oder gar Inhalt haben an sich keinen Mehrwert für die Musik.
Schön „Miss Platnum“ singt fehlerfrei und vermag den Ton zu halten, es tut nicht weh. Aber letztlich füllt ihr Geträller nur die Pausen zwischen den geilen Parts (ab Minute 1:00 und 2:10). Sie hat die Musik nicht produziert, sie ist ein Instrument, eine fette Geige. Und ja, ich habe gerade eine Frau zum Objekt degradiert. Fühle mich gut. Betet zu einer höheren Entität, dass sie ein One-Hit-Wonder bleibt.
Friday, September 4, 2009
arte
...und ich Depp bin im Nachbarland biken.
Könnt ich doch nur vor dem Fernseher sitzen.
Großes Kino - 24 Stunden - eine Doku
Könnt ich doch nur vor dem Fernseher sitzen.
Großes Kino - 24 Stunden - eine Doku
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Das Präteritum schlägt zurück
Infinitiv
schlonzen
regelmäßiges Verb, Wortstamm: schlonz - ...
gebildet mit dem Indefinitpronomen: „etwas“
alltagssprachlich, umgangssprachlich für Wasserpfeife rauchen
Synonym zu „schlotzen“, wird ebenso gebildet
Präsens
Ich schlonze
Du schlonzt
Er/sie/es schlonzt
Wir schlonzen
Ihr schlonzt
Sie schlonzen
Perfekt
Ich habe geschlonzt
Präteritum
Ich schlonzte
Du schlonztest
Er/sie/es schlonzten
Wir schlonzten
Ihr schlonztet
Sie schlonzten
Plusquamperfekt
Ich hatte geschlonzt
Wir hatten geschlonzt
Futur I
Sie wird schlonzen
Wir werden schlonzen
Futur II (meine Lieblings-Zeitform :)
Er wird geschlonzt haben
Ihr werdet geschlonzt haben
Konjunktiv I
Du schlonzest
Ihr schlonzet
Konjunktiv II
Er habe geschlonzt
Sie hätten geschlonzt
(im Indikativ)
Er würde schlonzen
Er würde geschlonzt haben
Können Sie mir einen Beispiel-Satz nennen?
„Oh Mann, ich hab gleich Fahrschule. Aber vorher muss ich mir erst noch ´nen fetten Hut schlonzen.“
Wo hier die Pointe sein soll?! Ha! Gibt keine.
schlonzen
regelmäßiges Verb, Wortstamm: schlonz - ...
gebildet mit dem Indefinitpronomen: „etwas“
alltagssprachlich, umgangssprachlich für Wasserpfeife rauchen
Synonym zu „schlotzen“, wird ebenso gebildet
Präsens
Ich schlonze
Du schlonzt
Er/sie/es schlonzt
Wir schlonzen
Ihr schlonzt
Sie schlonzen
Perfekt
Ich habe geschlonzt
Präteritum
Ich schlonzte
Du schlonztest
Er/sie/es schlonzten
Wir schlonzten
Ihr schlonztet
Sie schlonzten
Plusquamperfekt
Ich hatte geschlonzt
Wir hatten geschlonzt
Futur I
Sie wird schlonzen
Wir werden schlonzen
Futur II (meine Lieblings-Zeitform :)
Er wird geschlonzt haben
Ihr werdet geschlonzt haben
Konjunktiv I
Du schlonzest
Ihr schlonzet
Konjunktiv II
Er habe geschlonzt
Sie hätten geschlonzt
(im Indikativ)
Er würde schlonzen
Er würde geschlonzt haben
Können Sie mir einen Beispiel-Satz nennen?
„Oh Mann, ich hab gleich Fahrschule. Aber vorher muss ich mir erst noch ´nen fetten Hut schlonzen.“
Wo hier die Pointe sein soll?! Ha! Gibt keine.
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