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.