Something about an open Autobahn. If only there were a way to get away until one didn’t want to get away anymore. Or something like that…

Signing off as WorstWriter. Adieu.

-tgs-

Say. That’s a great title for a play. “Slow Death Broadway”. Of course, it’d be a great title for a play after Broadway is long dead. Or?

If only there was more TRUTH in the things Mr. Irons says in the video above. Or maybe truth is the wrong word. There should be more substance. No. Stick with truth. Why? Because there’s very little dynamic to “truth” – there’s just it’s opposite. But “substance”. Now go off on a blog-post tangent and try to explain the substance of theater?

Anywho.

If the things Jeremy Irons says are true, how long will it take before Broadway dies? Personally, I could care less if Broadways dies. It would make no difference to the theater world. Upon its death it will only cause a few already loud-mouth actors to raise their voices. Is that, then, the real truth about Mr. Irons remarks here? Is Broadway already dead? Or is this all we can expect from the intelligentsia of acting?

When it’s all over the fat lady will come out and sing: whoopie. Seriously. Of course, how can one expect an actor to address the inherent problems of theater? He should go back to earning his millions and shut the fuck up…

OK. Some of the stuff Mr. Irons says about London theater might be true but the stuff about NY theater…? At the least, I would miss London theater. And that’s because it’s not “Broadway”. Of course, as I’ve complained here and here, I believe that theater deserves everything it gets. In this world of visualization-pure the essence of theater has long been surpassed. Reason? The writing. In fact, I believe, once humanity gets over itself, the most important pillar of theater, the writing, will make a comeback. There really is nothing like seeing a stage come to life – via the written word. It is not just a pillar of theater – but that of humanity.

Or maybe not. Stop dreaming Tommi!

I used to go to the theater all the time. No matter what city I visited, no matter what country I went to, part of my agenda was always: where/what show can I see? Even when I’m not traveling I used to think about just sitting in a theater audience – and, of course, dreaming about my own work being on that stage. But not anymore. Now it’s just the lie of dreams. And so…

Fuck Broadway. The one thing Mr. Irons doesn’t mention in this clip is the real problem with theater these days. Like movies, theater isn’t even about the money. It’s about the egos of the producers and the actors. Nothing else makes any difference – goodness knows it would be hard pressed to get any cultivated person living in a major western city to provide the names of any leading playwrights. For me, that’s… nuff said.

There is one good thing about The Death of Broadway: (potentially) (finally) OFF (OFF) Broadway (might take over); there are actually writers still struggling to write for that venue. Thank goodness.

Rant on.

-tgs-

Note: sorry, but, due to my disposition before, during and after putting this post together (including the time on my Letter 32 w/pica), I’ve had to make various corrections to it (the blog post, not the pic text). Thank you for your (worst)reading patience. And BTW, the typed/scanned material in the pic requires less effort to write. Seriously. So much for technology, eh?

Read through my old (college) copy of Beowulf last night – it is part of one of them anthologies of classic lit. Also included (but not in the old anthology) was a bottle/belly full of wine. As the night progressed I also started thinking about one of my old nemeses:  The Cain Tradition. (Which had nothing to do with college.)

Hiccup.

In Beowulf The Cain Tradition is not mentioned – it is instead part of the various/numerous”collegiate” undertakings that are supposed to interpret this ancient text. The thing is, Beowulf haunts me and so too does The Cain Tradition. Either that or both amuse me to the point of boredom (if that’s possible). Still, my motivation with this ancient text and the even more ancient tradition lies NOT in Beowulf and that whole Nordic heroism B.S. but in the whims of the plot generating sub-characters: Grendel and his mother. (Hence what I consider to be The Cain Tradition connection to this ancient story.)

Indeed, the old testament fascinates me. But does it fascinate me as much as it fascinated men (in this case the anonymous author of Beowulf) so long ago? You see, there is so little value in actually learning about humanity these days. Value has become something else, right? But if one gives stories like this, stories stemming out of the chaos that would eventually be the honed and horrid tradition that is today’s monotheistic religious nuttery, well…

Nomatter. Burp

Every once-a-once I get caught up (again) in trying to learn. Some men just get drunk, you know. They call it avoiding or an ersatz for the meaninglessness of life. I think getting drunk is quite the opposite. Shutting down and/or manipulating all those nerve endings with such a variety of fermented juice… Yet I still haven’t tasted mead. But when I read about mead it’s almost as though I (can) taste it. Other than that, I dream of the halls in which it was (all) drunk so many hundreds of years ago – during a time when real men still walked the earth instead of the cowards we have today…

Wait. Hicc…üüüüp. (That’s one of them hiccups that includes stomach phlegm. ;-)

Don’t get me wrong. When I say “real men” regarding a time long past, I am not trying to claim that it/they was/were better. But it does seem that the pagan rituals of Nordic kings and tribes from so long ago held some kind of honor. There was an honor to how they lived and, perhaps, how they died. Therefore, in my il-logic, I am motivated to wonder (at times) if it is the advent of Christianity (as we know it today and as it is so frivolously mentioned in the Beowulf text) that has lead to this less honorable way of living – minus, of course, the blood & guts.

Yes, indeed. The blood & guts of then has been replaced with the comfort of useless eaters today. Or… Well… Maybe… Maybe not.

Whatever. Big gulp.

Rant on.

-tgs-

What's in a name?

Like I said, she was something like a nice old bitch. To have met her when I was young would have been better. I’m sure that we would have gotten along out of bed then. But that mother-driving force behind all lust… Where can it lead, you ask? To the stillness or an injection of antibiotics. There is no denying that without her life is that much less than better. She’s since gone the way of all old MILFs and GILFs. Beyond the grave to the firery blades of cosmetic enhancement. There is no denying that this quick, if not immediate relationship lead to something profound. At the least it lead to my brother who is also my son. But I tried to keep that from those that would read what comes from my Olivetti. Yes, indeed, she was, if not in me, than upon me. Yet I still can’t help but to forget her.

Rant on – sometimes.

-tgs-

Nonsense is nonsense, right? Maybe not. But can nonsense be creative?

Many years have passed and I’ve wasted a lot of time thinking about two things: being an expat, being creative. And so I ask: will this foreign living ever end? And: it can’t end because it helps me maintain some level of creativity. Seriously, it took something like ten years before I started to become homesick. The thing is, once you’re always sick, once you start to enjoy the sickness… there’s no going back. Of course, when I say/refer to “creativity” I probably mean something quite different than what is referred to in this study which I recently found via this article at the The Economist:

Cultural Borders and Mental Barriers: The Relationship Between Living Abroad and Creativity (PDF)

The study is interesting. Shame, though, that the PHD dudes that wrote/researched it misunderstand creativity – even though they define creativity in such a scholarly fashion at the beginning. Seriously. I’ve got some news for you/them (them). I’ve defined creativity once or twice. Be assured, my definition is less scholarly.

Creativity is  not what most are accustomed to thinking it is. Seriously – it’s something much bigger, better and never part of useless, meaningless coercive behaviorism that makes up most of  modern western culture today. But don’t get me wrong – I’m not a vocabulary tyrant – nor do I wish to stop the bizzy-body-ness of hobbyists. So please indulge me and pay close attention to what I’m about to write. This is (worst)writing at its worst/best:

Creativity is never about what you do. Creativity is always about what has been done.

I guess that’s why I belittle, in my own elitist kind of way, shit like “arts&crafts” (i.e. hobbies) – which, btw, is code for what The Haves (w/jobs) actually do in their useless corporate lives. (Or maybe it’s not code.) Anyway… Too many people refer to creativity as making-a-living. At the least, we live in a world that can/has easily changed not just the way we use language but also the meaning of everything. But that’s life, right?

When people refer to the meaninglessness of their lives as “creative” I cringe. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Sure, have fun fiddling with shit. I don’t care. But fiddling has nothing to do with doing something that actually has meaning – especially when there are so many examples in both history and (even) our day & age of people who actually do do something useful with their lives – which can be seen, read, felt, etc. I won’t bore you with examples of what I consider to be creative – but I will say this: it has nothing to do with what someone is doing at any particular moment.

So what gets under my gander here (in the pdf above) is what needs to be addressed based on the assumptions made in this scholarly effort by so-called academics that, probably by some coercive power greater than their own (greater than the academic world that financed it), had to address this subject matter. They also, like so many other academics, have to make use of their scholarly titles. But that don’t mean they be right.

Any takers out there that want to cut the academics up to shreds?

Obviously the published study has a corporate bent to it. More obviously the funding to do the research came from somewhere, e.g. just over the corporate rainbow. And that’s OK. I don’t mind. Even if corrupted by corps and the people that work/live for them produce this kind of nonsense, I can still see through it – and even learn something from it. So let’s all call an apple a spade- or an orange a deck of cards – or the other way round. Full stop.

The thing that gets me about this study/article is, after referencing research that comes straight out of MBA case-study bullshit, they compare the creative powers/genius of Hemingway and Beckett to the nonsense of working in a corporation and solving some nitwit problem that stems from inherent dysfunction. I’m not aware, other than perhaps Andy Warhol, where something creative has ever actually been derived from inherent dysfunction.

But I may be wrong – as usual.

Rant on.

-tgs-

It’s hard not to think of things to write about. In fact, it’s my dilemma. A boring dilemma, indeed. So when I sit at/with my Hermes Baby the question is never where/how to start but when/how to stop. I’ve read that W. Burroughs’ biggest problem was that he wrote so unconsciously. That is, he never wrote thinking about what he wrote. No. Maybe that’s wrong. I think what I’m trying to say is that W. Burroughs had a hard time getting published on account when he wrote he didn’t really care to make what he wrote… readable. Does that make any sense? Anyway. Writing and coming up with things to write about is never a problem. It’s doing it all so that one can meet the requirements of another. OK. This is going no where. And, as usual, I might be way off base here with Mr. Burroughs. The thing is, if only I could somehow put all these thoughts down in some kind of order then maybe…

Anywho.

The twins mentioned here (above) were/are almost as real as it gets. I did get to share some of their sloppy seconds once. The perfect world mentioned is real fiction.

Rant on.

-tgs-

Some will say that wanting to own wood is wrong. And perhaps it is. But the thought of continuing on this path… It’s too much for me. And so earth day passes just like every other day. I’ve tried to make the claim that truth is but the first casualty. Yet all is hidden in the fun of a holiday-like day. So what audience do I deserve if the truth is desperately trying to get out? We do not need such a day, you know. If we could only be a bit more responsible. Yes. There. I’ve said it. The truth is about responsible. Not so much responsible in the morale sense of right and wrong. But in the lateral movement of evolution. I mean, come on, is there really a difference between looking up to the sky directly or looking for it at the end of a horizon? No matter. Most of the/our attention goes to some form of fictional characterization – like the cuteness offered by Hobbits or forgotten unicorns and let’s not misplace big eared mice that have a political agenda. No. I won’t forget yesterday because it didn’t really happen – although we think/imagine it did. How can it happen with all those big bad wolfs in the desert that used to be our forest?

Just some after thoughts. After writing. Typing. Dreaming. Searching out (my) pickled brain.

Rant on.

-tgs-

Some pretty good advice from the horror master Stephen King. Even though I’ve only read about 2.5 (out of how many?) of his books I really admire this guy. Well, actually, I admire anyone that can get published these days. Anywho. Here’s Kings list of How-To regarding gettin’ published:

1. Be talentedThis, of course, is the killer. What is talent? I can hear someone shouting, and here we are, ready to get into a discussion right up there with “what is the meaning of life?” for weighty pronouncements and total uselessness. For the purposes of the beginning writer, talent may as well be defined as eventual success – publication and money. If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn’t bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented.

   Now some of you are really hollering. Some of you are calling me one crass money-fixated creep. And some of you are calling me bad names. Are you calling Harold Robbins talented? someone in one of the Great English Departments of America is screeching. V.C. Andrews? Theodore Dreiser? Or what about you, you dyslexic moron?

   Nonsense. Worse than nonsense, off the subject. We’re not talking about good or bad here. I’m interested in telling you how to get your stuff published, not in critical judgments of who’s good or bad. As a rule the critical judgments come after the check’s been spent, anyway. I have my own opinions, but most times I keep them to myself. People who are published steadily and are paid for what they are writing may be either saints or trollops, but they are clearly reaching a great many someones who want what they have. Ergo, they are communicating. Ergo, they are talented. The biggest part of writing successfully is being talented, and in the context of marketing, the only bad writer is one who doesn’t get paid. If you’re not talented, you won’t succeed. And if you’re not succeeding, you should know when to quit.

   When is that? I don’t know. It’s different for each writer. Not after six rejection slips, certainly, nor after sixty. But after six hundred? Maybe. After six thousand? My friend, after six thousand pinks, it’s time you tried painting or computer programming.

   Further, almost every aspiring writer knows when he is getting warmer – you start getting little jotted notes on your rejection slips, or personal letters . . . maybe a commiserating phone call. It’s lonely out there in the cold, but there are encouraging voices … unless there is nothing in your words which warrants encouragement. I think you owe it to yourself to skip as much of the self-illusion as possible. If your eyes are open, you’ll know which way to go … or when to turn back.

2. Be neatType. Double-space. Use a nice heavy white paper, never that erasable onion-skin stuff. If you’ve marked up your manuscript a lot, do another draft.
3. Be self-criticalIf you haven’t marked up your manuscript a lot, you did a lazy job. Only God gets things right the first time. Don’t be a slob.
4. Remove every extraneous wordYou want to get up on a soapbox and preach? Fine. Get one and try your local park. You want to write for money? Get to the point. And if you remove all the excess garbage and discover you can’t find the point, tear up what you wrote and start all over again . . . or try something new.
5. Never look at a reference book while doing a first draftYou want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket. The only things creepier than a thesaurus are those little paperbacks college students too lazy to read the assigned novels buy around exam time. Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule. You think you might have misspelled a word? O.K., so here is your choice: either look it up in the dictionary, thereby making sure you have it right – and breaking your train of thought and the writer’s trance in the bargain – or just spell it phonetically and correct it later. Why not? Did you think it was going to go somewhere? And if you need to know the largest city in Brazil and you find you don’t have it in your head, why not write in Miami, or Cleveland? You can check it … but later. When you sit down to write, write. Don’t do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off.
6. Know the marketsOnly a dimwit would send a story about giant vampire bats surrounding a high school to McCall’s. Only a dimwit would send a tender story about a mother and daughter making up their differences on Christmas Eve to Playboy … but people do it all the time. I’m not exaggerating; I have seen such stories in the slush piles of the actual magazines. If you write a good story, why send it out in an ignorant fashion? Would you send your kid out in a snowstorm dressed in Bermuda shorts and a tank top? If you like science fiction, read the magazines. If you want to write confession stories, read the magazines. And so on. It isn’t just a matter of knowing what’s right for the present story; you can begin to catch on, after awhile, to overall rhythms, editorial likes and dislikes, a magazine’s entire slant. Sometimes your reading can influence the next story, and create a sale.
7. Write to entertainDoes this mean you can’t write “serious fiction”? It does not. Somewhere along the line pernicious critics have invested the American reading and writing public with the idea that entertaining fiction and serious ideas do not overlap. This would have surprised Charles Dickens, not to mention Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Bernard Malamud, and hundreds of others. But your serious ideas must always serve your story, not the other way around. I repeat: if you want to preach, get a soapbox.
8. Ask yourself frequently, “Am I having fun?”The answer needn’t always be yes. But if it’s always no, it’s time for a new project or a new career.
9. How to evaluate criticismShow your piece to a number of people – ten, let us say. Listen carefully to what they tell you. Smile and nod a lot. Then review what was said very carefully. If your critics are all telling you the same thing about some facet of your story – a plot twist that doesn’t work, a character who rings false, stilted narrative, or half a dozen other possibles – change that facet. It doesn’t matter if you really liked that twist of that character; if a lot of people are telling you something is wrong with you piece, it is. If seven or eight of them are hitting on that same thing, I’d still suggest changing it. But if everyone – or even most everyone – is criticizing something different, you can safely disregard what all of them say.
10. Observe all rules for proper submissionReturn postage, self-addressed envelope, all of that.
11. An agent? Forget it. For nowAgents get 10% of monies earned by their clients. 10% of nothing is nothing. Agents also have to pay the rent. Beginning writers do not contribute to that or any other necessity of life. Flog your stories around yourself. If you’ve done a novel, send around query letters to publishers, one by one, and follow up with sample chapters and/or the manuscript complete. And remember Stephen King’s First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don’t need one until you’re making enough for someone to steal … and if you’re making that much, you’ll be able to take your pick of good agents.
12. If it’s bad, kill itWhen it comes to people, mercy killing is against the law. When it comes to fiction, it is the law.

Source: http://mikeshea.net/Everything_You_Need_to_Kn.html

Rant on,

-tgs-

Perhaps I should title this post: My Confusion. Here we have two completely opposing thoughts that have busied my morning. Oh, the waste-of-time.

There is a certain amount of desperation in the air these days. I can feel it from my homeland to this side of the pond. Thick it is, and only slightly different from that which I ran from. But like the word “hero” now the word “crisis” must be abused. Obviously there are many who are falling through the cracks these days – but where do they fall is all I ponder as the heroes and the crisis dance? It doesn’t matter if someone stands up and tries to explain anything that is going on. Perhaps that’s due to the fact that it’s been so…

PERFECTLY IN THE MAKING.

It reminds me of an old man I once knew. He was missing two fingers. When asked he said that the fingers were taken from him and ever since he wished he would have not given them up so easily. Then he added that their loss did find vengeance.  He admitted it was all due to a stupid mistake on his part. A very stupid mistake. And then he added:

“And these days we give up so much and we do it so with so little apprehension. Mistakes aren’t what they used to be. Isn’t that right young fellow?”

The truth is, he lost those fingers just after he hit the ground and found himself buried under his parachute. That’s one of the things you learn when you are drafted as a paratrooper.

“Don’t get buried under the parachute!”

I think he said that he landed somewhere in Belgium. It wasn’t very windy but a gust must have caught him. It was the early spring of ‘45. Two jump-mates tried to help him and one fell before he could even clear away the parachute. The other man took a bullet, as well, but it was only a flesh wound. At that point he had no idea that he was bleeding. In fact, about fifty yards away from his landing site he hit the ground and recalled his training and, along with all his comrades, prepared to fire his government issued rifle. As he began to find a target in the midst of the hell-fire that ensued from the invasion he noticed the two missing fingers that failed to cup the bottom of the forestock of his rifle.

“The fingers must have been shot away,” he said. “That’s the only thing I could figure out about how it happened.” And then he said: “A crisis situation can really influence how you judge things. Luckily my training kicked in and I got over my mistake. Of course, I caused the death of a mate and almost lost another. But later I was told that it was a gust of wind and it blew me way off course. The Krauts would have got me clean if it weren’t for being covered by the parachute. Anyway. I wrapped those two slaughtered fingers in a rip of my undershirt and went about my duty. Now let me tell what it’s like to kill three Krauts…”

Yes, indeed, confusion is rampant this morn. And so…

Rant on,

-tgs-

Perhaps the title of this post should have been: “Never say never – but…”. With that in mind, once again I’m going to leave this blog. I can’t remember exactly the last time I left it but I have left it at least twice. That is, I’ve said to myself: I’m gonna leave you baby… The funny thing is I remember leaving but don’t actually remember returning. Oh well.

I am not a child of sin. Hence one of the reason I despise religion. It’s also one of the reasons I despise what so many people – due to the influence of the philosophical answers of playboy centerfold questionnaire sheets – like to call optimism. What is clear in this day and age is that there is simply no opportunity anymore – unless you have a “perfect” body. There is especially no opportunity for those who prefer to measure life and what one makes of it devoid of the result of “perfection”, i.e. money. Oh to be so poor, comfortable and yet look maaaaar-vuuuuulus….

It is said that the worst of the Seven Deadly Sins is pride. Oh, how I disagree. I also disagree with the other six. To me there is only one thing that humans inherently do that is bad. I call it self-pity. Seriously. There is no murder, no thievery, no politics, no marriage, no human-anything… WITHOUT SELF-PITY. Even the great ones, the humans that have achieved in this life, have done so via self-pity. Yes, so much for living in an over populated world.

Perhaps I should leave the thought to someone who can spew it with less WorstWriting.

Once again having an unproductive period where I wake in the morning yelling at Vaclav Havel – or someone else. If only I could be a blind optimist and just go about my day as though it were (actually) my day. No. Again. Thank goodness there are so many like me (failure) to make the rest of you (winner) feel as though life is really kind of neat…

It took a few years after moving to Europe to realize (my) fate. The thing about such a change (in life) is that it takes awhile to get a hold of it. The thought: “I’m no longer living in my country” doesn’t really mean anything until you wake up with tears in your eyes and desperation filling your lungs. Then, suddenly, life really is a complete waste of time – unless you’re either one of the HAVES or you can go about it all as though you’ve never woken up to the fact that you can actually see (with something other than eyes).

In order to calm myself down from the anxiety and the stress and desire – that is/should be life – I turned to (a) drug. Yes. Indeed. Even “optimism” in its most minuscule form just might reveal something worthwhile once the human experiment story has been told. Yes. The loneliness of (real) change is only a hop-skip-and-jump away from pulling the/a trigger. I suppose the secret to survival is to keep your optimism under control and to keep getting up (in the morning). And then there are all the other waste-of-time compulsions that drive us.

Anywho.

One fo the things I missed during my first few years of expatriation was standup comedy. I’m not referring to krapp comedy like the shit from Bob Hope or Bill Cosby. Fuck them and fuck all superficiality in life! A lot of people might not have liked the 1980s (perhaps including me) but one thing did come out of that waste-of-time-period that history might show as the beginning of America’s über-gluttonous behavior. Thinking comics. I’m referring to comics that don’t just make you laugh but also… Well, you (should) get the picture. The origin of thinking comics probably has to be credited to Lenny Bruce. Then there’s George Carlin . But my favorite is Bill Hicks. Talk about comedy.

Thinking comics are one of the reasons that I don’t like Jon Stewart and his Daily Show. But that’s another post.

Living in a place absent of humour isn’t easy. To compensate for not being funny, Germany is an amazingly comfortable welfare state. I guess, at least, it’s a good thing that the Brits aren’t all that far away. Germans have slowly started to catch on to the stand-up comedy format but they will always be bogged down by so-called cabaret (Kabarett). Traditional European cabaret contains comedy – and a lot of pretentious, over-educated but very talented folk “perform” their cabaret skits (or whatever). I guess, what I’m getting at (and will obviously fail to get at) is that cabaret is… different. I prefer well written comedy handed over by someone who can “deliver” it – I guess. With that in mind, there are some talented folk in the German cabaret scene but you have to like that sort of thing or be born into it. No. Seriously. I’ve honestly tried to follow some German acts but I’ve given up. There have been simply too many things during my expat experience where the Germans have asked for too much. (And the comedy stuff is the least of the worst of it.)

Yeah. Lots of posts there, eh…

What’s really funny, though, is that last summer a German stand-up comedian named Mario Barth (German link only!) filled a stadium with 70,000 Germans. I have no idea what was actually funny with this guy but the fact that he is credited with some kind of world record (for filling a stadium with 70k people) is hilarious.

All is not lost. I do realize that it is my fault that I don’t think Germans are funny. (Or?) There are some cabaret-comedians, like Hagen Rether, (this guy has an English wiki page and hasn’t filled a stadium with 70k people!) that do catch my ear every once-a-once. Below is a clip of Hr. Rether w/English subtitles. I hope you can follow the text/translation. Although this clip is political, there is comedic potential here and this guy really shows the cabaret format (perhaps at its best).  Also, I know this sounds really pretentious of me (if not obnoxious) but just look at the audience in the clip. The clip is current but the audience looks like a bunch of cheaply dressed bureaucrats with jackets and ties from the 70s. So much for contemporary German TV, eh! I suppose there is something to the adage that an audience makes the performer. Yes. Indeed. Perhaps with a different audience Hr. Rether could finally open up and… Well, who am I to judge.

Rant on.

-tgs-

Today of all days was just like the rest except… I saw this old lady fall down. Now this old lady didn’t just trip and fall like I’ve seen happen in the past. I don’t know what it is about Europe (or maybe it’s just Germany) but old people fall all the time here. Heck, my grandmother fell a few years ago. She was just walking along and suddenly she plopped right over. You didn’t even hear a thud or anything. She just laid there on the ground. Then I looked into her eyes. My grandmother broke her knee-cap, her left elbow and separated her right shoulder. She was was eighty-one at the time. (She’s eighty-seven now.) Well, today, I’m not quite sure how old the lady was that fell. I suspect she was pushing eighty. It’s a busy time in Germany these days. That silly holiday is upon us. Keep in mind that this isn’t a holiday like any other holiday in Kraut-suck-ville. This is one of the three or four top-of-the-hierarchy holidays in Germany. There’s a gazillion other holidays and the weight of each in the hierarchy determines what I call the “freedom” factor. That is, the time that people get free of their employment. It’s not as though a lot of people actually “work” in corporate-welfare-state Germany. Just go to any big city on a Friday where you can witness at around 11am all the Beamte going home – and I mean every (your)godforsaken Friday! I don’t know why people even claim to work five days a week in this country! But before I get too far off subject… There are way too many “holidays” in Germany and on top of those days are the written-in-stone religious holidays – the one coming up being one of them. So this old lady was dallied up in her fine winter clothing, a pretty red scarf around her neck and some nice fancy brown shoes that fit perfectly to her long, thick overcoat. As I initially saw her, right at about a blink-and-a-half, she fell. For a second I thought: boy, she looked knocked-out even before she hit the ground. She just lay there on her belly, her face in the cold ground, like a stump. Oh no, I thought, is she dead? Then I woke out of my shock and ran over to her. And let me tell you – in all that stillness, the stillness that is the mind of this ridiculous holiday of TAKE (and no give) – I was the only one to do anything about that woman. People were just traversing as though nothing happened. “Are we stealth,” I thought. Finally someone else came over and while they saw me trying to help the lady they called a doctor. Then another person came along. Luckily she was fine – just in a slight state of shock and, unfortunately for me – bleeding from her face. I must have missed something during that blink-and-a-half. Her fall was stopped by her face. I think she broke at least two teeth. Old people blood – you know the kind – the stuff that flows like water as opposed to young people blood that still flows like crude oil – was gathering in a pool under her. As the blood darkened on the cold ground it began to match the redness of her scarf. After a short while it looked as though her scarf was simply wet with water. But then I noticed one of her teeth. It was dangling in her mouth as she told me to watch her purse. I kept asking if she had hurt any bones because I thought it best to turn her over. I think she mumbled that I should go away. It was probably best that she remained face down until the ambulance arrived because then the blood had a place to go. It mixed well into the cracks of the brick-layed walk-way. In some cracks there was the green of peat-moss mixing well with the red of dying blood. Tis the season to be jolly – eh. And may the merriment of illconstrued gift-giving bring this old women some new teeth. Anyways. The odd thing about the whole afternoon ordeal was that the old lady was really kind of pissed off at everybody that was trying to help her. But I think I was the only one she yelled at. And so, this confused holiday season the words: “Was wollen sie von mir!” will somehow mix well with all the other seasonal words/thoughts. Of course – the image of that old lady and her almost broken head will also be large in my holiday season thoughts. Part of which I managed to jot down just a few moments ago.

It was my (ill)intention to write something completely different than what came out here. But as the saying goes: it ain’t over till the skinny boy brings out the marmarlade. Or something like that. The point of (my) typing, I suppose, is never to actually say/write something. It is truly a part of the compulsion that I live every day. With that in mind… Even if my compulsion(s) mean absolutely nothing, at least they aren’t half as bad or worthless or useless as most of the western worldly work force claiming to actually do something each day. Anyway, before I get too carried away hating fucking xmas and those that keep supporting the ultimate gluttony that leads to the gluttony of our (western) daily lives, here something completely not worth reading. I guess.

Holes Atop Head

Rant and type on.

-tgs-

Well, it’s that time of year again. What do you think of during this time of year? I think of the dying needles of pine trees, human corruption and how much I’ll enjoy leaving it all behind when the lights finally go out. Of course, I also think of failure – as in not being able to spell. At least there are ways to fix such mistakes. How odd that I can so easily fix something like misspellings (in the title of nonsense) and lawmakers the world over “fix” nation-states with little more complexity. No. Let’s not go there. Instead, see doc “Brown Needle Bound(a)ries”. I mean, I haven’t been writing much lately. It should be full of more errors.

There actually is something in the doc below. But – as is the case with everything else I write: it does not matter. Nothing matters in an over populated world where gluttonous politics, gluttonous economics and the ignorant masses rule everything through ambivalence and rust. Speaking of “rust”. Rotting pine needles on the floor(s) of the earth are a metaphor for something. If only I knew what that something could be. If only I knew who/what put them there…

Brown Needle Boundaries

Rant on.

-tgs-

Losing one’s faith (in religion) is one thing. Losing faith in ALL (of humanity) is another. I don’t suppose that the gist of life hangs on the thread that is (the concept of) faith – although the superficial point-of-view might indicate otherwise. Recent “change” in my former home country has caused at least a spark to once again be released (in my mind’s eye). Oh, what a slight spark. Shinny to the eye that has seen so little of it (the spark) in recent years. Dull to the eye(s) that see their spark burn bright every day (in the form of consumables and credit). Indeed, it is certainly not enough to question the loss of anything when a single moment and/or day in time (Nov. 4, 2008; or the clarifying morning thereafter) presents so much for posterity.

The brilliant marketeer-ploy of rhetorical change reminds me of the days when I witnessed other leaders rise to their peda-stool (others might call them mountains). Did you know that the raised golden stool (I prefer the high-chair metaphor) has a hole in the middle? The senators were given enough room underneath the stool to huddle and gather and perhaps have a cup of tea. Little holes the world over grant visual access to the gonads and sphincter of those who would sit upon it. We are thinking, of course, of the days of Pope Joan – or? Make no mistake, my liberal friends, you have fallen for the trickery one too many times. What shall you now do in a world that stands alone on the pillars of tricksters? Yes, you will find reason to hope anew. So please be(a)ware!

And so… I was (finally) reading some words of the father of Virginia Woolf. Yes, my literary procrastination pays off in ways more than not. If anyone wants to know why Leslie Stephens was also a mountaineer, then all they have to know is that he also fathered Woolf. Some men will drown on their way to the bottom of the ocean for a child – and others, like Stephen, will get high on Matterhorn. The question is, I suppose, is it actually possible to pass your mind on to your child? I mean, the way they wrote, these two mountaineers…

No. No matter.

At the least I was motivated. So I sat at my Hermes Baby with espresso and had a nice morning. I think. The result…

For those interested you can read Leslie Stephen’s “An Agnostic’s Apology” here which made me think/imagine there were Gnostic Ghosts singing to one another or hanging around or jostling their unlife as though it were as worthless as life truly is…

Whatever.

Rant on.

-tgs-

This is "Beckett"

09:26; Weather is overcast and reflects perfectly the attitude of an entire nation-state-folk; sour-puss Teutons passing by my window make me think of a stroll the dog and I recently had and something else completely (un)related.

So, like, the other day I was walking along the Rhine with Samuel Beckett (not the (in)famous author but my gf’s dog). It was a (German) day like any other day. That is, the weather sucked and it was all I could do to avoid Germans by finding some speck of land that isn’t full of them or isn’t either their office space, welfare housing or a parking lot for corporate/government subsidized luxury Audis, BMWs or Mercedes. (Which means that there’s a few hundred yards of land on either side of the Rhine River where you can actually get away from them! Well, almost get away.)

At first glance it seemed to be a leash-free zone. You see, as I’ve improperly mentioned through out this cornucopia of hippy-sweet-smelling (worst)writing nonsense (this blog?), Germany is a land of obnoxious, pretentious, snotty, rude, nasty automatons that cannot think for themselves but instead must rely on a perverted and ugly grandmother that is called Fraulein Ordnung to govern/manage their daily lives. I guess that’s OK since I’m only half-related to the old bitch – which means it’s not as easy as I’d like it to be to avoid her (them).

Wait. Maybe this quote from Marx might help:

Good natured enthusiasts, Germanomaniacs by extraction and free-thinkers by reflexion, on the contrary, seek our history of freedom beyond our history in the ancient Teutonic forests. But what difference is there between the history of our freedom and the history of the boar’s freedom if it can be found only in the forests? Besides, it is common knowledge that the forest echoes back what you shout into it. So peace to the ancient Teutonic forests!

09:29; Still overcast; the flat, gray sky that is just above your head looks down upon you as though it’s mood could rot your soul.

On this day Beckett got in the way of two bicyclist who insisted on yelling at me about how IN GERMANY dogs HAVE to be on a leash. Like any conflict with the Teutons their post-modern pacifism dis-enabled my rightful American aggression and we all ended up just yelling at each other about mannerisms – the full-bred Germans, of course, being better versed in the laws dictated by Fr. Ordnung. When the nasty exchange ended Beckett and I went on our way trying desperately to avoid any more of them. Either that or Beckett stood between the whole silly ordeal and wondered where those blond labs were going with that hot German MILF in tow. BTW, when my gf got him I suggested he be named Guido – The Killer Pimp Pug.

09:38; Gray weather continuing for the rest of my dismal life, or at least while I live in the land of well-dressed but still barbarian Teutons

I guess, in a way, I’m… I can’t use the word “happy” because I’m sure that I wouldn’t know what that is even if I didn’t HAVE to live in Germany. I guess, in a way, there is a sense of acceptance regarding the fact that I (HAVE to) live in Germany. More often than not I get up in the morning and stroll around this welfare state singing…

OH THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME LIVE IN YOUR WORLD
OH THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME LIVE IN YOUR WORLD
OH THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME LIVE IN YOUR WORLD
OH THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME LIVE IN YOUR WORLD, etc.

Often I imagine what it would be like to live elsewhere. For example, NYC. I would love to live in that city. But how can an expatriate or an irresponsible, failed redneck live in New York City? Obviously there is no inheritance in the thread that is/would be my life. There is no natural intelligence or LUCK here either that would enable scholarship via Yale or Harvard, etc., which in turn would provide some assistance to living in the world’s greatest ruined city.  There is nothing in who/what I am that could open up the golden windows/doors that let backward folk like me (Obama?) into the world that is so shiny even when Wall Street riches turn bitter. Yes, I am (almost?) middle aged and the cards have been dealt. Yet I still dream like a school boy. I dream about so many things that are cut off by the bridges I have burned…

09:52; The sky has darkened and so too have the sour-pusses which seem to coincide with the tanning salons that prevent them all from being sooooooooooul-lessly white.

One of my favorite places is New York City. It’s not my favorite because of New Yorkers. It is my favorite because it is the non-plus-ultra when it comes to measuring arrogance, pretentiousness, or a great example of how excrement sometimes doesn’t stink. In fact, the city is like Germany (where I HAVE to live). Seriously. If you want to somehow compare the arrogance of Europe and/or Germany with anything in America – you can’t really do it these corporate/September 11 days by comparing geography or borders or tax systems or profitability or even individuals. You can only compare the things that are the same. Yes, arrogance is the same the world over, right? I guess what I’m so rudely trying to say is: I’d rather live in the arrogant stink of NY – if only I had such a privileged choice.

09:58:03; Haven’t seen a sour-puss passing by my window in approximately three and a half minutes; the gray sky has gone from darkest to less dark.

2-300 yards beyond street and trees is the Rhine.

So the other day (the same day where my gf’s dog was almost attacked by bike riding, sour-puss Teutons) I read an article about Malcolm Gladwell. Yes, indeed, Mr. Gladwell would/could represent something quintessentially New York-ian. Or? I mean, isn’t he awesome! They are now calling him the father of “Gladwellian” thought. Wow.

Don’t ask me why I’m promoting his book; I thought “Blink” was stupid. Why does the world today need another book about selling shit. “Shit” being the world we live in and what humans have become. (Or?)

Here to get a bird’s-eye-view of what the father of Gladwellian thought is all about or to be somewhat more informed about popular culture or to see/read what CEOs read – yes, that’s how this guy got so popular – just check out any of the bookshelves of CEOs or wannabe CEOs and you’ll find a copy of “Blink” (his previous bestseller). Oh yeah, any “good” but low-ranking “marketeer” will also have “Blink” because that’s how good the book is in helping those that make nothing but sell everything get by in this day and age of getting rich.

Seriously. I’m so honored and privileged to live in this world – this world of arrogance, this world of privilege – this world of nothing else. How ’bout you? No? Am I really over doing it with all the bitterness that has built up inside me because of the bridges I have so willingly burned? Here I would ask if I had the opportunity to do so: Are we born evil requiring a savior or are we simply born with bitterness that only awaits its overcoming? OK. I guess I’m gonna go for another walk with Beckett and try to avoid all of … them. Yes. Avoid!

Shouting back to the Teutonic forest: Oh, I cannot express how thankful I am for you allowing me to live in your world.

Yes, the other side of the/my window...

Rant on.

-tgs-

A bit of self-promotion that won’t cost you a thing…

I finally got around to posting about my writing for The Naked Classic and Verlag André Thiele (German publisher).

I don’t know about you but the only thing that changed after September 11, 2001, was the political landscape on which Western culture has been gorging itself. To say the least, it hasn’t changed for the better. I tend to think that change was on its way in another direction after the fall of Soviet Communism. But I was wrong. Say what you want about skyscrapers being ripped out of the sky or of the conflicts in Iraq, Afganistan, Dafur, etc., etc. Say what you want about Bush and/or the various United Mistakes of Amerika Republican/Neo-Con fanatics (that in my book goes back to the 1970s) that almost – A L M O S T ! – equal that which we are supposedly fighting against.

The only change post 911 has been in the continued distortion and deterioation of the concept(s) of liberty and self-determination that are the foundations of modern democracy. With that in mind, my curiousity about Europe – or the origin of all things rotten in western culture – has peaked. By chance I’ve come across a former enemy to Western Gluttony. I’m gonna try to have a bit of fun writing about him – and maybe, at the same time prove that you can – if you really try and concentrate and focus – get naked in some of this blog technology.

As mentioned here, I’ve been given the opportunity to write about Peter Hacks (an East German playwright). Since we now live in a new era where authoritarianism, totalitarianism and collective rule have easily merged with what is left of “democracy”, writing about a die-hard believer in Marxism might be fun. Either that or it might get me in some trouble.

What ever – I’m gonna keep running on this freedom-joke until the fat lady sings…

If you have the will or the desire, please visit my writing. Get it while you still can for free. Links are available here or you can go directly to The Naked Classic forum.

Good luck and rant lots,

-tgs-

PS if you accidently link to any other André Thiel site or get lost in the archaic forum interface and find yourself looking at some strange language that makes you caugh and choke. Don’t worry. It’s only German. Use your back space key or come back here and start over. (Again, good luck.)

Only once or twice have I slipped in this blog and directly posted about the/your (outside) world. More than not I have posted stuff about my own little world of failure. If you haven’t noticed by now, it’s called (Worst)Writing. I suppose the reason I do this is because, well, maybe I’m trying to raise the art of complaining. The thing is, every once-a-once something happens that digs so deep under my skin that I can explode.

I know, it’s a sign of weak character to blame others all the time for your problems. But I’m a firm believer that things are connected (you know, connected as in at the quantum level n’all). If things are connected then that means that much of what happens to someone is dependent on those connections. Having been reared and schooled in the pipe-dream known as the USA I absolutely understand the recent financial meltdown happening in the world. Of course I’m not going to get into any details of the meltdown here – there are plenty of other sources that can describe the whole mess much better.

The thing that gets under my skin is that so few people put any effort into grasping what is actually going on these days. Either that or people do get it and they are just a bunch of chicken-shits (to do anything about it). I mean, it’s probably always been like this, right? You know – the masses subjecting themselves to blissful ignorance because their credit card wasn’t rejected this week. It’s not as though this is the 21st century and for the first time in human history such a large portion of the population has access to so much information in order to judge a situation and yet …

OK. I expect too much by thinking that more people should understand the financial derivatives market. But how do so many people manage to get to Las Vegas every day? They can understand Vegas but not Wall Street? We live, swim, breath, eat, shit such inadequacy – and somehow we’re all kind of smart. (Yeah, right, compared to apes.) So you gotta ask yourself in this day and age of gluttony galore – where human beings have probably not reached the pinnacle of imitating mice running on one of them go-nowhere wheels – can it get any worse?

I’ll be the first to admit that I live off of other people. In fact, I am John Galt’s worst nightmare. The thing one should (re)consider (before judging me) is that my situation is not necessarily one of just choice. That is, I choose not to participate in this mess but that’s because there are so few choices. (See quote here from Henry David Thoreau.) Does that make any sense? I would rather wilt away and fail as a wannabe writer than work in a world of McJobs – no matter what John Galt proclaims.

The thing that John Galt (Ayn Rand) completely misses in his famous speech is to mention how “opportunity” can be turned into a commodity and hence used to quail the masses to dollar submission. I, for one, am more than willing to participate in this quagmire of gluttonous living but NOT if opportunity is owned by someone else.

So shove that up your ass John Galt!

Tip: go work in the “corporate” world and you’ll see that there is no opportunity left; there’s just the classes of college “elites” fighting over the non-existent left-overs of a fictionally extended, really grand, misconstrued thanks-giving-dinner.

The honest thing about my way of life is that I don’t it wish upon anyone else. As long as I keep myself clean and maintain a certain posture my girlfriend doesn’t mind, either. I guess it helps that I’m also pretty good at cleaning her house and cooking and walking her dog. So I suppose I kind of live in a world of luxury – less any personal material gains. If I am John Galt’s nightmare I am also Marx’s dream. Yes, indeed, everything is connected and I’m the only one to have the luck to live that connectedness.

No matter.

So many people in the deteriorating West have jobs and houses and cars and income and retirement plans and bank accounts – or they all have some form of welfare. They have all that because, for whatever reason, they thought it was their right to H A V E. They all like Christmas and children and toys and, and, and. The only thing those people will leave behind are their children. So much for the self perpetuation of self, eh. With so little history to look back upon, to avoid, to de-educate, why does it all repeat itself in the name of squeezing watermelons out of wombs?

It’s not the economy, stupid!

Take for example “Joe the Plumber“. Or what about Gayle Quinnell, the crazy lady at the John McCain rally? In my life-time (born early 60s) I’ve never seen so much human idiocy pushed to the forefront. These are indeed pretty scary times. The thing that gets under my skin is that the ignorance doesn’t stop with the so-called whatever classes – where it should probably stop. That is, the ignorance doesn’t stop with those that supposedly cannot understand (they can only talk). If the people mentioned here represent the worst of the worst then where is the – dare I proclaim – the best of the worst?

Ever hear of the likes of Andrew Lahde? Are you clueless to what a “hedge” is? As in hedge fund? Andrew Lahde recently quite his life as a hedge fund manager. He did so in grand style by writing a fairly sophisticated letter and publishing it on the web – and it has gotten quite a bit of attention. For your reading pleasure here a small outtake and here (pdf) the letter in full.

I will no longer manage money for other people or institutions. I have enough of my own wealth to manage. Some people, who think they have arrived at a reasonable estimate of my net worth,
might be surprised that I would call it quits with such a small war chest. That is fine; I am content with my rewards. Moreover, I will let others try to amass nine, ten or eleven figure net worths. Meanwhile, their lives suck. Appointments back to back, booked solid for the next three months, they look forward to their two week vacation in January during which they will likely be glued to their Blackberries or other such devices. What is the point? They will all be forgotten in fifty years anyway. Steve Balmer, Steven Cohen, and Larry Ellison will all be forgotten. I do not understand the legacy thing. Nearly everyone will be forgotten. Give up on leaving your mark. Throw the Blackberry away and enjoy life.

Unlike the dips (Gale and Joe) mentioned above, Mr. Lahde is college educated and, I think, earned something like multiple-millions of dollars managing hedges (not the shrubbery). What gets under my skin here is how the boundaries of human ignorance merge – or connect – no matter what your class. For the first time in history it’s finally clear for everyone to see that the so-called elites of the world are obviously as stupid as the non-elites. But I guess I’m the only one to see it. Yes, for a brief moment in time, the classes have blended and become one. It’s one of those rare moments where the connectedness can be seen. George Bush (Yale), Andrew Lahde (State University), Gayle and Joe the Plumber (dip-shit talking eaters). You dig what I mean?

All connected!

I will give Mr. Lahde credit for this: he has beaten me to raising the art of complaining to new heights. A privileged man yet under-privileged when compared to those he complains about from Yale/Harvard/WallStreet, etc. (Remember, he went to State university and not a private one.) Of course he hides those complaints in greater-than-though rhetoric. Or have I incorrectly read between his lines? The cream of the crop are truly the ones that get it all and yet they are not worth spit – they are only worth the phlegm of a screaming tantrum and a really big fuck you on a shocking bank statement. Yet do we have any other choice but to let them rule this/your world?

Obviously Mr. Lahde is able to quit and then laugh at those left behind. Boy, do I really feel like a failure now. I guess it’s time to pray the bull … I mean God … I mean …

Rant on.

-tgs-

Here, here and here other posts on Frankfurt Book Fair.

Oh, I remember the first time I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair. I was full of so much writing energy while walking around the fair-grounds – and perhaps I was bit drunk on optimism then, as well. How times have changed, eh? Since the fair doesn’t really do anything for me anymore – today it’s nothing more than a Vanity Fair – at least I can say that I was part of the breaking of an old record. Saturday, 18.10.08, visitors to the infamous party of publishing greatness put together by z’Germans exceeded something like 78k. Let me tell you, I was in the middle of it all. Walking around so feverishly, sometimes the hallways connecting the various exhibitions felt like greenhouses. For those who cannot fathom it, let me try to put the size of this thing in (Tommi) perspective.

The Frankfurt Book Fair is so big that after three hours I wasn’t able to see a quarter of the exhibitions. Section 8.0 (see map below) is where USA and other (let’s call them) “Anglo” publishers resided. Would you believe that you had to go through a security check reminiscent of an airport to get in? It’s true – searching rucksacks n’all! You’d think that housing the American contingency of publishers something like two-miles away from the rest of the Fair would suffice in preventing THE TERRORISTS from threatening a bunch of bookworms.

Anywho.

It’s pretty neat to see the big guns (like Random House) placed next to obscure publishers specializing in stuff like Kabbala or Pugs (as in the dogs). Section 6.x, 5.x and 4.x (see below) housed other “International” publishers (no rucksacks were checked there). You can see the activities of publishers from Guam and Peru or Pakistan and Venezuela. The gem of it all though – at least for a wannabe writer like me – is section 6.2. The entire floor is dedicated to Literary Agents. Here the high-nosed aristocracy and holders of the key(s) of fate reside with all their wheeling and dealing magic. The problem is, you can only get into 6.2 by invitation. Unless you bribe your way in like I once did. Even if/when you buy the expensive ticket to get into the fair you can’t get into section 6.2 because it’s horded off by an encompassing red-carpet and high-brow walls.

Boo-fuckin’-who, eh!

Floor plan of 08 Frankfurt Book Fair

Pretty much everything in publishing is covered at this Fair – except for something that I tend to think is missing. I mean, there’s a Comics section, a Film Rights section, Illustration & Photography Centre and a very cool Antiquarian section where some books are on display that are like a gazillion years old. But don’t go there as an unpublished writer thinking that you might make a connection and finally get your book published.

The saddest thing about the Fair is that it has absolutely nothing to do with WRITING. As stated above, this Fair is about industry vanity. It is completely absent of THE STUFF. There is nothing – and I mean absolutely nothing! – at this Fair about writing. Sure, some writers are profiled – but that’s so that more of their already written books can be sold. I don’t know about you but that seems kind of odd. I mean, where do all the books come from? Would it be too much to have a section for stuff to help aspiring authors? Or what about having something like a registration of wannabe authors and then having a day where they can go and meet with those all-knowing deciders of fate: LITERARY AGENTS? Don’t lit agents need authors? No? OK, maybe they don’t. What do I really know?

Yeah – the biggest book fair in the world and it has nothing to do with where all those books come from. Vanity is a powerful thing, eh?

Anywho.

For those aspiring writers out there I’ve decided to provide a little help instead of just complaining about being a failed (i.e. rejected) writer. The pics below are scans from both sides of the LITERARY AGENT LIST from the ‘08 Fair. When one of of the pawns-of-the-oppressor was looking away (the dunces that work the front desk and check entry passes of section 6.2) I grabbed this list. And so this is my token to all other aspiring writers out there with a chip on their shoulder for lit agents. Big fuckin’ deal, eh. The only thing I ask in return is that you treat the agents with respect. Sure, we failed writers get turned down by these agents and they ruin our days regularly, but they are pawns as well (read my rant on agents here.) Do the research and find out what is required before contacting them or submitting your work. Searching their names and checking out their websites is all it takes.

LIST OF LITERARY AGENTS ATTENDING THE FRANKFURT BOOK FAIR, 2008.

Literary Agents 08 Frankfurt Book Fair, Page 1

Literary Agents 08 Frankfurt Book Fair, Page 2

Good luck,

-tgs-

Warning. Some language and suggestive idears are used in this post. Please keep this post out of the minds of…

Yesterday I’m sittin’ and thinkin’ that maybe there is something to all this financial chaos that is going on via my Grand United Mistakes. It’s one thing to blame the turmoil on a certain group of morons but to actually go a step further, or deeper, searching for the root-cause of all this annihilating idiocy that is ruling the planet post cold war joy, now that’s a challenge. And so I have to ask: is this all about money or could it possibly be about the suits we wear?

What strikes me as a commonality and hence a potential answer as to where all this madness began is this.

Before continuing please be warned: Some might call this answer silly but an answer it is all the same – so there…

There is a pattern at the core of all this neo-con and republican madness that is ruling the world. Not to get too far off subject, but I’ve noticed a thing or two during my expatriate, view-from-the-outside perspective. Since I’m all alone here in Euroland with so many well-to-do welfare folk the only real source of info I have from back home is the Internets. Now say what you will about the madness of technology but at the least I trust in my ability to maintain a rational head, thoughtfulness and an interest in right being NOT equal to but above wrong. The blog world is such a gluttony of info, indeed, but if you can swim through it there is much to be revealed. For example, look closely at the information being transferred and you will see a pattern. It is a pattern that requires a bit of examination before deriving a conclusion. It is a pattern that is more than just the left is funny or the left is more informative or the left doesn’t point the finger at me and tell me what to do.

Since I’ve lived my short-ass life with the belief that knowledge is shit but the process of knowing is grand, I’m usually patient when it comes to figuring things out. It wasn’t always that way, though. I mean, I have been schooled by the same Anglo subjection school system as most. That means that I’m by default a follower. Hence the truth about how a man can become a man. He must always be a follower and he must always know that following, even disguised as leading, is still…. Well, you get the image.

Anywho.

Age and expatriation can play havoc on every mortal coil, but it can also be good for the libido – especially if you land in a country with such easy pussy. But being born of that which rules and then being able to separate yourself from it by taking advantage of others…. You see, there is hope that more will rise up and see through the facade that is “hope” and raise arms against his/her aggressor instead of relaxing behind the lie that is “change”.

Na. I’m just joshin’ you’all. I don’t mean no harm and I’m certainly no revolutionary with that “raise arms” comment. But I will say this. I have seen through the pattern that is the current political United Mistakes madness. I have seen through it because I was born of it. And I’ll rudely say this:

It’s nothing but a big tit.

As though some mystery were at the source, happenstance took me out of the tit-comfort of that world. I became a man in a different way. Yes, a man without a neo-con, republican tit. Yearning to suck it but never having access to it, you know, is quite a bending experience. I suppose some call that experience weening. But I’m not sure.

Of course, I could have gone completely bizirk and just jumped on a plane back home and ran to the first Wal-Mart and bought me a Mossberg buckshooter. But then I thought: what do you really want to do? Go back home where there is no production only the buying and selling of prefab housing or stay in welfare Europe where pussy is about the untruth that love and sex are the same?

What would you have done?

And so, before I lose myself in self-indignation, the pattern that I’ve noticed that rules the world right now with the buying and selling of housing and/or debt is about the suits the sellers wear. It did not take a lot of careful consideration to reach such a conclusion but it did take a lot of patience. I watched the quad-drillions of media clips of both the right and the left. Their arguing and bickering… – indeed a joke in and of itself! Then one day, just as I was about to throw-up for the umpteenth time, I noticed the suits and the fact that they all – and I mean A L L these talking heads – were rednecks in fancy suits.

Now get this. The greatest achievement of generations post baby-boom has been the creation of the lie that is suburban-hell America. The baby-boomers and their children had to have lots of room in order to build the gazillions of kingdoms that now are the United Mistakes of Suburban-Hell America. Seriously. I mean if that completely makes no sense to you then you are obviously not alone. But get drunk and give my little pseudo-theory a try. Look at all the talking heads. And languish in the dreamscape that is suburban-hell. A new universe ruled by fancy dressed rednecks.

The product of suburban-hell is...?

Rant on.

-tgs-

I’m blocked. Totally and utterly blocked. In a way it’s kind of refreshing. But I so miss the sound of typing. Would you believe that I’ve actually learned to like the sound of typing on (aghast!) a computer keyboard? But how far can that sort of thing really go?

Here some thoughts I’m calling “Panic House”. Please, don’t ask me why.

Happiness is a warm typwriter...

Some time ago I posted something here that included a link to David Foster Wallace. At the time I was very interested in him because, well, I wondered how the guy got published. (I do that a lot.) Frankly, he didn’t catch my interest at all because of the uproar regarding “Infinite Jest“. In fact, it took a while to actually break down and read a book written by someone my age that contained something like a quadrillion pages. But then when I learned he was a professor AND that he won some kind of grant with “genius” in the title, I was no longer surprised – both at the fact that he was published and that his book was a quadrillion, gazillion pages.

I found Infinite Jest very difficult to read – which lead to me to totting the thing around for weeks. The fact is, I only borrowed the book from a friend. It was the summer of 2005; I think I read about half of it. I was in the States staying with some friends. One of them told me to give the book a try; they said they didn’t get very far with it. Also, anyone with a huge reading list might sympathize with my plight here. I told my friend that I wouldn’t be able to dedicate enough time to a book that size.

“But everyone is talking about it,” she said.
“Then why didn’t you finish it,” I countered.
“Try it and you’ll know why,” she said.

When I heard the other morn that Wallace hung himself, I wasn’t surprised. He was forty-six years old. (I’ll be forty-five soon AND I prefer large caliber weaponry OR feeding myself to sharks.) What I did get out of the few pages (like five hundred of them!) I read of Infinite Jest was that, although many thought it to be a darkly hilarious book, I thought it incredibly depressing. I promised myself to get back to it as soon as I could. But I kept putting it off. But something from that unfinished experience lingered inside me. After that summer I became more and more aware of Wallace, at least via various on-line literary sources, including the Charlie Rose interview with him. Yes, perhaps Wallace might go down as a voice of a generation – but somehow I hoped that that couldn’t happen. Who knows what may come postmortem but the fact that nothing came after Infinite Jest says a lot.

I think I would have enjoyed Wallace as a prose poet. But his ability to tell a story … I mean, I love most of them really depressing Russian authors, so it’s not easy to turn me off with depressing stuff. Also, and this is gonna sound real weird, I couldn’t help but compare the nonsense of today’s political comedy shows like “The Daily Show”, and whatever sprung out of that, to Infinite Jest. It’s as though we are all over-educated characters in bad stories laughing at our own demise.

Call me a stickler or an old goat, but I don’t find reality at that level funny – I don’t care how you wrap it.

Anywho. Now I feel bad. So I ordered Infinite Jest. When it arrives two things could happen: 1) I finally finish it, or, 2) I give in to the sharks knocking at my door.

RIP Mr. Wallace.

And rant on,

-tgs-

PS Here is someone else’s post on Wallace that is more interesting.

Reading and reading, trying to get to sleep, the time ticking but I can’t hear a thing. No, it’s not the sound of my heart that I hear. It’s the sound of thoughts. So I’m reading a play that is causing me to think. Yeah. Talk about (my kind of) fun! But all these beautiful imaginative thoughts are disturbed by reality. And that’s what we all have to live with, eh? I mean, at least I still have my imagination, right? And while reading a play last night till three in the morn that imagination was running wild. The problem is I had to eventually focus on what I was reading. The typical fight between who I want to be and who I must be ensued. Who I must be won. This then caused more turmoil and even less sleep. I had to get up, break from my reading, and jot down a few notes about the other thoughts. I usually write such thoughts down in my moleskin book but last night I didn’t feel like getting up to get it (I left it on my desk in another room). So I jotted down the thought on a used tissue. Lo & behold, the tissue was consumed by my dog this morning. He eats my ear plugs, too. So this morn I spent at least an hour and four cups of coffee trying to retrace my thoughts from the night before. To no avail. There was only the wonderful dialog by Hacks and a pretty whacked-out play that I was enjoying. But I wanted the thoughts to come back to me about that WOMAN! There was nothing. Later in the afternoon while procrastinating regarding my novel Gloria, I tried to force the thoughts out. But again: nothing.

Here’s all I could come up with hacked out on an old typing machine. Yeah, at least the typing machine was fun.

Rant on.

-tgs-

This is what happens to thoughts I wish I could remember...

It’s been a few years but I still cannot remember how many “how to” books on writing I’ve read. I’m almost sure I’ve read at least two. Obviously it didn’t help much. Since I’m not writing all that much right now anywho, I reckon here’s a little bit to pass the time with.

Mr. Kurt Vonnegut, one of my favorites.

Write and Rant on,

-tgs-

Recently I’ve given humility a bit more thought. In part this is due to the German dramatist Peter Hacks (German language link). I’m writing about Hacks on another website. It’s an interesting experience, to say the least. Before even really knowing who/what this writer was all about, I jumped into his work. To my surprise, I’ve found something of an antithesis regarding how I look at playwriting and a bit regarding how I think politically. But I won’t get into that here. If you’re interested here a link to the stuff I’m writing about Hacks’ – in English.

Warning: the above mentioned author, Peter Hacks, is/was a die-hard commie. For those of you reading this you might want to take the necessary precautions in hiding the URLs or the content you’re loading into your browser. Even though McCarthyism is a thing of the past, with the current politicalization of government in the US – a great example is the republican/neo-con scandal regarding the firing of DOJ judges – one never can really know what may reemerge from the dark and lively shadows of the past. With that said, I also want to add that I was raised loving The Pledge of Negligence and waving The Stars That Strangle & The Stripes That Bite. Beyond that I love my country of birth more than it will ever love anyone else.

Humility is something the West should finally come to terms with. But I suppose that won’t be possible until all the FAILURE dressed-up as “success” is addressed. Failure is more rampant in western society and so it’s much easier to hide and/or disguise. Just walk around any Western city and watch all the people with “careers” – and at the same time watch all the people who wish to have “careers”. You can also go to Suburban wastelands and do the same comparison. Or. Have a look at the comings & goings of so-called gated-communities in the US. With that in mind, how does one deal with the fact that even if all the failure of the West were somehow curbed and/or brought under control, how would we deal with its brother-twin: humility?

Well, I have no idea.

But I will (worst)write this: as I was walking down the street today, using my partner’s iPod (so as to block out life around me and not to listen to music or podcasts or anything like that), I came across the advertisement pictured here. This is an ad-board in front of a small vegetable & fruit stand that’s about a thirty minute walk from where I live. Initially I passed it (remember: the iPod thingy) but then, twenty or thirty yards later, I stopped dead in my tracks. It registered! I turned and walked back to the sign. I starred at it, I translated it, and then spent a few seconds shaking my head before taking this pic with my phone. Eventually I reached over and started to wipe the chalk board clean with one of my fingers (I started wiping at the bottom, right corner). Luckily the owner of the stand saw me and yelled that I leave his sign alone. Of course, I left it alone. Who am I not to answer the call of authority. Oh, yeah, the text translates to…

Tomatoes that still taste like tomatoes from our growers! De037 Bio Controlled.

So… What is this sign saying? Is it advertising something? Is it telling you that the tomatoes on offer are good, bad or ugly or if they are cheaper, more expensive or for free? There couldn’t be a better example of subtext gone awry. Is this the type of command advertising that we’ll face in the future?

No? You’re not convinced of the attack on humility here?

How ’bout some tomatoes or would you prefer Tom-ah-toes?

This sign represents a/the deep seeded contempt for all things (that should be) humble. Like trying to “sell” me.

I should have taken a pic of the store, the town it’s in and the people that graze this godforsaken place. Of course, I’m making a mosquito out of an elefant… reverse that! But the text in the advert is saying something quite profound and it really has nothing to do with the selling of fruit. Or am I the only one out there, due to years of failing as a playwright, able to read subtext?

Rant on,

-tgs-

The German word for the day is: Fremdgehen. It means cheating. It’s the kind of cheating that has nothing to do with tests or filling out forms or getting US citizenship.

As some of my (worst)writing and (worst)reading friends have probably realized, I have a little bit to do with that really small country in the middle of Europe. Not only do I live against my will in said country but I also enjoy the language. More on that in sec. Of course, some call the place I live Deutschland, others call it things that … If I wrote them here I might find myself censored. That’s right. With all the talk of China censoring the Internet, they are not alone. But I won’t get into that. Unlike Germany, China has yet to find itself annexed becausing of losing some silly war. China also seems to enjoy the sadistic abuse of existing for the unholy dollar.

Digress.

Since I live in Germany I also have to find ways of getting along with the Germans. One of those ways has been to simply stop producing theater. For them, at least, it seems to have worked. For me, I’ve only avoided that impending heart attack and put my playwriting career on hold; seriously, the heart-thing hasn’t shown it’s face since I produced The Good Criminal. Of course, the Germans are still stuck with their behemoth subsidy sucking theater landscape and have yet to produce any decent actors or, goodness forbid, a writer that transcends all things German. (Which I think would be the least the Germans could do with a yearly national theater budget of almost 2 billion Euros!)

Challenge: Please tell me the name of a German playwright that has been produced in NY or London in the last few years but hasn’t worked in either city? My bet is the question cannot be affirmatively answered. Most German playwrights can only (afford to) write for their subsidized stages.

I won’t even start on German theater directors. Except to say… What would German theater directors do without the comfort of their pseudo-communist houses that all think it’s part of the game to run-up budgets in order to save their budgets?

So my quest to get along not just with the Germans but the situation of having to live here and not be able to make theater can only be summed-up via a quote from a play the likes of which could never be written by a German.

“I have always been dependent on the kindness of strangers.” -Blanche DuBois, aka Tennessee Williams, Street Car Named Desire.

Recently I came across one of those strangers. He’s a German publisher. He seems to like my blog style and also the way I complain about having to live among his kind. In the wake of this meeting he proposed that I write about a particular author. The author is dead but according to Verlag André Thiele (VAT), he is up & coming. I’ve always wanted to spend time on one particular author – outside the perverted authority of academia and whacked-out professors. The author that I get to study?

Oh. This is also kind of “Fremdgehen” – at least as far as this blog is concerned.

The author that I will be spending time with for the next eight months to a year is Peter Hacks. I’m sure I’ll post some stuff about him here later. But the key thing to keep in mind about this dude is that, in the 1950s he was one of them “intellectuals” that went from “The West” to “The East”. (Talk about Fremdgehen!) He collaborated with Bertolt Brecht and eventually achieved a certain level of fame – even internationally. I plan on reading all of his published works and will post regular articles about that work at a forum within the Peter Hacks website. The site, of course, is in German but I will posting/writing in English – the publisher wants to open Hacks up to a broader audience.

You can read my posts in a Peter Hacks forum titled The Naked Classic. I’ll also post a link in my blogroll.

Here’s to ranting about real authors – even if they were commies! Also, even though my heart is far from the place I have to live, I really love reading German.

-tgs-

On a recent trip to my home (country), with a stop-over in New York City, I had the following experience. I met a man wearing an orange suit jacket, purple pants, a gray tie and white shoes. This is NYC, I thought; there’s nothing unusual in NYC. Right? The thing is, there is nothing unusual in NYC as long as what-ever-may-be happens to others. You see, I saw that man in the strange suit numerous times while traversing the streets of NYC. The first time I saw him was probably the beginning of it all. I was having lunch in a Chinese restaurant – he was outside across the street begging for cigarettes. He was obviously good at what he does and the suit obviously helped him. He chain smoked. When I came out of Macy’s to find some relief in the sticky July air, I could see the suited man on the corner of Broadway nipping popcorn from a clear plastic bag and smoking. In the evening after a show or a visit to an “escort”, I saw the man again but this time he was drinking from a bottle wrapped in grocery-store quality brown paper and – you guessed it – smoking. This happened for three days straight. I kid you not. On the morning of the fourth day, needless to say, I was a bit worried about what would/could happen regarding this odd and unknown acquaintance. Not only was I in NYC but the atmosphere of America, my home country, obviously still hung-over from the party that is/was the beginning of a new century, was starting to look different. Had I been abroad too long? Was my expatriation starting to play havoc on my desire to go home? Had I simply missed out on a new fashion? On top of that, for whatever shopping spree reason, could my fate somehow rest in the bright colored persona of a man who was obviously stalking me? Yes, paranoia does come with age, I’ve been told. Yet whenever I look at or listen to my parents – even after all these years – I continuously say: I won’t turn out like them. It’s nothing. Really. (At least) the world is not NYC.

Anwho.

It was my last morning in NYC. After the obligatory four dollar coffee and a few more smokes outside on the sidewalk near Washington Square, I trolleyed down the road to the subway. Before descending into the bowels of the great and lost city, lo & behold, the colorful man appeared. This time, though, he appeared right in front of me. Was I startled, you might ask. No. Like life, I suppose, everything happened so fast that there was no time to think. Hence, Descartes might not quite have gotten it right; he might have gotten it backwards, though. As quick as the colorful man appeared (with a somewhat awkward smell that was a mix between Old Spice and DOT4 transmission oil) he also quickly handed me what I thought at first was a ticket for the subway. Strange, I thought. That’s what I do. Not all the time but more than not, I will buy a subway ticket and after my daily travels give the ticket to someone who may or may not need it. There’s always some money left over on the ticket. It’s usually not much but at least it puts a smile on someone’s face… in NYC. Aghast. I wanted to turn and leave as quickly as I could. My luggage was already prepared to be carried down the steps, it’s tug-bar tucked away, the skateboard-like wheels burning with anticipation. The waste basket on the street corner was near enough that I could Michael Jordon the overly expensive coffee cup right into it. Swoosh. But to no avail. Before I could run away in anticipation and fear the oddly dressed man grabbed the upper part of my left arm and the chill of confrontation finally struck lightening in my chest cavity. Would this be the moment I had been fearing ever since I first visited the city that all my redneck friends from back home warned me about? You’ll get mugged, they said. But I couldn’t get away. The street seemed empty. Yes. And I was delusional – because there is no such thing as an empty street in NYC – not even at six o’clock in the morning. Or? And then I heard his voice:

“Hey brother,” the oddly dressed man said. “Don’t you remember me? You gave me your subway ticket the other day. I wanted to thank you but you ran off so quickly. Here ya go. Returning the favor. Have a nice trip where ever you’re going. Bye now.”

I don’t remember smiling back at him. But I do remember seeing him being picked up by a van with the name “Private Party” and “Circus Clown Hire” painted on it. When I got down the long stairwell of the subway, I looked at what the clown put in my hand. I finally smiled. There was no reciprocating ticket, only three tapped together fortunes of the fortune cookies I had from my first day’s lunch. And then I recalled the moment in that Chinese restaurant. I had just finished eating. The waiter returned my change and put three fortune cookies in front of me on a little stainless steel tray. I methodically opened each cookie and lined the fortunes up on the tray. I thought: It’s not right to get three fortunes – life only needs one. And we should all cut back on the sweets. So I left my fortunes on the tray along with a comfortable tip for the waiter. Now I’m thinking, in hindsight, with these three scraps of paper, delivered by a strange clown in NYC, they don’t write fortune cookies like they used to.

Front/Back

Rant on,

-tgs-

Most folk like summer. I suppose. But what of those who do not? Are we truly – as I suspect – a minority? Or are we simply a people who should have been born under an equator? Seriously. When I was young and stupid and full of status-quo optimism, I liked summer. At the time I lived in a place where others didn’t (for whatever reason) get all the (beach/vacation) space first. (And I grew up on beaches.) Now, for me – and along with everything else – I associate summer with failure, an ending w/out a start, loss, and more than enough (day)light to allow one to comprehend failure. When I’m having a nice summer day then I usually think about words I’d like to invent. It helps me forget my failure. (Of course, a couple of drinks help, as well.)

Does it actually mean anything that summer follows spring where everything seems to be born and/or conceived and yet, in this day & age, what’s the good in that? At the least, we see where seasons of renewal have lead. Absolute nowhere. Fall and winter are nothing more than space & time where bellies can be filled with indulgence and minds can be cluttered with optimism. And even before summer is over, all of the blinding green is being spewed and expelled out of bodies in the name of Oblivia. But that’s neither here nor there.

Being a failure has it’s advantages. For one, you can always recognize failure. That’s not the case if you’re a winner. It seems that the experiments of 19th and 20th century mankind & earth have or are finally giving way to certain human realities. At the least, I don’t think that the human species was always destined to be about failure.

For example. I recently heard an interesting term: “Failing upwards”. As soon as I heard the term I thought: wow, are others getting in on my little secret and finally starting to see the light? (It is summer time!) The term refers to the political antics of the last twenty – maybe thirty – years where folk get ahead (professionally, economically) by doing nothing to warrant their position(ings). It doesn’t sound like much now but for someone that grew-up in the lie that “you can even be president”, well, nuff said. Of course, there are laws in countries protecting wealth and achievement based on (objective) merit. But who has made any laws governing the subjectivity of “merit”? Isn’t the likes of political and economic conservatism just like that? I’m recalling a moment during the last US presidential election. It was 2003/4, right? Then that THING was re-elected and the first thing I thought about was my favorite word: Oblivia. I know, the word doesn’t exist but then again who cares. We live in a world where everything is achieved through nothing. At the least, in all my failure, I deserve this word – my own little word – in my own little world.

Rant on.

-tgs-

Warning: sexually explicit material is contained in this post. Vulgar language is also used. If you do not like cursing or suggestive language, then please go here. You’ll be much happier in the end.

Initial post here.

This is potentially a book review. I think. But also be warned: If you plan on reading this book when it comes out in English then you might want to steer away from this post. I’ve taken the liberty of my own English translation of some of the text. But don’t worry, I won’t reveal everything. I’m not sure if this is legal either – so please, no one send me money for this.

Ironically or not, the cover of the book is pink and includes the raised image of a bandage. Underneath the bandage is the title in a dot-matrix Teutonic kind of font. Every time I picked up the book while reading it I thought there used to be only one application of the color pink that I do not hate. Luckily this book deals with that one thing whole heartily.

As noted in in my previous post, this book has received a lot of attention. As of March, 2008, it has sold more than 500k copies. At one point it was even number one on Amazon.com. That might not sound thrilling but when you consider that it reached the top of the list while published in German… Well, that’s something. Again, let me make sure that got across so that other (worst)writers and (worst)readers get it. This book reached the top selling list while printed in German on the “.com” and not the “.de” of Amazon. As a wannabe struggling writer who writes in English but lives in Germany… Holy shit! I’m the one who needs a bandage.

With that in mind, my hat is off and I bow deeply to Charlotte Roche. Say what you want about this book – it’s either bad-mouth pornography or it’s new-fangled erotic literature – but Roche did a pretty good job writing it. One of the basic criteria I have for good writing is when an author makes me think. I don’t care about grammar, structure or formula. Writing should be solely about creativity and passion. This book has a lot of both – if you can get through the smut. That’s the only criticism I have of the book. There’s simply too much smut and other nonsense which takes away from getting any protagonist message across. But I’ll leave it at that – because I’m not a critic.

The heroine of the book is Helen. She’s 18 and somewhat perturbed. I think. Here’s how she opens the story (Tommi translation):

“As far as family goes, taking care of the elderly means a lot to me. Just like any other child with divorced parents, I wish my parents would get back together. When my parents require elderly care the first thing I’m gonna do is put their new partners in a nursing home. Then I’m gonna take my divorced parents home, put them in the same bed, and take care of them till they die. It will be a moment of happiness for me. So all I have to do is wait patiently. I have the situation under control.”

After that all you get is more than two hundred big-fonted pages of hemorrhoids, vaginal fluids, one-afternoon-stands, and a few lines of girly-wisdom that perhaps this media driven world could put to use. Oh, there’s also the underlying emotional pain of a young woman and her having to finally grow up. If you can get past the nonsense of a young girl’s obsession with herself – in the form of consuming, utilizing and sharing every fluid or particle that the female body makes – then you will get to the soul of a person whose feelings are so hurt that an/her anus (kinda) explodes. Helen tells the story from the hospital bed where she has to have an operation on an/her anus. It seems, as part of her girl-body obsession, she cut her anus while shaving. Yeah, right.

While reading Feuchtgebiete I kept thinking of two things. One was how they are going to translate the title. Thus far I’ve seen articles using “Wetlands”. I don’t think that works at all. My preference would be “Girl Things Wet”. Luckily I’m no translator. The second thing I kept thinking about were the cheap paperback porn books that I read when I was young. (Seriously. I only read the stuff.) You know, the books where IT was called jism/jizm and the word fuck somehow never reminded one of “fuck you, asshole”. Am I the only male born after 1960 to have read “A Man With A Maid” written by Anonymous? (Please, don’t make fun of the books I’ve read.) The only thing that really bugged the do-dads out of me while reading Roche’s book was the amount of (for lack of better terminology) descriptors that eventually leads to the strangest kind of wisdom. Here some of Roche’s/Helen’s wisdom (Tommi translation):

“It’s only a fantasy if you get horny thinking about it.”

“Once I did a coffee peepee test. My father taught me this. When you get up in the morning you have to pee because your bladder collects everything overnight. Once you’ve emptied yourself in the morning you’d think that all the pee was out of your body. Then when you drink a cup of coffee your body is so poisoned that it collects more water in order to clean everything out. As soon as you finish your coffee you pee more fluid then the coffee you actually drank. I’ve proved it, I used a coffee cup one morning and it overflowed with pee. I proved my father correct that coffee dehydrates. My mother wasn’t happy at all because she doesn’t think urine should be in a coffee cup.”

(After claiming that tampons are a waste of money): “The other half I fold long-ways till I have a long thin clothe. Then I roll it in small, tight stages till it becomes the shape of a thick wurst and then shove into my pussy as high as it’ll go. How’s that! American tampon industry.”

Dear (worst)reader/writer, I’m sorry, but the following I can’t (won’t) translate, because, well, I don’t even know what the fuck it means – but it sounds kind of cool in a German sorta way: “Trauerwettstreit gewonnen durch vergezogene Trauerarbeit.”

(Helen speaking to herself): “Don’t be disappointed. The next self-fuck will be better, Helen, I promise.”

After eating a bugar: “There’s nothing on my body that my fingers can leave alone.”

About boys: “For a boys eighteenth birthday their parents always invite them to a local whorehouse.”

Sex while menstruating: “A good pirate sticks it in the red sea.”

Beyond all the wisdom there’s a bunch of interesting German words that Roche uses in her cute little novel. I know this might sound strange – especially for those who think the German language is more like barking – or am I the only one that thinks that? Anywho. German can be a fun language when it comes to putting words together to say something specific. Here a few examples with rough Tommi translations:

• Fickverabredung = fuck + appointment.
• Käsebaby = cheese + baby; I have no idea what this word was/is supposed to mean; yeah, author, entangle me.
• Rübbelkönigin = something about rubbing her pussy and being the queen (the best?) at having an orgasm while doing it.
• Körperausscheidungsrecyclerin = body + expulsion + recycling.
• Muschirosapink = the color of a black woman’s vagina.
• Blutschwesternschaft = blood-sisters; the ceremonial sharing of menstrual blood. But! It’s more something like the American Indian “blood brothers” thing. I guess.
• Fickurheber = fuck + initiator; Helen cuts a hole in her panties when she’s on a date with someone she wants to fuck, that way, when petting gets going, the guy is surprised but gets the message that she wants to fuck without having to go through all the rigmarole of a date. (Where were these chicks when I was young?)
• Rasurhindernisparcours = razor + obstacle + horse-show-jumping-course; the name she gives the rim of her anus as someone is shaving her/it.
• Sexandenkenkaubonbon = sex + souvenir + chewable candy; she’s describing the stuff that’s left over after sex and what she does with it.

Last but not least, here are three words that Helen gives to the most precious of her female parts. I’ll leave translation up to your imagination or your ability to research. Seriously, I’m tired of all this nasty stuff.

• Vanillekipferln
• Hahnenkämme
• Perlenrüssel

Although the writing is at times very trying – especially for someone who ONLY read porn when it was innocent, this is a fun read and has a creative, if not profound, ending.

Rant on.

-tgs-

]]> http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/2008/06/20/feuchtgebiete-girl-things-wet/feed/ 1 Tommi http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/aldi-or-yet-another-analogy-for-the-future-part-2/ http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/2008/06/18/aldi-or-yet-another-analogy-for-the-future-part-2/#comments Wed, 18 Jun 2008 12:52:29 +0000 Tommi http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/?p=722 ]]>

Part 1 is here.

This is yet another part in my continuing saga of HAVING to live among the Germans. Please forgive me in advance – and try to find humor where there is none. With that in mind, I started Part 1 so many months ago with “I found out what is wrong with Germany…” Of course, I didn’t actually find out anything. But that’s not the point of writing in a blog, now is it?

Anywho…

The Germans have done a few things right since the days of doing all things wrong. For one, they build pretty good cars. No. Wait…

I’m still quite angry that Germans don’t have one – NOT ONE – alternative fueled vehicle in the production pipeline. Also, since I’ve been driving various German cars since the nineties, as far as build quality is concerned, they are doing the same thing Detroit did back in the seventies. Just making ‘em cheaper and cheaper. The difference to American cars, though, is that even the cheaper German cars go like hell. I wonder if the reason Germans don’t have alternative powered cars is because they know something about gas supplies that other countries don’t know? Go figure…

Another thing Germans do right are Autobahns. Even though currently most of their Autobahns serve as government subsidized work placement programs, there are still parts of the A3, the A2 and my particular favorite the A27 (between Bremerhaven and Cuxhaven), where you can drive so fast that the horizon snaps shut before your eyes have time to blink. Seriously. At the risk of bragging and making a fool of myself because of the outrageous carbon footprint that I leave behind – I comfortably admit that, when possible, I drive at speeds of and around 240km/h. Don’t get me wrong. It’s an absolutely crazy thing to do. If I could afford it, I would take the train. But Germany, like so many other western countries, is a slave to invention. The train system here sucks and is in no way competitive with a car. Shame really!!!

Let me put the speed-thing in perspective. For you NASCAR lovin’ mama-boys out there, get this: when I’m in a good mood, when the weather is sparky and I have no family members in the vehicle, when my contact lenses are clear and there’s no stress ringing in my ears, I sometimes drive a well-powered Audi at speeds (on public highways) faster than those who win at Dover International Speedway. Now if that won’t motivate young men (with a driver’s license) to come over here and experience Oktoberfest… I don’t know what else should.

Warning: this is not an advert. Seriously.

The last thing Germans do right that I’ll address here has nothing to do with cars. It has to do with the only other invention that should be recognized as its industry’s VW Bug. I’m talking, of course, about Aldi – the discount supermarket chain where practically every continental German speaking person has at one point or other in their lives bought something. I have a thing for Aldi.

“Aldi” is short for Albrecht Discount. The little stores have also been called “Albrecht’s Fine Foods” or ” Albrecht Delicatessen”.

I’m not kidding. Today every continental German speaking person buys something at Aldi at sometime or other. That’s a business taking in money from well-over a 100million people. Such success has made the founders of Aldi, the Albrecht brothers, the richest men in all of Germany – and they regularly make the Forbes richest schmuck list. Say what you want about rich people, Bill Gates included, but there’s good reason the Albrecht brothers are swimming in cash. It boils down to Aldi just being plain good at what they do. Which is not something you can claim of companies like Wal-Mart. I’m a regular Aldi goer and I don’t think I’ve ever bought anything from that store that was necessary to throw out because it was junk. Do I need to mention Wal-Mart again? Wait a sec…

Oh no, that’s not true. I’m just exaggerating because this is potentially a post that a German might read and then say, “hey, this (American) guy complaining about Germany all the time ain’t all that bad.” So I did buy one of them multi screw-drivers at Aldi once and I had to throw it out after it broke. But hell, it only cost something like five Euros. It worked up until I used it to try and unscrew some heavily rusted bolts while replacing a thoroughly rusted exhaust pipe – where it simply snapped in two pieces. I went through two other tools during that escapade, as well. But I don’t remember where I bought those tools.

Aldi’s secret of success (according to Tommi) is this. Dictate to manufactures a certain quality and then buy & sell volume. Nothing unique there – except maybe the dictate part. The thing that Aldi seems to do different than other discounters is that it retails fairly good quality stuff.

Cheap is one thing, but cheap quality is another.

Aldi was the first discounter of its kind to sell real Champagne – as in Champagne, France – for something like 15,- Euros a bottle. It’s a bit sweet but what the heck – chicks love that shit. So you can accredit Aldi for helping weak-ass German boys getting laid. (German women love the bubbly.) Aldi also gets North East American fisheries to ship over frozen, whole Lobsters, and then sells them for something like 7,- Euros. I’ve had them. They’re great. Needless to say, when the lobsters arrive there’s a run on all the stores. But then there’s the wine. I’ll keep it short and just say, Aldi features some of the best wines from Chile to Italy and they cost half of what they’d cost elsewhere.

There’s lots more on wine here.

When I was still working as an industry analyst one of the companies that I had to research was Aldi. Of course, like many other analysts, I got nowhere. It’s not because I couldn’t find the information – I was a great researcher – but because Aldi is collectively tight lipped. It is a private company and therefore not required to release any information – at least there’s a serious clamp on info regarding how it makes so much damn money. Even the people that work the registers are told that they should never answer any questions asked about the business.

And now on to the ANALOGY that would never be.

Businesses that make the kind of money that Aldi does usually fall to the whims of cycles and downturns or whatever. Or does that only apply to companies that are dependent on the loan-capital derived from being on a stock exchange? Didn’t UPS used to be one of the most successful companies NOT trading a stock? In fact, it wasn’t till 1999 that UPS went public. But I’m not here to bash the current and obvious ill-nature of the stock market. Aldi pushes along and just keeps making more and more money – and is not publicly traded. It is simply a no-frills company – which is reflected in its stores the world over – and seems to focus solely on a level of end consumer quality that is, in my opionion, unmatched – at least in the German market.

So what am I really addressing here?

This may be both a bit pretentious and naive but what the heck. Aldi represents not just an untapped business principle but also a principle that could/should apply to life: balance. It seems that a company like Aldi can balance the madness between supply and demand like no other retail company. In fact, in my whacked-out way of seeing things (aka Tommism), most corporations and their constituencies are only interested in annihilating at least one part of the supply and demand equation that has ruled our lives since Adam Smith first blew his nose. Obviously I’m no economist and I haven’t worked in management consulting for more than eight years – so I might be way off base here. It’s just that when I sit back and look at how things work in our Western Mess… Our corporate consuming situation is unsustainable. So I’ve been looking for examples that potentially are sustainable. I mean, come on, Aldi is rarely in the press for any controversy and more importantly, its employees all seem to be content with their earnings. Wow. Talk about balance. Business Balance?

Have I coined a phrase?

I’ve heard some say that the reason Wal-Mart pulled out of Germany was because of Aldi. The thing about Euro business is that companies have to yield (the word “yield” is not part of the German language which you can also see on the Autobahns) in some way or other to governments. Where American neo-con/Republicans hypocritically claim to be all about reducing government in the “markets”, Euro companies gladly oblige governments – as at times governments seem to fill the employer/employee gap that has so obviously been part of the downfall of corporate Americano. For companies like Wal-Mart “balance” has to be an unfathomable concept.

Rant on. I have to go to Aldi and get some bubbly.

-tgs-

More on manuals here and here.

It was quite a search. I concluded that there were basically two choices to ever owning one of these things. As usual I was wrong. You can read more about Rooys here. To some, this very compact and interestingly designed typewriter is considered a “holy grail”. But now that I have one, I would never go so far.

It’s just a neat old typewriter. Seriously.

The two choices that I had to deal with are/were: I would have to get a Rooy with a AZERTY keyboard (French) – as they are sometimes available in France. But I have a hard enough time having to switch between QWERTZ & QWERTY. The other choice would be to sell a few body parts to be able to afford one. But I like having both my kidneys. I know it sounds silly, but get this: last year I watched an auction on that silly-auction-website where a person in Kentucky, USA, was selling a clean, QWERTY Rooy with a “buy-it-now” button. He wanted fifteen hundred dollars for the thing. Thank goodness, he didn’t sell it.

I got (real) lucky. I think.

I was watching the German version of that silly-auction-website and came across something one night that immediately drew my attention. I knew that the German owner didn’t know what he was actually selling. The sticker on the top of the machine says “Union” and so, he titled his auction something like: “Union Schreibmaschine – Hergestellt in Canada. Alt aber im guten zustand. Etc., etc.” Talk about clueless. He mistook an English spelling of a patent notification on the inside cover of the machine for the country of manufacture.

What’s the old saying? One man’s sorrow is another man’s… Whatever.

The design of this machine is unmistakably Rooy. There is no other typewriter like it. You open it up, fold it over, lay it on top of itself and that’s that. You do the opposite to close it up. The cover is literally the bottom of the machine when you open it up and supports the typing mechanics with a unique drop-down doorway that allows such a thin design. This machine was sold as the thinnest typewriter ever. How mistaken the marketing pundits were. It’s only “thin” when it’s folded up. Still, it is in demand among typing enthusiasts – including yours truly. I searched for the right one for more than a year. I have touched and smelled and felt Rooys at various German, Belgian and French antique markets where owners proudly say: “Two hundred Euros – but you have to buy it now because someone else is very interested.” At the next market I see the same guy and machine and he wants three hundred. Yeah.

When I found this one on that silly-auction-website I laughed at the Frenchman. Then I ended up bidding against a few others who I suspect also realized what was actually being sold. In the end it was the most I ever paid for an old, mechanical typewriter. (But it was also less then what the Frenchman was asking.) It was worth it because it has the right keyboard and it was/is in great shape. Needless to say, I was nervous waiting for the mail-man to deliver it.

This particular Rooy is branded “Union”. It was not uncommon for manufacturers to re-label their products for various markets. I’m assuming that this brand was part of what was sold to the German, i.e. QWERTZ market. It was in such good shape when it arrived and required only a few hours of elbow-grease before I was typing away. But after a bird’s-eye view of this machine, it’s really not worth the fuss – unless you get it for cheap. Call me a stickler. Sure the design is neat but the thing is… my Hermes and Kolibri are both smaller and flatter and nothing, other than a Lettera 22, types as good as the Hermes. But who cares. It’s a Rooy.

No rant today.

-tgs-

Update: Tommi review of this book available here; it includes some English translations.

OK. Time to break down. Thought I wouldn’t be posting anything new for awhile. But then… something happened – and It’s not what you might think. Recently it took more than four days to get over the anesthesia of a relative minor operation, followed by countless tablets of various pharmaceutical whatnot and hellacious amounts of red wine – and then something has come along to push me beyond the bliss of sedentary (un)imagination. Oh yea. This happening, this something, is like a new awakening put forth through some cynical and, perhaps, diabolical plot planned both in my brain-stem and the various compulsive behavior cubicles of modern corporate publishing houses.

The whole idea of actually writing something that a publisher would want to read is leaving me as slow as the whole idea of actually getting published at this late phase of a very unsuccessful (worst)writing life. And then, right out of nowhere, comes another reminder that THINGS can actually get worse – faster.

Where does it comes from? It comes from a short novel published in pink (sorry, this is a completely unrelated link, aka self-promotion) and written in German by some very nice, sweet lookin’ girl that used to work for MTV Germany or VIVA (the German language MTV equivalent) and basically deals with … the vagina. I guess.

In no way do I want to make fun of the success of English born, German writing Charlotte Roche. Nor do I want at this point to actually admit that I’ve read Feuchtgebiete – or “Wetlands” (or whatever the English publisher will title it). But I did spend about twenty minutes at a local German book store (near Frankfurt) a few months back and glanced through this highly successful first novel. Naturally, I picked it off one of the shelves covering an entire wall of the store like wall-paper because, well, I thought, gee, this book must be abuzz with reading consumer desire (if there is such a thing) if it can occupy so much selling space. Either that or it contains a lot of frat-party language regarding all things that cause pale faces to blush.

Don’t worry. I plan on reading it asap, and then posting more about it on this site. It’s sudden success has even pushed it above Jonathan Littell’s book on my reading list.

After I do finally read it, my thoughts on it will not matter. This book is a runaway success and it hasn’t even been translated beyond the beloved language that can bark so poetically. Not unlike the feelings I had to deal with when Christina Kettering and her FIRST play blew me away…. It doesn’t matter what this novel is about. Perfectly marketed pseudo-porn or whacked-out feminism gone awry, I wish the world would be full of these types of books instead of krapp like this.

My only solace is that these writers are obviously not (worst)writers. I wish them all much success.

In the mean time, if you want to read more about this amazing achievement here a few legitimate links:

Interview with Charlotte Roche.

She’s even in the NY Fucking Times!

And the fucking Economist.

The Guardian and Charlotte.

Rant on.

-tgs-

Update: scratch the next indented paragraph. I will be posting more. I’m actually starting to feel better. I think.

Won’t be posting much this summer – at least I don’t think I will. Need to give this a break, maybe. Yeah. Whatever.

It has become an issue of contemplation recently. Giving up on this blog. Maybe it’s time to hang it up. Oh the monotony. The duplicity. Repetitive humdrum. Have been sporadically posting anywho the past few months. This whole blog thing was a neat experiment, I guess. But I have to face facts. The work on my new book has come basically to a full-stop. I’m not quite sure how to explain the connection but when the work on my book was going well I could also post here. It’s as though typing 2k to 3k words a day on my book wasn’t enough – so I filled the gap with putting stuff up here. Nomatter, for sure. The book is going nowhere and I feel that I have probably lost a connection to it. A tragic endeavor, indeed.

It’s not that I’m blocked or anything like that. It’s just that the confidence – you know, that whole identity, image and ego chestnut that makes up one of the many pillars that sets aside achievers from non achievers – is no longer with me. Being a middle aged failed man doesn’t help either. I really despise the bitter disposition that has overtaken me. Add to the fact that I can no longer fight the belief/idear, deep down in my heart of hearts, that it probably just wasn’t meant to be. This whole dream of WRITING. In fact, I’ve probably known that all along. But hey! What the heck. That’s the easiest thing about life, isn’t it?

Lying to yourself.

And so… All the years of arm-chair critics, pseudo-know-it-all publishers and the shear unwillingness to take any advice regarding how to write… is coming full circle. No one in publishing will read me and I can’t fight the fight anymore. Pass another drink, my friends. Gulp, gulp. Soothe the bitterness.

This inevitable failure kinda reminds me of something. Like the time when I gave up acting. Oh, what a time. I was young and stupid and looked fairly decent and went to the movies one too many times. Yes. I tried acting at the behest of a high-school counselor that declared it might be a way to fend off my aggressions. (Her other “career” advice was to either be a truck driver or a air traffic controller.) So it was a kind of therapy, I guess. I had no idea what acting was about when I started and after being able to watch all those good lookin’, skin caring actresses, nothing else mattered. When I got to college I read scripts and plays and listened to acting teachers. I had a hard time remembering text but I eventually got over that. The directors demanded more though – as they should have. I gave it my all, really. Pretending became part of my mind. I wanted to go beyond “method“, you know. I was the character. And then that one spring day while rehearsing a scene for a university production the director/professor turned to me and said:

“OK. Stop. That was great, Tom, very good.”

Short pause.

“Tom. Are you OK? You can stop now…”

I heard the directors words. I even knew that the other actors had turned off. They were all going to their ego corners and waiting for the praise, the ego boosts that come after each rehearsal. But I stayed there on stage, I remained on my markers, my skin began to tan from the beam of light and the trance I was in. I remember not wanting to move because if I moved then I might not find that character, that way, again. I couldn’t turn it off.

“You wanted me to become this killer character, didn’t you!” I yelled.

“Tom, that’s enough!” One of the other actors screamed.

“Fuck you. I became your killer, I am your killer, and I won’t turn it off!”

One of the actresses came over and tried to remind me of the show & tell, the pretend that we all played. She even mentioned how much she looked forward to our evening in her dorm room. But I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t let go of any of those roles. They tore me apart because in order to play them I had to become them. Isn’t that acting? Isn’t that what makes all the high earning actors so prominent? Why, yes. That’s exactly what makes them great actors. They could not only play the characters but they could also turn them off. But I couldn’t. I wonder if it had anything to do with the characters I chose (or the characters that were chosen for me).

I (tried to) play(ed)…

Iago – who, like Satan, believes in God for the sole purpose of also being able to defy Him.

Cornwall – I offered up ways to depict the torture that he wanted to put Lear through, but in the end I was denied because the professor/teacher thought my portrayal “overkill”. (Ha. Ha. Ha.)

Richard III – Yes, of course I (really) believed in killing those children. (I didn’t make it beyond stage test.)

Aaron the Moore – Oh, to be someone that can be so systematic about rape.

For whatever very good reason – I gave up on acting. Obviously that was the right thing to do. The idea of playing something else just didn’t work for me. Strange how giving up on writing actually hurts – at least it hurts when I’m sober.

Since we’re on the subject… Oh, how I admire great actors. I mean “actors” that really know what they are doing. I’m not aware of any such actors today – they are all in the past. Maybe that has something to do with acting on/for the stage. Most actors today are just products of some dim-witted acting school and few stage appearances. If there are any good actors today then you can be assured that they appear regularly on a stage somewhere. Which brings me to the clip featured below. I have seen every movie Marlon Brando ever made at least three times. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it was to recently find this unseen footage of him.

As you’ll note, this is Marlon Brando screen testing for “Rebel Without a Cause”. As you should also know, the movie was eventually made with James Dean. But the shear energy from a young Brando in this clip shows that the movie would have been just as good with him. Also, in my opinion – this is likewise just a guess – I bet James Dean stole some of this. Notice the lisp Brando uses, and some of the facial expressions. I mean, come on, could a director have actually told Brando AND Dean to do that? Dean was energetic and his energy amazed, he was bedazzling, but Brando is my Grand United Mistakes’ greatest actor. (Just my 2cents.) Ah, who knows. Maybe a director could have told them both to do that.

Rant on.

-tgs-

This is a very special pic for me. I took it with a mobilephone. I’ve never been much for photography, but when I started using a mobilephone camera my attitude changed. I won’t go as far as to say it’s a hobby or anything like that or that I would venture to buy a “real” camera. The simple and somewhat backward way these dumb-down devices make pictures is kinda cool. To me that’s ironic – you know, since there has been so much human effort, investment and activity revolving around mobilephones. This may sound way-out-there but I think of CrackerJack and the prize within each time I take a picture. Anywho. Sometimes the pictures I take are granny, sometimes they are out of focus, usually they are always lacking light, or they’re just plain bad. Then I think of all those Nokia engineers and computer programmers, they too must know the CrackerJack prize – or the fact that, suddenly, without notice, they would not only be the largest producers of mobile phones but also over take the likes of Kodak and Polaroid and Cannon, etc., as the world’s single largest producer of “cameras”. Wow-wee!

This picture here came out pretty good, I think. It’s of a mountain range in Thailand. We were driving from Kao Lak to Phang-Nga Bay, you know, James Bond Island. (Yes, sometimes I’m a tourist and like it.) The driver stopped the car right in the middle of the road half way through the hour or so ride. He asked us to step out. He then pointed to the mountain and in fairly good English asked what we saw. I exploded with excitment and yelled: I see her! I see her. He looked at me and said. “Very good. Not many get it that fast.”

I guess I’m kind of a feminine driven visual guy.

I’m posting this picture today because this day, May 7, is a special day. It’s not really special in an optimistic way but it’s also not special the other way ’round. With this picture I celebrate the feminine and my failure with her. Yes. May 7. Never my lucky number.

-tgs-

Warning A: this post contains some stark language, it also has some suggestive and/or sexist stuff in it and it reveals the plot of one of 2008’s highest earning movies.

Warning B: this is a poor attempt at reviewing a movie. You have been warned.

Although I am a failed writer, I do not wish to join the ranks of other failed writers and thereby become a film critic. It’s just that, well, I’m having a hard time being (worst)writer right now and I have to have some form of outlet. The whole compulsive typing thing doesn’t do it for me all the time. At the least, this is better than running amok. Right?

When I was young I read comics. Not a lot, mind you, but every once-a-once I stole a comic here or there and enjoyed them while all the other boys stole playboy, jugs or hustler, etc. Of course, all those other boys got caught and faced some serious consequences. Their crime was usually in full view as it hung out of their zipper. On top of that, there is the value to society of what they stole. They say that crime doesn’t pay – but paying for crime does. And all is not lost with these lost boys that became found men.

Moving on to the lolly point I will fail to make.

One of my favorite comics is Iron Man. I don’t like all of Stan Lee’s/Marvel Comics creations, but Iron Man and Spider Man are two of my favorites. I also admire Lee for authoring so many characters. (My all time favorite is Batman, but he’s from DC Comics.) Anywho. Yesterday I took my son to see Iron Man, the movie. Just like when I saw Spider Man 1 (yeah, 2 & 3 sucked!), the joyous feeling that is/was the freedom of youth came back to me while sitting in a cinema seat. I once again found thoughts of self-built tree houses or day-time bonfires. While all the other blokes were gagging themselves with perfectly manicured pussies from high-gloss magazine paper, I was grasping at the hope that there were, somehow, real heroes in a world where men can so easily make children and then leave them fatherless.

A great substitute for not having a biological father is going to the friggin’ movies where magic and mystic stand above dogma. Most of the time, anyway. I can’t make clear enough how important and thought provoking ideas like immaculate conception were to my youth. Make-believe in movies saved me from religious righteousness and doom.

Wow, doggy. You way off topic now.

The weather recently broke in Germany. That means that after more than half a year, the sun came out. So I didn’t want to spend too much time indoors. But I had been talking to my son for weeks about the premier of what I hoped would turn out to be a cool film. As far as I’m concerned, and I don’t care how silly some people think it is, going to some superficial, brain-dead cinematic entertainment with your son is a pretty cool thing to do. Fortunately for me, my son and I have a few things in common and we like each others company a whole lot.

It’s Sunday morn. We were both excited. The film started at 11:00am. Over two hours of celluloid fun. We kept hitting each other to indicate what scene was cool. I have a sore upper arm as I right this and I wish my son were with me right now to hit me again. We laughed and went WOW simultaneously in the movie lit theater. What joy, indeed.

After the film we walked down the street and felt the warmth of entertainment run through us. We basked in the artificiality of super-hero worship. We joked about having popcorn for breakfast. Being with my son when he is happy is the most wondrous of human experiences. It is the only thing I will miss in death. Oh, I’ll also miss conversations/questions beginning with: “Daddy…?” or “Hey Dad…” The sun felt good, too.

Film.

For those who don’t know anything about this comic book hero… Robert Downey Jr. has become Tony Stark, aka Iron Man. He is the weapons guru of the American Way of Life, Inc., and one of the richest men in the Marvel Comics Universe. Although I liked/enjoyed the movie, I have a problem with its makers. Downy Jr. does a half-baked job of portraying Iron Man/Tony Stark and that’s not his fault. I mean, come on, what can we really expect from “actors” these days? They have comic books from the sixties to show the world how well they’ve honed their craft. (I wonder whose fault that is.)

Cynic.

Robert Downey Jr. plays a run of the mill, college grad, Bill Gates success-story cynic. The character immediately got me thinking that when I read the comics as a kid I don’t remember Stark being THAT cynical. I really tried to dig deep down to find any cynicism in those old dilapidated comic magazines that remained in my memory. Walking down the street with my son didn’t help matters. He just kept saying, “Dad, what is a cynic?” He’s going to be eleven soon.

The makers of this film should have caught what I consider a continuity problem and fixed it before release. It all starts fairly early in the movie/scene where Tony Stark meets a hot-chick with that atypical “come over her and fuck me look” on her face. The actress quickly turns the flirtatious scene into the sub-plot of the movie that dabbles in Hollywood’s stereotypical innuendo regarding American foreign policy and weapons dealing. Then she fucks Tony Stark. Afterwards, and as women obviously should be portrayed in this day & age of feminism and/or emancipation, Tony Stark goes about his business of being a cynical, sexually satisfied, super rich American male that is also a soon-to-be hero. Ain’t that cynically cool…

Hollywood or No-Hollywood. I have dabbled in the world of cynicism. To me, cynicism can be something wonderful. But not everyone agrees. “Cynicism is the/a sign of a weak mind,” I think I heard someone once say. Or were they referring to sarcasm? No matter. Same difference. As far as I’m concerned, the thing about cynicism is that it doesn’t translate well. It doesn’t translate well from country to country or from screen to audience. Isn’t cynicism one of them double-edged sword kind of things? Also – and here’s the crux of what I’ll eventually fail to get at – I think cynicism works best when it’s unexpected.

Does revealing the plot of a Hollywood blockbuster really matter? Especially when endings are so obvious?

After Tony Stark has his way with the obvious super smart and sure-of-herself Vanity Fair reporter Christine Everhart – played by the actress Leslie Bibb – he asks his assistant the next morning, Pepper Potts – played by the lovely Gwyneth Paltrow – to show the super hot reporter the way out. Pepper Potts does exactly what she’s told. Stark is obviously too busy working. Pepper Potts eventually returns to Tony Stark where he asks her: “Did she take it well?” What Stark is referring to, cynically of course, was whether the “come over here and fuck me look” reporter/character dealt well with the fact that she was left alone after the one-night-stand chestnut that we all just love to nibble at and never really bite into.

Character.

As (worst)writer, one of the things I’m most interested in is character development. Unfortunately, in order to develop a character you have to meticulously write that character. You also need a substantive story to go with that character. For me, the above mentioned scene towards the beginning of the film is a border-line devastating moment that was completely missed by the movie’s makers. That is, the scene corresponds with a later scene – and I don’t think the film makers knew that while they were making this movie. Either that or they are die-hard cynics and don’t give a hoot about audience intelligence. But I won’t get off subject. What is actually being done in this new blockbuster movie is one of the best examples I’ve seen yet of movie makers using the “screen persona” of an actor to fill in the gap of all that is missing.

Seriously. Trust me on this. I’ve worked in theater. I’ve actually worked with “actors”. No matter what you think or admire about actors – most of them are numskulls. Just like the rest of us. Seriously.

Does anyone get what I’m saying here? Then let me try this. Tom Hanks, Robert Di Nero, Jimmy Stewart, etc., etc. all have earned most of their “acting” wealth by playing themselves. They don’t “act” in most of their movies. They play their screen persona – it’s something like typecasting on steroids. Acting can be very grueling, you know. This new form of typecasting can be very profitable. Hollywood needs blockbusters! Right?

You know, acting requires you to read and memorize a lot … of words. It’s kind of like work where you can get drunk or stoned to do it. But that’s not the hard part. The hard part is systematically pretending with all those memorized words and becoming what you are not. Goodness forbid, I hope the shitting ghosts of Lee Strasberg or Stanislavski aren’t reading this while sitting on the krapper. On the other hand, we all have to do what we have to do. Right? After a certain point of dealing with the circus that is Hollywood, actors either completely commit to living/being their “screen persona” or they fall to meekness and wonder where their next million is gonna come from. Unless, of course, you’re Marlon Brando, Robert Redford, George C. Scott…

Rejuvenate or regurgitate typecasting. Or. Tommi’s version of Character Continuity – the problem with this movie.

What I like to refer to as Character Continuity requires that the actor remain in character for the the entire plot of the movie. I guess, if you change the plot, you can change the character. But who wants to see that? It’s like when an actor mistakingly looks into the lens of the camera – and the director forgets/misses to edit that out. I know, I’m referring to a comic book film here. But still. I’m middle aged. I’m a failed writer that has seen seen all there is to see – in movies. And there I sat in the cinema thinking: hey, I could have written that screenplay a hundreds times better and it would have done Downy Jr. an even bigger favor because I know that as a writer you shouldn’t let editors do your work.

What am I really saying? Nothing. The film is a $200+m hit in its first weekend. And I’m the only one to see its error. Oh, it’s lonely in Tommi-land today. So… Fuck it. I’m going to give the plot away. Deal with it.

Tony Stark has a fairly silly terrorist-based existential experience which leads him to question whether or not he has done the right thing in becoming the universe’s richest weapons maker. Subsequently he changes and instead of wanting to sell weapons he wants to help people. So what does he do? He invents some high-tech, metal alloy suit with limitless weapons and gadgetry. Going from bad to good is… good. Right? And then there’s all that wondrous CGI. If only Hollywood could find a CGI substitute for DIALOG.

The blurbs I read about this movie say that Tony Stark is the/a “cynical” bla, bla, bla tycoon turned super hero. The reality is, they don’t actually mean that HE is a cynic. What they mean is, the film is cynical. At the most, what Downy Jr. says is kind of witty – in a college frat house sort of way. Which is far from anything cynical – unless, of course, those same college grads become president of the United Mistakes of America and then save the world from the United Mistakes of America. Or something like that.

This whole idea of selling cynicism and war in a comic book super hero movie corresponds perfectly with the real world we are in. And therein lies the bucket of worms. If it works for the Pentagon, why not for Hollywood. Except Hollywood has one thing to contend with: errors in film editing. Those damn little details in the screenplays that require a bit more re-reading, story board analysis, fact checking, work. The dialog in this movie fails miserably – but the propaganda succeeds – and my hat is off to Robert Downy Jr. So let’s blame the writers.

Their excuse? The well branded Writer’s Strike. Or. It’s the Editors fault.

The only dialog in this movie evolves around the love interests of Tony Stark. And it all really confused the do-dads out of me. I kept thinking: can you cut to a terrorist scene or something. I mean, is Gwyneth Paltrow really this hard up for cash? Can’t she sell her Oscar statue or something? I couldn’t figure out any of the dialog. I was in a Frankfurt/Main cinema at 11am on a Sunday morning sitting next to an eleven year old. It must have been due to the German translation… Right!

Was Tony Stark trying to get into the humble pants of Pepper or was he trying to apologize for pre-existentially doing “come over here and fuck me look”? Remember, he had Pepper throw “come over here and fuck me look” out the next morn. Pepper seemed to do that with a certain kind of cat-like joy. Hard for any blond to act that, eh? But the clichés didn’t stop there. Later, when I was hoping this love-interest Krapp was finished, I swear, I sat there in the cinema with my hands raised, ready to yell: No! You can’t WRITE a movie like that! But if I did that I knew I would have a real hard time explaining it all to my son.

Luckily, there are lots of CGI intervals of Stark getting into that really cool, hotrod painted metal alloy suit ready to save the world from evil terrorists. But by the time the movie was over I was still having a hard time dealing with such bad dialog. It’s like a bad taste in your mouth. Brushing your teeth doesn’t even get rid of it. Sure, I forgave Downy Jr. for slipping out of “character” and showing us his “screen persona” – by practically staring into the camera lens. What choice did he have? There must have been a complete lack of thoughtfulness on the part of writers and/or editors – and, goodness forbid, even the director. Heck, actors aren’t responsible for the things they say and do on screen. Or? And, as the hotrod suit saved the day, I forgave all those dimwit movie makers, as well. At least there WAS continuity in the CGI.

Persona neither here nor there.

But what about this cynical “screen persona” that got Robert Downy Jr. this job? The love-interest scenario ended when Pepper Potts flirtatiously confronts Stark about his promiscuous (before the terrorist existential experience, of course) behavior with the Vanity Fair hot reporter and her “come over here and fuck me look”. The dialog here was so bad that nothing fit. If it weren’t for the fact that this movie was about human existential change, defeating silly terrorists with hotrods, good weapons that can save the world, I don’t know what effect it would have had on me in the end. You know, would I have been completely lost in my quest to become a better person? Even though Tony Stark only… almost changed? Almost changed is still cool, right?

I believe that Robert Downy Jr. can actually “act”. But too much of who he really is seems to proceed him. I really dug his work in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. And Chaplin was brilliant. But I think the makers of Iron Man love all those hysteric mug-shot pictures of a younger Downy Jr. after this or that cocaine binge or this or that DUI charge? Wasn’t his face all over tabloids throughout the 1990’s? Unfortunately or not: one of my favorite comics is stuck with this guys “screen persona” until the next remake of this cinematic franchise.

If this film is bad it’s not because of Robert Downy Jr. If this film is good it is because of Robert Downy Jr. All the other poorly described problems I have (worst)written about here can therefore only be due to lazy film makers and producers struggling to get by. And I didn’t even mention the flashback sequence at the beginning of the movie being completely useless. It wasn’t really even a flashback – it was more a… “let’s repeat the first fifteen minutes because we can – and it will extend the film to two hours”.

And here. One last (worst)thought: At least, for the future, we have CGI to look forward to. Among other things, CGI might also be the best way to prevent obstructive movie making things like… Oh, gee, I don’t know… a writer’s strike? I mean, could that have been the cause of a hastily written script, unthoughtful editing, bad direction – all the above leading to a pretty cool film?

Many thanks to Stan Lee.

Rant on.

-tgs-

The battle of ending my newest novel is near or far away. I think. At times I can almost feel it – this process – ending. Other times it’s as though it’s taken on a life of its own. I’m not (worst)writing “light at the end of (any) tunnel” ending or anything like that. It’s more like the Walrus getting off of me and air slowly seeping back into my lungs. Both mean doom. Either way, the agony continues.

Mostly preoccupied with editing, I’ve sinned and worked sporadically over the last few months. I do miss freely typing 2000 to 3000 words a day. Editing or no editing, at the least, I’m confident of being way over my publisher-submission comfort-zone of 300 pages. That’s kind of reassuring. Word count? Not sure – since most of it is manually typed. But I’ve got easily 120k or more. Remember, we’re still dealing with only a first manuscript here. Having no confidence and being a middle-aged loser hasn’t helped the (my) situation. Of course, I realize that (all the) rejection is nearing. Yet I push on. Why? Well, because that’s what I do. I (Worst)Write. Thank goodness, eh!

While battling with countless ideas in this creative process known to some as novel writing, I have happened across many a disturbing idea. Luckily I have managed to find a way to deal with all this creativity. Of course, some might call this procrastination. And I won’t argue with you. But while you are reassuring yourself of what you know, I grab for the nearest typewriter and dump as many of these disturbing thoughts as I can – onto paper. It’s kind of like purging. The real joke is, since working for more than a year on this new novel, I’ve managed to coincidentally write at least one other book. At first, I was thinking of calling it “Obsession”. But then I decided to call it “Talking To Myself.” Right now Talking To Myself is bundled together in a folder. It’s more than 100 pages – most of which have writing on both sides – and it’s basically an amalgamation of thoughts and ideas that sprang from writing something else.

Neat, eh?

I employ one or two sub-stories in my newest novel. These sub-stories play-out in the minds of two characters. One of those sub-stories has to do with consciousness confronting Time & Space, which you can read here. Another has to do with two mystical legends. One of the legends is about who is the biological father of Jesus. Ever heard of Tiberius Pantera?

Please. No emails from “believers”. I mean, come on, if you have a rational mind, can you then honestly say that “immaculate conception” is possible? If you can claim it’s possible, then it’s no wonder we live in a world of so many lies and liars.

Another sub-story has to do with the legendary first wife of Adam. That’s right. “Adam” of Adam & Eve. Since both of these are religious legends, then they kind of work together in the novel. They are reflective and parallel to the characters. But I won’t tell you more. And I’m not not telling you more because I’m afraid of giving anything away. I’m not not telling you more because, well, it’s embarrassing how bad I actually write novels. Remember, all of my previous novels have been rejected. You can read about that throughout this blog. Anywho. There’s more about Lilith in my previous post. I think these two legends compliment each other and fit well in the developing relationship between my protagonist and Gloria.

Oh, btw. I’ve decided on the title. I’m going to call this failed novel “Gloria’s Device”.

Anywho. While editing, fiddling, procrastinating and dreaming, I was able to dabble in the non-sense that appears in this third short and truly obnoxious film. For more excruciating coverage of me filming my habits, you can go here and here. It usually takes me just under fifteen minutes to fill these DIN A5 sheets with any disturbing thoughts. That’s kind of the deal I make with myself. I say: OK. You have another disturbing thought. Go to a new machine, get your paper, dump it. You have fifteen (sometimes twenty) minutes. If you can’t get it out of you by then, you must give it up. Then go back to editing your poorly written novel. Of course, I edit these films down to meet YouTube requirements. I suppose that makes them a tad bit less excruciating – for the viewer, anyway. Transcript is below.

BTW, the machine used is an early 1960’s Olivetti Lettera 32. This machine is the modernization of the Lettera 22, which I’ve posted a little bit about here. The Lettera 32 is one of the best manual, travel typewriters ever made. It’s manufactured using mostly aluminum. The cost of using that material alone – in today’s terms – is almost mind boggling. It’s beautifully machined and has all the typing functionality you could want – except spell check, of course. The color is ugly but that doesn’t matter – I’m willingly colored blind. Although I prefer the Lettera 22, the one I own is simply too old. This Lettera 32 might actually have quite a few years left in it – I got it in great condition. But… Ironically, while typing these disturbing thoughts, I had a bad day. Usually the Lettera 32 works flawlessly. Obviously it cannot work flawlessly when dumping some thoughts about a demoness. (But don’t ask me if I “believe” in that sort of thing.)

-tgs-

Listening to Beethoven and reading Faust… I know what you’re saying. You’re saying: how can you do two masochistic things at once! Well, trust me (when I (worst)write:)… It’s not easy. Usually what happens is that I turn off the sound system and continue reading. Call it a tick of mine. The music gets me riled and then I indulge in the substance and then…

I should know Faust much better, to say the least. And when/if it’s being staged, I put no effort into seeing it. Such a wordy piece to put in front of an audience and then to close it into the walls of a Theater… Thank goodness this piece was written in a day when only words mattered. And because of that, I enjoy walking around with bare feet and a paperback version and perhaps a Sonata or two surrounding me. Yes. Transcribe the words into my brain and then wait for the moment of euphoria to reach out. It starts to blossom and there is no “Theater” comparable. Where Shakespeare fascinates with story and text, Goethe splices and dices the thing I call humanity.

Every once-a-once as I read this work, a leap of discovery is in the lurks. Beyond curiosity the chasm waves. I linger upon such sullen days. The sounds of frequented times arrive. As preposterous as this, there is only my demise. It must have been the third or fourth read of Faust. When I discovered the scene that saved my faith. Short and sweet and discrete, this writer of humanity revealed the sweet. Lilith is her name and she wears long, red hair. She attracts men like honey and snare. She dances with charm and wits her way ’round, to a place in my heart that has only sight and sound.

Unfortunately Lilith has been edited out of all the dogma. But if you look closely, you will easily find her throughout all things (Abraham) religious. For example. Check out any of the famous paintings of The Fall of Man (pic). Usually there is a half-snake or beast and half woman wrapped around the tree of knowledge. I mean, come on, Satan or no Satan: were Adam & Eve really alone in “paradise”? I mean, were they really the ONLY ones? Since I know a little about the deep desires of manhood – you know, polygamy and whatnot – could Adam, with the strength of his pectorals, biceps and quads, have been satisfied with just one wife during a time when banging them on the head and dragging them off to your cave was part of (any) gettin’ some? Obviously, Lilith didn’t think that was cool. But you won’t see that in the paintings. All you get is what THEY want you to know for THEIR sake.

OK. For you “believers” out there. I digress.

One of my favorite scenes from Goethe’s Faust is Walpurgisnacht. In this scene Faust, pushed on by Mephistopheles, meets a Witch. Depending on the version you are reading, the person Faust meets could also be called Beauty, The Pretty Witch or The Young One. Of course, this scene has to do with Man’s (Faust’s) desires (or?). Luckily, and very briefly, Goethe gives us the name of the person Faust meets. She is called: Lilith. Quite a fascinating and practically forgotten character in the history of all things religious and confused. Thank goodness Goethe managed to re-edit Her back into the world of literature.

Here the scene/moment that so dazzles me, perhaps just like Her hair would. First I offer the original German, then follow up with my own translation.

Faust: Wer ist denn das?
Mephistopheles: Betrachte sie genau! Lilith ist das.
Faust: Wer?
Mephistopheles: Adams erste Frau. Nimm dich in acht vor ihren schönen Haaren, Vor diesem Schmuck, mit dem sie einzig prangt. Wenn sie damit den jungen Mann erlangt, So läßt sie ihn so bald nicht wieder farhen.
Faust: Da sitzen zwei, die Alte mit der Jungen; Die haben schon was Rechts gesprungen!
Mephistopheles: Das hat nun heute Keine Ruh. Es geht zum neuen Tanz; nun komm! wir greifen zu.
Faust (mit der Jungen tanzend): Einst hatt’ ich einen schönen Traum: Da sah ich einen Apfelbaum, Zwei schöne Äpfel glänzten dran, Sie reizten mich, ich stieg hinan.
Die Schönen: Der Äpfelchen begehrt ihr sehr, Und schon vom Paradiese her. Von Freuden fühl’ ich mich bewegt, Daß auch mein Garten solche trägt.

And now, the Tommi version:

Faust: Who the fuck is that, Man!
Mephistopheles: Check it out, Dude! That’s Lilith.
Faust: Who?
Mephistopheles: Adam’s first bang. Watch out for that red hair, Dude. It’ll do to you more than just dazzle. If she catches a young guy like you in it, good friggin’ luck gettin’ out.
Faust: There’s two of ‘em, Man. One’s young, the other’s not. They both look like they’ve been dancing a lot.
Mephistopheles: Then let’s keep ‘em goin’. Grab one and get some. Come ‘on.
Faust (dancing with the young one): I recently had this awesome dream: I saw an apple tree and on it were these two apples. They got me all riled and ready, so I climbed into their tree.
The Young One: So you like apples, do ya. Like the ones from paradise. They get me ready, as well. Cause my garden is full of them.

Wow. No rant today. Sorry about that.

-tgs-

Summary to yet another whacked-out post: Tommi’s thoughts on the current Brunello tragedy and how that will effect his ability to drink more of it. Plus, a bit about guns and the Mafia. Here’s a news article about the scandal that motivated this post.

Yes. I’ve been complaining more than usual these past few months. No. Wait. That’s not true. I reckon I’ve been complaining like this for-almost-ever. Not making it in life has its quirks, indeed. But I will never complain about the parts of this life that I’m privileged to experience. (Although you might not want to check out my last two posts.) Having experienced live philharmonic Beethoven, for example, is something I recommend to anyone who thinks they can think – and listen. Then there are the operas, theater and numerous works of literature, etc., that passed through my life. And what about the fine food that I’ve learned to cook so well – my favorite menu spans Thailand to Italy. Oh yes, life indeed is a bouquet of fun, games and hacking around till you die…

Of course, I didn’t grow up in a world of cultivation. In order to be where I am today I had to first pick the path in life that was not meant for me. The fact is, if it weren’t for the wrong things I’ve done in life, I’d still be in redneckville fiddling with all my guns and drinking beer out of cans. That’s right. I just said “guns”. Luckily those guns are still back home – hopefully locked up safe, just like the cans of beer. The thing is, I’ve been able to replace those guns (yes, and the beer) with some seriously fine wine. I’ve even acquired such a taste for it that I’m not afraid to admit how drinking red wine makes me passive – just like Jesus. (There! I’m not afeared anymore.)

A glass of fine red wine on a regular basis helps me deal with a whole bunch of this fucked-up world. If it weren’t for red wine – and all that religious comparison reading I did so that I could figure out some of this mess – who knows how many I’d have taken out by now. Of course, drinking a fine wine effects people in different ways. Just listen to some of the dips out there trying to figure out bouquets. (Have you seen that idiotic film: Sideways?) Which brings me slowly but surely to the topic at hand.

Good wine is gettin’ too expensive. I think that sucks. Even now, so many years after leaving those redneck ways, the smell of a fine wine brings back some memories. Some very confusing bouquets, if you will. A psychologist told me once that these are memories attached to my smells.

Seriously. She said that to me.

Now here’s the thing that might throw you for a loop. The smell that grabs me the most after I’ve drank too much fine red wine is the smell of guns. Here I’ll cease in the use of French vernacular. Yeah, the smell of a gun, fired or not, is quite the opposite of a fine wine. And don’t opposites sometimes attract? In a way, what I’m trying to get at here is the luscious Kilgore smell that motivates and accelerates the forgetting of every little murder one ever committed.

Kilgore: I love the smell of napalm in the morning. (You know, to motivate them to surf.)

(Worst)Writer: I love the smell of Tuscan red wine in the early or late afternoon. (To stop thinking altogether.)

Naturally I yearn for the smell of guns and what they do – those guns are part of what made me who I am today. And when the urge grasps me, when it tugs at my pant leg and causes my scrotum to itch, instead of reaching for the gun cleaning oil (my European substitute), I reach for a cork screw and a bottle with a DOCG label. (Btw, gun cleaning oil is a good substitute for getting that smell; you can buy the oil almost anywhere in Europe; all you have to do is sniff it; thank goodness you can’t buy the guns as easily.)

Oh, the smell. The smells that remind me… Like some stranded spider that bathes in chocolate and raspberry; the spider has been too often caught in a storm after being plucked from fresh olive oil soil; the spider is now waving through the hellish atmosphere and threatened by the carbon dioxide that seems to be the only thing humans can produce at the beginning of this/a new century – other than guns.

Yes. Wine. Perhaps the most severe addiction I’ve had to deal with ever. And now I have been given reason to give it up. But this reason is so unlike the reason I gave up the guns. What is the reason, you ask. It is not voluntary. And why is that? Well. It’s finally come full circle. Last year was probably the last year – most likely – that I will be able to visit the Tuscany region of Northern Italy to buy my habit. It used to be relatively easy – a matter of filling up the trunk of whoever’s car I stole – or informally borrowed. I then would drive back to Germany and proceed to hide the wine from those who would steal it from me. So much is this nice, fancy, comfortable but greedy life we live, eh. But the reality of years, just like the reality of the Karl Marx’s globalization complot, have caught up to me. (Am I alone?) That’s right. It’s no longer worth making the 1000+ kilometer drive to buy wine. The reality of move-over-rover economies has reached the regular folk of the once rich working west.

So… why did Jesus turn water to wine? Could it be because wine was/is too expensive? Hey! I might have just solved the mystery of why He did that.

The thing is, as a failed artist, I can see through most human trickery as though it were both sides of my crystalline, mystic, immaculately conceived hand. I know that most of you (puppets) can’t see much – and I forgive you for that. But the time has finally arrived to remind you of your responsibilities as shitters and eaters. If failed artists like me can’t get to the wine or our other procrastinating habits – and we have to resort back to the gun oil – and the things it oils – then history is bound to repeat itself. Do you need to be reminded of the last failed artist that couldn’t afford (regularly) a drink?

What is Globalization anyway?

Ultimately the whole Globalization thing is about Marxism redistribution. The difference to the redistribution proposed by Marx, though, is that what we’re experiencing is pretty much the exact way Stalin would have done it. Why is it that the Russians and the satellites of the former Soviet Union referred to their Globalization as “Stalinism” and not Marxism? Seriously. If you had to, which one of them would you consider comparable to the newest form of the Globalized Soviet Union? That’s right – it still exists. I’m referring here to the Americanized totalitarian corporation nation-state? It’s hard to see things that you can or should – with much less effort – avoid, eh?

Globalization – Wine = prolific literary violence (which I’ve prolifically written about in this failed manuscript.)

Moving beyond the fact that a bottle of Brunello purchased at the vineyard, or a bottle of Chianti Classico Reserve purchased at a local store in Northern Italy, rose ca. five Euros each year that I drove to Tuscany after 2003, is not what I want to address here. Seriously. Inflation is something that can be countered. The real problem is this: Stalin-Soviet style redistribution under the mantle of economic changes that, according to Bill Clinton, cannot be reversed. I mean, come on, where and what is whatever being redistributed?

Btw, the Spanish make a great alternative wine in their Rioja Reserve but after going their twice I can already tell that it’s gonna be two expensive real soon.

The joke about wine is that those who actually go to expensive restaurants and pay outrageous amounts for a bottle of wine deserve what they get. Which basically amounts to a show. The problem with great wine is that the good stuff is kept for the inner circles or the privileged buyers. Would you, if you had a standardized kind of demand for your product, turn out the best of what you can make to everyone? Of course not. We’re talking human free-will here. We’re talking Stalin Mafia here.

Enter the nouveau riche creating markets.

How can Tuscany wine makers meet the crazed demand springing out of all this Globalized redistribution? In the article that I link to above, they say that the largest taker of Brunello wines are the Americans. That may be so – I’ve ran into quite a few during my stays in Montalcino. But I think the Italians see another wave of purchasers on the horizon and they (Italians) have to get their shit together to prepare for it. The great thing about “producers” (of whatever) is, in this new redistributed world, the consumer is no longer a participant in the scheme – as it used to be when Supply & Demand ruled the/a Keynesian world. Now it’s all about purchasing power alone – which is interdependent of your geographic position. In other words, there is more to Globalization than Naomi Klein can shake a stick at and my guess is it has something to do with the chronic masturbation suffered by lonely careerists that have to travel too much.

Right. So what can inheritance rich wineries do to get richer and not be so embarrassed by the ones they leave behind?

Think tricks anew…

If you think that the recent scandal in Tuscany is about wineries cheating on their bottles of wine then you might want to reconsider. Get this: the wine scandal currently in northern Italy is NOT about wine makers manipulating regulated wine in order to make a buck; nor is it about a supply or quality problem; then there’s the idea that some of the wineries had/have to cheat because, well, they had a bad year. (DOCG Brunello can’t be sold unless it’s been aged at least four years. There ain’t no such thing as just-in-time here.) This is an expensive wine to make. But that’s not the problem. The fact is, Tuscany is as great an example as any of Globalization finally catching up to the old money of the west. Yeah, you Euro baby-boomers, Globalizers are starting to eat their own.

The economic ticks & tricks over the past thirty or so years have been basically about ridding the market from the burdens of concepts such as Supply & Demand. A great example of this is the dotcom fiasco. Or did “demand” for technology just decide to go away? Another is the current energy problem. Or does someone out there have definitive, empiracal evidence that this earth does not have the capacity to meet human energy demands?

At the least, we have a lot of things to both worry about and tap ourselves on the shoulder over. But should that cause a crisis in one of the best and productive wine regions there is? Would things be like they are these days if there was no demise of the Soviet Empire? Coincidentally, how ’bout our new & improved notion of fear?

Watch out for the … T E R R O R I S T S ! ! !

If you ask me – and I don’t recommend you do. The question here about the recent Brunello scandal is easy: How do those who were rich before Globalization maintain their riches now that the shit is starting to hit the fan?

For the winery business in Europe – the answer is easy. Obviously you can’t readily burn down your vineyards (to wipe out debts and collect insurance) and you can’t just buy up all that “nationalized” grape soil and move it to Indochina. Trust me when I say: a good glass of red wine is far from a Nike shoe. Remember, there’s no such thing as a free market anymore – there’s just people who are freer than others. The key to winning in the new Globalized market for players that can’t move out of their cost-problems is to raise prices. But raising prices is VERY bad for business. (Unfortunately that is one of the things Globalization has’t been able to get rid of.)

Nouveau Riche vs. Old Euro Money

How do you manage business when you have to drastically raise prices to take advantage of the nouveau riche? As the/your western (old) buyers start gettin’ rude regarding your un-justifiable prices and you shove the fact that their money ain’t as good as other money into their faces- you take in the moment. You breath deeply. You quickly realize that you have become a microcosm of Globalization. A good feeling, indeed. If it works for entire economies, and geo-political regions, why can’t it work for Guido, the killer wine maker in northern Italy?

Well, the Tuscan wineries have figured out a way to get around the PR aspect of raising prices. First, you create a scandal that exposes cheating. In turn you create sympathy because it makes consumers think their suppliers really do have supply problems. Such a scandal will also expose players and there will plenty of reason to cry foul. The market then starts to correct itself – in the form of government agency/agencies getting rid of the cheaters (players). (Yeah, right, in Italy.) And then there’s the subtext of the drama: It’s time for the wine industry to take care of its own – and anyone don’t like it… then let them eat cake!

Yes. I am obsessed withe Maria Antoinette and dream of her becoming Vito Corleone.

At the least, the scandal in Tuscany is not about juicing up bottles of fancy wine and breaking the rules regarding what goes into a bottle of Chianti. It’s about finding a way to drastically raise prises over or during the shortest economic cycles in history.

Winny Wine Maker That Inherits: I no make good money anymore!
Person He Is Trying To Impress To Fuck: But I want diamond first.
Winny Wine Maker That Inherits: We had too much rain (this/that) year.
Person He Is Trying To Impress To Fuck: To much rain? Change the weather – my Italian Stallion!

I will cherish the remaining bottles of Brunello I have in my cellar. And I will enjoy them when/if I have to drink them in a drastic moment when Europe once again falls into the rut of self-annhilation – from a Styrofoam cup.

Rant on.

-tgs-

I don’t watch much TV. But when I do watch it I do so in order to stay (somehow) in-touch. You know, in-touch with what’s happening inside contemporary western society’s third-grade brain. In the late nineties when the TV phenomenon “Big Brother” hit the airwaves a thought struck me immediately. Does anyone care to hear what my first thought was when this TV show started? No…?

(Here’s the advantage of having your own blog…)

I thought: Gee. Now a whole new generation of idiocrats will grow up ignorant to what the term “big brother” really is about. Potentially – and in the syndicated future (?) – millions of humans will associate these two important words with some dip-shit TV show instead of one of the most significant literary achievements of the 2oth century. I think that is very wrong. And I am most likely on a lost crusade bringing this to light. But then again, I experience joyous Schadenfreude knowing that so many fellow humans watch so much krapp. This personal swimming pool of luscious Schadenfreude isn’t the same as the Schadenfreude TV viewers experience – while watching so-called “reality” TV – which, naturally, I cannot stomach. My Schadenfreude is 180 degrees different. Seriously. To me Schadenfreude does one thing and one thing only: it enhances the intellectual eliteness upon which I walk and in no way provides any sort of entertainment. What a sad state of existence, you say!

Wow. Where’s Gerry Springer when you need him?

The past few months have been mentally and emotional very unstable for me. The reason is because I have the feeling that all my eliteness lust is finally catching up to me. Certainly that has something to do with divorce-time. Then there’s also the issue that, because of divorce, I have returned without traveling through time & space to the/a position where/when life was supposed to be about being poor and without means. And that is all due to the land that basically founded SCHADENFREUDE.

Speaking of… Schadenfreude?

If you ever want or have to live among the Germans, there are a few things you must comprehend. Comprehending these things in your own language is perfectly OK. The advantage of modern Germany is that you don’t have to speak German to understand what it is to be German. You just have to learn how to bark. Oh there was a day when the bark was a purr – but that is simply to long ago. Only if you want or need to eat and maybe have a roof over your head will eventually learning German be of any use. That is, if you actually take it upon yourself to live in such a forsaken country.

I will only address three of the many things that you need to understand in order to know everything about Germans. But, like TV, I don’t want to challenge anyone too much.

• Schadenfreude (damage, harm + joy)
  
• Neid (envy, grudge, jealousy)
• The position of speed traps

Sadly, one of the most significant things I’ve learned since moving to Germany is how collectively easy it is to take the high moral ground when it comes to right or wrong. An example of this is in my previous post, which you can read in full by clicking here. In that previous post, I was snitched on by some German who wanted to get something for nothing. The reality is, I don’t have a problem with trying to get something for nothing – as long as you do it to the corporate monsters. But when the masses start fucking each other up the ass…

Don’t worry. I’m not a communist. I just live in a pseudo-communist country. It is inevitable that some of the paint rubs off…

Schadenfreude and Neid are two things that easily lead to the peaks of German moral (high) ground(s). This ground is so high that I refuse to trek its walls. Therefore, I must remain unemployed and poor. You know, in the language of you corporates out there, I’m just way-out of the club. You see, if I decided to trek the walls of this high moral ground – or enter the/your club – then I would have to go on welfare and eventually some dip-shit work-release program. A sad state of opportunity, indeed, is this land.

And. Yes. I am stuck-up and refuse to work a McJob – which is all this country can offer. Seriously. If it wasn’t for the language and the Euro arrogance only comparable to France/Paris, this place, with its ompa swingers and pot-bellied-freedom… would be just like the United Mistakes of America – with a bit less posh…

Unfortunately, I am one of the many foreigners in this country that has been caught up in the lie that is German “social market economics”. The reality is: Germany is a subservient welfare state devoid of opportunity. All it has to offer is Schadenfreude and Neid. Which probably isn’t the worst stuff in life. I mean, come on. Wouldn’t you want to be around a bunch of people that inherit Porsche’s and get three weeks paid vacation a year? Or is it just me? No…? Retract…

One of the experiences I’ll never forget after moving “abroad”…

At one of my last “career” jobs I heard colleagues talking about me behind my back. (That’s right, someone snitched on them.) So I decided to deceive them ALL and listen to what they had to say. When it was my turn to leave the corporate meeting I slowly walked around a corner and hid. I left the door perfectly ajar. I heard them talk about how they didn’t understand why I was there taking their jobs away and – and don’t ask me how they got onto this – why z’ Americans still have their military stationed on German land.

Needless to say, I voluntarily left that company after about one year of employment. It was the sixth or seventh or eighth company I had worked for in over ten years. The downward spin of being competent and capable, efficient and entrepreneurial, the ambitious busy-body more than willing to “work”, had come to an end. I was unable to fit in to the compulsive monotony of corporate careerism. On top of that… I couldn’t take all the Neid and Schadenfreude anymore. Where corporate America is bad – corporate nation-state-hood is worse. The German bosses liked me because of my Americanisms and how I pushed projects through to fruition. But the so-called colleagues that surrounded me didn’t think the same way. Oh, how far away they all were/are from the “social” part of their nation-state-lie. There was no getting into this/that club, I tell you. (And so… (Worst)Writer was born.)

Of course my native country has Schadenfreude and Neid, as well. But the main difference is that the U.S. or those who live and work there, do not forfeit opportunity in the name of some whacked-out collective system hell-bent on doing nothing more than raising taxes, increasing bottle deposits in the name of the environment, and relegating education & work based on social status.

The years now pass me. So I wait. Endearingly. But I have stopped hiding around corners. Instead, I wait for the crumbs that have been distributed by the vast cloning fields of German Maria Antoinettes. There are moments where I will almost take anything. Except, still, a McJob. In the mean-time, I’ve convinced myself that there might be room in the world of book publishing for little ol’ me.

Maybe not.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying ALL Germans are fucking nasty, arrogant and emotional zombies. My girlfriend is very cool and if it wasn’t for all the lovin’ she gives me then maybe she could be a Saint just like Ratzinger eventually will be. (Or?) Then there’s our neighbor. She’s a really cool German. There’s also Mirko, a guy that tried to help me out – but now he’s too busy dealing with “social market economics” as well. I also really like Roger… Wait. Roger is actually Turkish. Anywho.

The thing is, as a foreigner who came to this country not to exploit it or take advantage of it, but to acquire a bit of experience and learning and get to know my roots, I’m sick & fucking tired of all the Sour-Puss faces that have turned modern Germany into a country of collective squabblers – just like my home country. I have bailed out of their system yet they still fuck with me. Where my native country is culturally and socially falling apart – since 9/11 and the whole debacle that is “the” war – you would think that a people like the Germans could somehow, with their abilities and efficiencies, make an example of how to… Gee. I don’t know… Somehow fight this lie that is globalization. But they do nothing more than follow THE(IR) leader – like a good little puppy should. Or is it lemming?

Ah. A moment to digress. A moment to collect myself and take it like a man…

Yes. The truth is, I do have to take it. Take it right up the proverbial bum. For the first time in many, many years… That is, the first time since leaving America where county and state cops try to be John Wayne while writing you up for some dip-shit traffic violation, I finally got my first German speeding tickets. That’s right. Plural. I got two speeding tickets in one year. Seriously. I haven’t received a speeding ticket since the early 1980’s. At the time I was doing 70mph in a 55 zone somewhere near my beloved Chesapeake Bay and the only reason I didn’t see the trooper and his fancy radar gun on the side of the road was because the girl’s head was moving up and down in my lap. You can see through 80’s hair enough so as not to run over small children or domesticated mutts. But big, fuzzy 80’s hair moving up and down in your lap is somehow distracting when it comes to identifying the details of tip-hungry troopers protecting the American highway – among other things.

In closing and for those interested, here’s what a German speeding ticket looks like. To all you Germans… who hate all the shit I write about you (which ultimately is in good spirit). You can rejoice in Schadenfreude! As far as your Neid is concerned: in the radar pic below I’m driving a very sexy and clean 1993 Alfa Spider 2.0. (In America we call it The Graduate.)

Rant on.

-tgs-

Warning 1: Long post. Also, there’s some strong mis-construed anger-language in this post. For those who are offended, I don’t have the time to translate the German language part of this post. Sorry. I know how it hurts to read/hear German. At least, as a consolation, this blog doesn’t bark IT at you like THEY do.

Warning 2: There might be some superficial and offensive ranting regarding race, creed and Germans in this post. But if anyone has read any of this blog then that’s probably OK. Actually… Scratch that last remark. There will be some ranting on Germans only here. I apologize in advance – especially to my host country – for the fact that I’m so fucking rude.

Wow. Another altercation with that make-money-on-pennies or cover-your-margins-anyway-you-can Internet Auction Website (dot “de”). Although I have certain idealogical problems with this site, I use it regularly as a buyer – especially when I need to curb my need(s) for a typewriter. But I am inexperienced as a seller – hence, naiveté.

The technical auto-mechanization of a sucker born everyday has come full circle.

Fuckin’ eh, Bubba! Here’s to twenty first century lookin’ out for number one – one click at a time.

Before I continue, here’s a post about a previous altercation with that silly Internet Auction Website (dot “de”). I suppose it’s high-time that the altercation perspective switch – you know, previously I was the/a buyer and now I am the/a seller. Unlike the previous altercation, this particular situation is very much my own doing. As of today (or the past few auction days) I am a shill bidder.

And I’m fuckin’ proud of it.

As of April X (it’s bad luck to mention this date), I have sold exactly four things on this… Internet Auction Website (dot “de”). While I’m at it… Since I’m in this soul searching mood… I have shill bid on two of those four items. The reason for shill bidding? I never bothered to read the… Internet Auction Website rules & regulations. The reality is, I don’t give a shit about their fuckin’ rules. I just want(ed) to dump some shit – for a fair price.

WAIT.

Fair? Did I just use the word “fair”?

Since I’m an ex-pat in fucking Germany… does this mean that I too have become a pseudo-communist?

Fair? Yeah. Right. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

If anything, this… Internet Auction Website (dot “de”) is nothing more than a transgression in the new & upcoming world of diminishing returns. Technologically, the whole thing is quite a feet – I guess. But who the fuck cares if the only thing it produces is, well, pennies per transaction – and people who think they can fuck you because, well, they are ahead in the learning curve of… technological diminishing returns and understanding the complexity of pricing schemes the world over.

Seriously. Am I on the only one out there to perceive the whole dotcom thing as a sick joke? I never thought the re-distribution of wealth proposed by Karl Marx had any intellectual value – until I worked in the dotcom joke and experienced first hand the spiteful holding back of the “old economy” so it could choke the life out of anything that could potentially bring providence to new generations.

And here we are today…

I never thought it would be all that serious, this “auctioning” of stuff. I guess it only gets serious when you realize… ooops! I should have put a “BuyItNow” function on that fuckin’ auction. And. I shouldn’t auction off relatively expensive krapp to bureaucratic-lawyer obsessed Germans. The drunkenness of (eventually) realizing that you have something to sell overwhelms your ability to spend any time reading Internet Auction Website rules & regulations. (Especially if the thing you’re trying to sell, well, you actually stole…) I guess.

Enter the goody-two-shoes German…

Don’t worry. There is no such thing as a goody-two-shoes German. There are only monotone Germans that can fix your bridge or your fucking nuclear power plant. Wait. Sometimes there’s one that can actually fix your car – but only if it’s a Mercedes or Porsche and you’re an Arab Sheik. Other than that… wait in line for your fucking sauerkraut. Du Vixxer.

Anywho. After reading the… Internet Auction Website (dot “de”) rules & regulations and knowing that I’m both a hypocrite and a loser (or worstwriter), I thought: My fuckin’ goodness! I fucked up… But I don’t care that I fucked up… I WILL get a fair – if not real – price for whatever I’m selling, irreverent of the arrogant mistake I made in posting the auction under the assumption that eBay might bring the right kind of buyers.

Ooops! Did I just mention that… Internet Auction Website (dot “de”)?

If the auction-powers-that-be don’t agree – fuck them! I will go against the pre-established rules & regs, retract my offer, leave the buyer standing – and look for someone to give that shit to. We’re talking selfish principle here. At the least, I’m not giving shit away to a snitch-buyer even if he says he won’t make me choke on it. I may be naive in this world of technological penny-margins, but I blow those who I am in agreement to blow. Basta!

Beyond that… I can live w/out all this superficial penny-earning technology. Right?

Do I care if my convictions don’t blend well with Germans and their Klugscheißer mentalities? It was a private auction, for goodness sake. But then again, if you must know, the one fear I have as a loser ex-pat is this: German bureaucracy and German blood sucking lawyers.

It’s un-fucking-believable how serious these fucking Germans take/make this Internet Auction Website (dot “de”). Seriously. Does it work like this in the States? What’s wrong with a bit of shill bidding? Doesn’t it add to the eBay advertising mystique? Oh, wait a sec…

Shill Bid or not, there comes a time when the… Internet Auction Website (dot “de”) should recognize the advantage of rummaging. Come on Internet Auction Website (dot “de”). I was/am willing to pay your auction charges even if I fuck-up an auction. The price that the last bidder gave was OK. Seriously. I checked the retail price of what I was selling – it was more than double of what the final bid offered. But then, somehow, magically, I suppose, the bidder threatened me because he saw my shill bid – and he added that he made a mistake bidding anyway. Yeah. Make the world go ’round…

OK. I’ve been caught red-handed. I deserved to be caught.

Hats off to the German buyer that not only caught me but also, maybe, might have saved the world from a future of manipulative sub-100,- Euro Internet auctions. But before they trek me off and deport me… The thing I hate most about having to live among the Germans is their lust for Schadenfreude.

Below the German and American-English transcript of a failed Internet Auction (dot “de”) where the buyer caught me at Shill bidding and subsequently threatened to tell on me. That’s right. He literally threatened me after he tried to weazel out of his final bid. How unprepared could a seller be?

Anywho. I stand by my “shill bid” and look forward to every German that challenges it/me. I also have learned my lesson and won’t shill bid with my girlfriends user name anymore. Instead I will ask friends to shill bid for me that aren’t so identifiable to me. You know, like everyone else does…

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Vorhergehende Nachrichten

eBay 01.04.08 um 16:51:33 MESZ

Die Unstimmigkeiten wegen eines nicht bezahlten Artikels wurden aus folgendem Grund beigelegt: der Verkäufer hat die Kommunikation mit dem Käufer beendet und eine Gutschrift der Verkaufsprovision beantragt.

Seller (moi) 01.04.08 um 16:51:32 MESZ (Had to post this in English because the German ran out of me.)

To eBay: I am sorry for this situation. The shill-bid I made was not to manipulate the buyer but instead to get a fair price for this article. The buyers immediate response that he purchased out of haste should have caused a different response on my part. But I make no concession to him because he either cannot read (German) or he was trying to manipulate us with our error. The price of around 80,- Euros for this article is/was more than fair. But I digress.
Sincerely, Thomas Stough (shitty and manipulative auction website seller. Obviously.)

Seller (moi) 01.04.08 um 10:52:18 MESZ (From here on it’s German. I’m really sorry for you sincere (worst)readers! Goethe is sorry, as well – he wished he could write like Shakespeare!)

Alles Klar. Ich habe mich bei ebay gemeldet als “Shill Bidder”. Ich war/bin nicht bereit diese Artikel zu verkaufen für weniger als die Hälfte seines Wertes. Ich habe es vermasselt beim einstellen eine Mindestpreis zu setzen.

Really Sincere Buyer 31.03.08 um 19:29:54 MESZ

Wenn Sie “Shill” so gut kennen, fragen Sie sie bitte, ob sie den Artikel für Ihr Gebot von 78,95 EUR aben möchte. Ich ersetze Ihnen dann die Differenz zu meinem Gebot in Höhe von 7,57 EUR. Dann wäre doch alles geregelt!

Seller (moi) 31.03.08 um 18:58:41 MESZ

Wow. OK. Bitte sagen sie eBay bescheid mit ihren verdacht. Und hier ist etwas mehr Info was sie ielleicht gebrauchen können: “Shill” ist eine bekannte von mir. Oder, vielleicht sogar eine “Kunde”. “Shill” und ich sind Freunde geworden über eBay seit ihre erste Kauf von mir. Ich fick Sie regelmassig auch noch. Bei diese Auktion geht es nicht um “bid-padding” – oder? Sie brauchen nur in den bids zu schauen. Aber danke für den Hinweis.

Really Sincere Buyer 31.03.08 um 18:08:14 MESZ

Sturheit führt hier leider nicht weiter!

Im übrigen werde ich Ebay noch bitten, die Gebote von “Shill” auf Ihre Artikel zu überprüfen, da es ganz danach aussieht, dass diese gegen die Ebay-Grundsätze
verstossen.

Ich biete Ihnen 10 EUR als Aufwandsentschädigung an, wenn damit der Fall geklärt ist.

Von Dienstag, 01.04. bis Donnerstag, 03.04. bin ich nicht erreichbar.

Seller (Moi) 31.03.08 um 15:47:08 MESZ

Bitte bezahlen Sie wie vereinbart. Nur dann bleibt alles “unkompliziert und ohne unnötige Kosten.”

Really Sincere Buyer 31.03.08 um 14:15:14 MESZ

Es ist doch Unsinn, den Artikel umsonst einmal durch Deutschland zu schicken. Die Unstimmigkeit sollte doch zu lösen sein, wenn Sie den Artikel direkt weiter verkaufen und ich Ihnen wie angeboten eine kleine Differenz bezahle. Es sollte Ihrerseits zumindest auch eine Bereitschaft da sein, die Sache schnell, unkompliziert und ohne unnötige Kosten zu lösen.

Seller (Moi) 31.03.08 um 14:07:34 MESZ

Bitte erst bezahlen Sie wie vereinbart. Sie können dann “anderweitig” verkaufen.

Really Sincere Buyer 31.03.08 um 12:03:48 MESZ

Bitte versuchen Sie, den Artikel anderweitig zu verkaufen. Sollte eine kleine Differenz bleiben, werde ich diese ausgleichen, damit alles in Ordnung ist.

Seller (Moi) 31.03.08 um 11:11:00 MESZ

Zanderstruck darf weiter verkaufen wenn er erst seine Verantwortung für diese Auktion übernimmt.

Really Sincere Buyer 31.03.08 um 10:01:27 MESZ

Ich bat darum, dass seitens des Verkäufers über die Ebay-Funktion Kontakt zu unterlegenen Bietern aufgenommen wird.

eBay 31.03.08 um 09:50:22 MESZ

Unstimmigkeiten wegen eines nicht bezahlten Artikels: Nokia KFZ-Einbausatz – Advanced Car Kit – CK-7W (Artikelnummer xxx xxxx xxx xxxx) Begründung: Der Käufer hat den Artikel nicht bezahlt. Vom Verkäufer gemeldetes Verhalten des Käufers: Der Käufer fordert eine Zahlungsmethode, die ich nicht akzeptiere.

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Rant bilingually,

-tgs-

There won’t be a lot of this here. Music is something I prefer to enjoy alone. The music I listen to creates a kind of cocoon for me. Not unlike the place I dream of when reading a play. Speaking of which…

The theater of mind, the darkened place where long, black curtains turn into silly prankster friends… I re-read The Crucible the other night and got to thinking about American girls. I miss them dearly and wish them all well. But I will never return to the antics because I was never worthy… I guess.

Oh yeah. Music.

It’s hard when one has become set in her/his ways. It’s not that I despise the iPod-slash-corporate cultists out there, although you might catch me enjoying a cup of coffee or two on their tab. It’s just that, those stupid little memory sticks re-produce music so poorly. I mean, do you, dear (worst)reader, even know how MP3 works? No? Imagine this:

The reproduction of sound is about highs and lows of vibrating signals. MP3 music avoids all the lows and a few of the things in between. In a way the stuff that is important to re-producing music is turned into something virtual. How convenient, eh? A computer algorithm interprets only the highs and the lows of what the human ear can actually “hear”. I don’t trust that type of technology when it comes to my cocoons. It’s unfortunate that listening to music has taken this “digital” turn. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not against progress.

But then again there’s my itching toward Luddite.

A better – or less (worst)written explanation about MP3 is here. Anywho.

While reading about American girls in The Crucible I started thinking about one of my favorite Beethoven pieces. Don’t ask me why. But if you know this piece then maybe you understand. Or if you know The Crucible… Anywho. I adore Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 14. It’s better known as the Moonlight Sonata.

While chasing yet another magnificent cocoon I quickly realized that my classic collection of CDs no longer included Moonlight. Aghast! Must have lost it in all the moving around; in all this consumerism. Certainly I’ll be out next week – when all the stores in Germany open again after the holidays – getting a new copy and acting like a copy. Until then, I have to rely on MP3 and other superficial but highly stock-market profitable technologies. I guess.

Calming the beast,

-tgs-

Short film scroll down; short film 1 available here.

The current (failed) novel I’m working on deals with the undeath of a beautiful woman. What does that have to do with…? You ask. Well, part of my (unsuccess) compulsion is to just take the time and sit at a machine and do what I do. Sometimes that entails page upon page of relevant material. Other times there is complete nonsense. Then there are the moments where the reality of life begins to confront the obsession… In this case it’s in the form of undying chicks.

I mean, come on… what is there to (worst)write about?

Her undeath has lead to a lot of thoughts about man’s silly way(s) of life. For example: Embalming. Wiki has a cool entry on the subject. Then there are the various other web sources which you can google on your own. (I’ll have no part of your perversions.)

To me, one of the weirdest things man does is to embalm the dead. I mean, come on, in life and death mankind really does some weird stuff.

Weird Humanity Stuff:

Lobotomy
Electroshock Therapy
Corporate Subjugation
Marriage
Credit Cards
Public Schooling
Taxation
Religion, etc., etc.

Maybe it’s because of the top of that list that all this weird stuff happens. I mean, does it really matter if we’ve gotten away from throwing virgins in volcanoes? Or what about skinning someone while alive in order to make them believe in JC before you kill them? How long has it been since we last burnt people on stakes? (Digress.)

My latest short film was motivated by thoughts and anecdotal surveys in typing…

Usually these short films take anywhere from 12 to 15 minutes to actually film. But I have to cut them and chop them and use codecs and whatever for the hosting platform. And, trust me, if I didn’t cut/edit them according to the user agreement -slash- pre-established authority, they would be even more boring. Talk about subjugation.

This film features a Princess 300, which you can read more about here. In its day this was a great typewriter. Making this machine could not have been cheap. It has some of the best machined parts that I’ve seen on any typewriter. The platen is shot, though, and it does have a bit of stickiness. Here is a write-up on this machine from a real collector. Here another source of typewriter collecting. A transcript from this film is below.

Rant on,

-tgs-

Someone motivated me to write this down today. I probably shouldn’t write such things down on account it represent a depth that goes beyond the personal. On the other hand, I should post something here for the month, eh?

Tommi’s Italian Tomato Sauce & Noodles.

Don’t ask me about amounts. Get a life. At the least, read a friggin cook book or something. Experiment. It’s like fuckin’ – except you should start with a bit of romance. It’s always good that way. Yeah, read a book.

A little trick I use with my sauce-base is to add fresh red chili pepper. I suppose you can use green chilies. If you’re like many a good, romantic cook, chilies prevail in your life – or at least in your kitchen. If that’s the case there’s the issue of how dry the chilies are and if you should use the seeds. Remember: dried chilies can still be fresh. If I’m serving someone else my sauce – who I don’t know – I keep the chili seeds out. That’s a nice thing to do. Back to the sauté. Once the base of onions and garlic is glazed and transparent I add some red wine and continue the sauté – hanging my head over the thunderous steam. Is all absorbed? No? Well then…

I think absorption is a really cool thing. It not only reminds me of how I’d like to be with a woman but also… It reminds me of the pretext that oil (or hydrocarbons) is not a by-product of the re-working of biology by geology – as the traditional barrel pricing schemes seem to dictate. Instead, oil – that elixir that rules so much of our lives – is geology re-worked by biology.

What? That doesn’t make any sense? More here.

Once the base is prepared and the “soup” is steaming in the pan, wait for the right moment and then dump in a bunch of your favorite canned tomatoes. That’s right. I said canned tomatoes. This is not an issue about freshness. Canned tomatoes are the best because, well, fresh tomatoes take more than a whole day to get all that sweet, citric, earthly flavor out them. It’s already been done in the can. In my opinion, canned tomatoes are one the best things to come out of our lives being ruled by industrialization and corporatism.

Anywho.

In the evening I cook the noodles and then chop lots of fresh parmasean. (Making noodles and buying parmasean is another post; again, read a friggin book.) I usually buy enough fresh basil that you can bathe in it. I then take the cooked noodles and put them in a hot pan. I stir in the tomato sauce that has been cooking all day. Once the noodles show they are soaked in “sauce” I sprinkle in the fresh basil leaves and then comes my secret – the right touch of melted sugar. (Nothing more will be revealed…)

I had girlfriend once and her name was Carmel…

Once it’s all cooking together – you can see it on the noodles – I turn off the heat and then put in the parmasean. It’s neat to watch the the cheese and the sugar become one with the noodles. I do the flip and roll with the pan. The noodles and sauce twirl around in the air. I fill a large, deep plate with rolled up Tommi noodles & sauce and sprinke some fresh chopped large parsley leaves and, of course, more basil on top. Then, where applicable, fresh ground pepper.

Remember. Eat nothing else all day – let the hunger build till “dinner”. It should be like how you make love to your woman/partner.

This is not a rant. Good luck.

-tgs-

The daily routine of (worst)writing is fairly easy to explain. And I know so many (worst)readers are just dying to read/hear this. First, I usually try to get up before 8am every morning. The only issues I have to deal with at that hour are my girlfriend who supports me by usually getting up earlier so she can prepare for her compulsive-career day. Sometimes I try to help her by making her laugh but she’s not a morning person – so more than not she’s just trying to avoid me.

Then there’s the issue of whether or not I have a beer or a wine hangover from the late night before where I compulsively fail (or is it actually succeed in this astute double negative case?) at (worst)writing.

Luckily I: I stopped drinking the hard booz about ten years ago – in my mid-thirties – along with smoking and other coincidental promiscuous behavior in the various red-light areas of west German towns.

I fill myself with coffee in the morning and then begin to (worst)write. Sometimes this goes on till about 2pm. Other times it goes to 8:30am. Either way, after it’s over I spend the rest of the day waiting for a green light to shine in my head that says: yeah, you’re a great loser in a world of so many winners and now it’s late enough to open that bottle of wine.

Luckily II: the morning hangovers aren’t that bad as I’m trying to cut back. But when you’re unemployable in a pseudo-socialist, job-institutionalized country like Germany and all you do is (worst)write unpublishable stuff… – jobs in Germany are distributed and are not earned; if USA is a country of some opportunity, Germany is a country of zero opportunity. All I can do at my age is continue on this path – which has been obviously chosen for me…

Of course, most (real)writers worth a hoot usually figure out that in order to produce what their heart desires they have to maintain a certain level of sobriety. I fashionably disagree. It is the lack of sobriety that gets me through all the hypocrisy – both of the situation of this life that I perceive and the reality that I avoid. If anything can be said of the things I’ve written in this silly blog one of them is not that my “complaints” are fiction.

Oh, how reality wishes to be my Desdemona and perception my Bukowski.

Like most things, I’ve recognized all my errors in life waaaay to late. This coincides with one other dramatic problem I have to face. Even though I’m well aware of my own mediocrity, I cannot give up the impulse to (worst)write. In order to maintain some sanity and not drink my liver to a stupor within the next few years, the only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I cannot (worst)write. So I sit down every morn and try not to (worst)write. I sit and stare out at the trees. I feel the wind hit the side of the building that houses the place I live. I smell the potential of fermentation in the trash can of my kitchen that serves as yet another example of my procrastination to not do what shouldn’t be doing in the first place.

My newest work/novel, which I started almost a year ago has the working title of Gloria’s Device. (I plan to title the German version Gloria’s Gerät). I have been desperately struggling with this work every morn for way too long. The sad part is, if I could only focus, if I could find again the magical combination of peace AND time, if I could only regain the confidence I had as a young man – a confidence that has obviously and deservedly been stolen from me via the crude entrails of matrimony – then maybe I could finish it.

But then again, I keep thinking of the moments in space & time that I spend in bookstores looking through the thousands upon thousands of badly written books and know that I can’t even meet that criteria.

Below an example of some of the stuff that has been re-written and written again for Gloria. I think I’ve re-typed this page a dozen times over the past three morns. This is the second or third re-typed page – I’m up to about six as I write this. I think.

No matter. In a world of waste, nothing matters, right?

If at all possible, young people and have-nots of the world heed this advice. The grass is not greener anywhere – except, maybe, at the far reaches of the universe. If you have any feelings for the people that brought you into this mess then never leave them, no matter what they try to say or convince you to do. Remain their burden just to remind them of their error(s) and live with what you were born to know and do: cut the grass and take out the trash and know love through the skin of your body only; don’t have children because you will continue the misery; be overly joyous and submissive to the fact that you can so easily mail-order things like iPods to yourself.

Rant and Loss.

-tgs-

Another short film is available here.

The thing is… the idears. How many idears can a person actually have in a lifetime? If I’ve failed at anything in this (worst)writer life, having idears ain’t one of them.

As mentioned here and here, I’m a prolific note taker. There were times – yeah, when I was young – where I would spend days just writing stuff down on and with anything I could find. Ultimately that stuff would be nothing but notes. Heck, there’s so much of it that I can’t go through it all. It’s not that I can’t go through it all on account it’s so poorly written… that’s a given. I can’t go through it all because it seems that all I can really produce – as (worst)writer – are a bunch of friggin notes and that just seems counter productive to what I think I should actually be… or do… or… Whatever.

One day I got to thinking that maybe what I’m doing is or has something to with… I don’t know… anecdotes. Or parables… Naw. They’re definitely not parables!

Here’s my first attempt at a short film which is basically taking my note-taking and/or idear makin’ to the next level. Keep in mind, this is nothing but the sound of a fellow human trying – and failing – to be what he/she was not mean to be.

Yeah, life is a bullet-hole ridden sheet of paper full of typos. Yeah, the sound of making typos… If only the sound of those typos fit the sequence of the film. So much for video decoding.

The mess produced in this short film is available as a scan/pic below. Good luck.

(Worst)Write on…

-tgs-

Update June 10, 2008. There’s a movie coming out on steroid use. Like so many other “documentaries”, they should have titled it: Too little, Too Late.

Looking back on life I can make (only) a few claims to actually experiencing what I was taught/told/ is “happiness”. Like so many other things in this world, I’m sure that the tellers of happiness meant well. And in a few cases the tellers weren’t completely wrong. For example. The birth of my son is at the top of my list of “happiness”. Crabbing in and around the Chesapeake Bay is in that list as well. The first two years after moving to Germany where I slept with at least x-number of different women…

Seriously. I tried not to. But… Quickly after moving to Europe/Germany did I learn one of the major differences between American women and European women. Promiscuity was without recourse in Europe. No one was called a slut or a whore or whatever and people didn’t talk trash about you. (How civil, eh.) People were just looking for love and being with someone and I sloppily put myself in the middle of it all and took advantage of whatever I could. Now that I’m middle aged and can’t perform like that anymore… I’m almost ashamed of myself… ;-)

Speaking of the past. Let’s go back a few years. How about 1979?

The last claim to happiness that I’ll (worst)write about today is when I played (American)football in high school. American high school was the culmination of life experience and the spring board to/of who I am today – with only one slight twist. The reality is, I hated American high school. The only thing that got me through it was sports. Throughout I played football starting at the end of summer and through the fall/early-winter and then played tennis through the spring. For summer vacation I worked at a gas station or cut grass for upper middle class snobs. To pass any free time during the summer I dabbled in Golf and Lacrosse. The only regret I have is not having played baseball.

I don’t know what I’d be today if it weren’t for sports back then. At the least, I’d probably be happier and living life without so much regret.

There truly is happiness in life when you’re commanding a team of ten other boys. You’re calling the plays and singing cadences and your handing off the ball or you’re throwing it twenty yards down field through a swinging old non-radial tire (the defense) into the awaiting hands of a guy named Bruce or Todd who is your team-mate but you barely know.

American Football Cadence: a particular series of vocal calls, intended to keep an offense in rhythm and coordinated to when the quarterback will hike the ball.

Yes, I was the quarterback. I was the brains of the team. I was … an absolute jock imbecile blind to the realities of life before and after the game. Except for the chicks. You know, the key to dumbing-down a society must lie in the reality of gettin’ laid. But the cheerleaders and pompom girls bored the hell out of me. Although all other standards in my life were pretty low, I tried to keep it high with the chicks. Being regularly featured in the local newspaper seemed to do the trick. I was known for being with non-jock chicks. That culminated in dating a girl who starred in a high school production of The Glass Menagerie. Yeah, how ironic that I would fall for a theater-chick and then end up being a failed playwright.

Oh what a memory. “Amanda Wingfield” and I were something like the odd-couple. I was or wanted to be the jock that transcended. She wanted to get more of an audience. To this day the beautiful girl who played her on stage is still in my dreams. How long, then, will the sanity remain?

When I wasn’t playing football or some other dumb-downing sport I spent the rest of my time observing and trying not to think. The future? College? Job? I was actually dumb enough to believe that I could go to college and continue playing football. The athletic chasm, though, between high school and college is simply too big. The chasm between college and professional football is either the same size or a tick bigger. That is what I learned after it was too late. In the mean time, at the beginning of my junior year of high school, our team was ranked number one in our division. We were on our way that season to the state championship. One day during a school lunch break, in the parking lot behind the school, one of my team-mates came up to me.

Dude: Dude, you wanna improve your performance for the season?
Me: Uh…?
Dude: Your forty (yard dash) time goes up immediately. You’ll bench press fifty more pounds by next Tuesday.
Me: Gee…
Dude: Come on, dude. Everybody’s doing it. Here. Bend over!

I bent over and felt a slight prick. Later that day, probably while sitting in history class or make-believe civics, I felt a strange moisture in my seat. I looked down and saw a small speck of blood. In the bathroom I washed the needle wound on my ass and the cold water finally helped to clot it. How correct Dude was. Within days I could run faster and could bench press more and there were even moments where I thought, if I really put some effort into it, I could squeeze that regulation pig skin wrongly shaped ball till it popped like a balloon. Oh, the only other side-effect of taking what was called Deca-Durabolin (aka Nandrolone) was the shockingly large amount of seaman that I released into or all over that sweet girl who played Amanda Wingfield in our high school’s biggest theater hit.

Yes. Drugs were (are) everywhere. Drugs to get you high and drugs to make you run fast. (It’s no wonder to me that now, so many years later, those same drugs mixed with guns are randomly killing so many people.) Thanks to sports I was able to stay away from getting high. I quickly realized, though, that taking drugs (of any kind) was the wrong thing to do. (At least while you’re still so young.) Perhaps I owe a tidbit of wisdom to a conversation that went something like this:

Coach/Teacher: Dude, you need to focus on your future after high school.
Me: Uh. But. I. Want. Play…
Coach/Teacher: Dude, listen, you’re talented but you’re not gifted. Now don’t misunderstand. The world is a big place and you can TRY to do almost anything you want. But I recommend that you consider improving your grades and then maybe going to the community college.

Yeah, I could throw a pig-skin through a swinging old tire from twenty-five to thirty yards out. But I couldn’t see the reality of what a future outside the confines of Momma-like American High School held for me. Being the product of the broken American dream, I accepted no advice from wannabe mentors.

At least, somehow, I learned/realized that winning a championship high school game didn’t matter. Add to that the fact that I knew that I was stuck in a world of mediocrity and mendacity… There was no getting out. I just wasn’t one of them “gifted” athletes and there weren’t enough drugs to take to change that.

“You are talented but you are not gifted.” (Hint: I am (worst)writer and I did NOT attend Poke High!)

Almost thirty years later… Listening to “gifted” athletes that could make it without drugs sit in front of the US Congress and deny taking these substances continues the breaking of my heart. There is no meaning in a life filled and ruled by all these gimme-more pigs. And it doesn’t stop at sports. Famous actors now publicly claim that taking these substances is OK. How ironic, I guess, that famous technology does the same thing. I can’t write in words how ashamed I am of where I grew up and what I learned from the American way of life. (With that said, I also don’t know of any worthwhile alternative – at least not in this life-time and/or geo-political arena.) With that (nonsense) in mind, here a few recent substance abuse instances to ponder:

Technology and substance provocation via ad-links. Here we have a screen shot from an article I found at the Huffington Post about Sylvester Stalone admitting to the use of human growth hormone. I also believe he actually went on US TV and admitted to using this stuff. What shocked me about the Huff Post article were the dynamically generated adverts by Google. As you can see HGH and other “muscle” content/links are provided by Google. Talk about fanning the fire…

Good old fashion sports and a little extra help. I guess. This is the substance humdinger of the year (2007). There should be a picture here of Roger Clemens – a very “gifted” athlete – who is now being scrutinized for the alleged use of “performance enhancing” substance(s). I thought it best to include this pic of his wife. Roger Clemens is, of course, denying use of HGH or other substances. (Instead he is claiming to inject vitamin B12 in his ass). I don’t want to get into judging people. But the problem is that when “gifted” people try to take even more advantage and then basically become the apples that rot the barrel… well… ain’t it obvious why life really sucks for the rest of us. Oh, btw, Mrs. Clemens, has actually admitted to using HGH as part of her preparation for this photo shoot – which I think appeared in the infamous college-boy jerk-me-off February issue.

For those who want to know more, here a few links to “substance”.

Wiki on HGH

Hypocrisy in sports (a blog)

CNN on HGH

With that in mind, let’s all take a moment of silence to praise all the gifted ones out there. They deserve so much more…

Rant on.

-tgs-

]]> http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/2008/02/15/happiness-doped-up-the-gifted/feed/ 0 Tommi stallone_huff.jpg clemens_wife.jpg http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/2008/02/09/what-came-first-electron-or-proton/ http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/2008/02/09/what-came-first-electron-or-proton/#comments Sat, 09 Feb 2008 10:25:01 +0000 Tommi http://worstwriter.wordpress.com/?p=683 ]]>

Today something other than just failure and/or complaining. Well, maybe not.

As a failed writer destined to give up, procrastination becomes a form of time-escaping entertainment. The question then becomes: do I go the way of mindless entertainment or …? At times I feel as though I am stuck in a galaxy-size seat-less theater swimming freely in white transparent curtains. The light in my theater comes from the various “objects” that I call my procrastination.

Oh, if I would have done better in school then maybe I could actually achieve something in this life – other than procreation.

Yet this daily routine of nothingness, reaching deeper into my nowhere stars, going where no loser has gone before… The only substance I know that holds IT all together is buried in the creative prowess of the likes of Pavarotti or a Bacon screaming, poetic portrait, among others. Sometimes I happen across stuff like the video embedded in this post. Which really tickles the whole of my fancy. Source for video is here. This creative person has learned well, has fit into this world well, and will continue on, I’m sure, quite well. Hats off to her. Here two thoughts motivated by this short film: calling the enabler of it all “Empty” is a wonderful idear; I’m not sure that the electron came before the proton, though.

Today no real ranting. Is that OK?

-tgs-

Today I’m going to try and complain about the following and add to that a little bit of the nonsense I do on a daily basis that helps me maintain sanity.

I hate being an unwilling expatriate. I have no monetary means. I am forced to be best friends with disillusion…

Would you like more? Of course you would. Because that’s not all.

I can offer society nothing because I have no money which also means I have to forfeit family. I just sent out the divorce papers and at the same time learned that my soon-to-be ex-wife just lost her job (in the shitty welfare state of mediocrity German-ness). I am so worried and frightened about everything right now (because of how much I love my son) that I can literally feel my internal organs crumbling under the weight of (our) atmosphere – or the silliness of the politics and economics that have long since made the words of Thoreau come true…

The opportunities of living are diminished in proportion as what are called the ‘means’ are increased.

With that in mind, the only thing I can think about is grabbing a typewriter and writing. It’s the only way to forget about… having moved to Germany (what a shitty country), not being able to have a position in life because I couldn’t afford college, failing to get-along with others because of my personality traits, and last but certainly not least, life sucks because things are so bad that even if I wanted to I couldn’t subject myself to the smooth sailing of a subservient whatever career because I am the demon-beast that has long since learned to think for himself…

At least I can type (please no comments about the typos).

Of course, I know that I’m not the only one that’s desperate these days. I wish all well out there in lala-land who make their way through the mess. To make sure things don’t get too depressing, here a few excerpts from todays wondrous news.

This excerpt is about desperation. I guess. And you know what they say: crime doesn’t pay. Well, I say, nothing else does either. So we all get by the best way we can and try not to be too criminal.

NEW YORK AP – A state archivist was charged Monday with stealing hundreds of artifacts — documents representing “the heritage of all Americans,” according to the history buff who found some of them on eBay — to pay his household bills.

Daniel Lorello, 54, is accused of taking the rare items from the New York State Library, including Davy Crockett Almanacs, Currier and Ives lithographs and the 1865 railroad timetable for Abraham Lincoln’s funeral train. Authorities believe he hawked them for tens of thousands of dollars, using much of that to pay off his daughter’s credit card debt. (Source; I suspect the source link will eventually die, hence this cut & paste text.)

And here’s another article. This time about a bunch of dimwits trying to get by… the real good way.

FRANKFURT (Reuters) – German nudists will be able to start their holidays early by stripping off on the plane if they take up a new offer from an eastern German travel firm.

Travel agency OssiUrlaub.de said it would start taking bookings from Friday for a trial nudist day trip from the eastern German town of Erfurt to the popular Baltic Sea resort of Usedom, planned for July 5 and costing 499 euros ($735).

“It’s expensive, I know,” managing director Enrico Hess told Reuters by phone. “It’s because the plane’s very small. There’s no real reason why a flight in which one flies naked should be more expensive than any other.”

The 55 passengers will have to remain clothed until they board, and dress before disembarking… (Source; ditto)

Wow. What a wonderful world we all get to blog in, eh?

Rant (and complain) on.

-tgs-

For more pseudo-book-reviewing go here and here. With that said, this too is almost a book review. Keep in mind, I’m just a bloke with nothing better to do during the day because I can’t finish yet another novel that will ultimately end up on my shelve(s) as rejected-novel-number-five.

Here’s a link to Naomi Klein’s website. Here’s a link to a short film produced by Naomi and directed by the guy who made the dystopian science fiction film “Children of Men”. Here’s the (my) standard wiki link about Naomi Klein.

If you haven’t discerned by now, I’ve just finished Naomi Klein’s … I read it in, like, x weeks. Seriously. It has a million and a half pages, although I might have counted a few twice. Here a few thoughts to ease you into my world of critique-intrigue:

• Wow.
• A Wonderful, meticulously researched book.
• A great new take on the issue and/or question of the result of twentieth century mixing of all-things-politics and all-things-economic (at least from the perspective of western thinking).
• Very wordy and sometimes repetitive but well structured and extremely informative.
• I wish the author would have put a bit more from her own head (or thoughts) into this book. The constant barrage of well-researched and footnoted/end-noted information was at times distracting – but in the end it’s what saved the book for me. To some, so much fact-checking might be distracting but at least you can find solace in the fact that this book is not an academic textbook. I enjoyed the footnotes a whole heck-of-a-lot.
• Although she is (or claims to be) a journalist, more often than not while reading this, I hoped she would/could turn into a philosopher or, perhaps, at the least, a political scientist with a tendency to über-dramatize. The book could use a lot more touchy-feely – both in things that draw tears and things that draw anger. (Not sure if that makes any sense because I did find myself tearing up a bit while reading the chapters about Thailand and New Orleans and even those chapters about Pinochet.)
• This book is missing the thing that “No Logo” had. “No Logo” by way of a very simple premise was a wonderfully creative way of questioning corporatism in the west and especially in my United Mistakes Of America (U.M. of A). To me, that simple premise was almost poetic in “No Logo”. Unfortunately, there’s nothing poetic about “The Shock Doctrine” and there is really no simple premise to this new book – even though Ms. Klein sells it with a great blurp/blurb at the cost of a what many people consider a great economist.
• On the other hand, if you want Naomi Klein fact after a fact after fact… about the ills of bad “capitalism” and bad politics then this is your book; it will give everything and nothing you need to know about life & death in a world of greed.

I feel it necessary due to the political and wing-nut positions put forth with this book my responsibility to inform (a little) of my orientations…

But this is no way a coming out…

I’m all for Capitalism. At the least, it’s the best of the worst. With that in mind, capitalism should never presuppose (Individual) Liberty. Capitalism is not a political system – it should be a sub-category of politics. The problems rational people face today is that capitalism has gone awry and that is coinciding very conveniently with politics doing the same. Hence, by default, there is no place for rational people to make important decisions for others. Here we have the quagmire of survival based on consuming. Fortunately Naomi Klein is very good at pointing fingers, but that’s about it.

“The Shock Doctrine – The Rise of Disaster Capitalism”

The biggest problem with this book is that it focuses too much on criticizing something that doesn’t really exist and the rest of the time it tries to create a bunch of bogeymen. Too often Naomi Klein comes across as someone with a vendetta and by doing so gets lost. Did the west do bad things in South America? You betcha! Did we manipulate South East Asia? Uhhhhh… Yep. How did Saddam get fictional WMDs? Well…? We gave them to him?

Correct! We are the champions of multiple choice tests issued by…

Naomi Klein completely misses any potential point regarding politics and participatory democracy, whether failed (failing) or flourishing. She then also misses any chance of providing some insight into how to deal with all the bogeymen that she puts on various pedestals. The one thing that Ms. Klein gets right is her referencing twentieth century political and economic antics and how that has enabled and fostered totalitarian corporatism. But she doesn’t quite put it that way. I would think that most people who choose to read this book already know about the demon of corporatism – which, ironically, is a term I think she coined – at least for a certain generation – by writing “No Logo”.

“The Shock Doctrine” would have been better served if she would have continued where “No Logo” left off. I kind of miss her rebel with a cause attitude which was all over “No Logo”. Instead, she gives us/you fact after fact after fact about bad politics and “capitalism” – most of the fun of which is in her footnotes – which only failed writers with nothing better to do will actually read. Only at the end of the book does she allude to the idea that something needs to be done to get this system-gone-awry back on a somewhat more (can I use this word?) egalitarian track. But then the book just ends. I guess she ran out of facts – or footnotes.

Now get this. While reading this book I was completely withdrawn from all things Orwellian. Seriously. Ever since I became an expatriate almost everything I ventured to read or study makes me think of things Orwellian. Everything except Naomi Klein. Now. That might not be such a bad thing. I’m on the verge of going postal – with a new-fangled weapon that either shoots bitter chocolate or undresses women. To me, this is more the direction Ms. Klein should have taken if she actually wanted to say something profound with this mass of research. (The Orwell part, not the postal with the chocolate gun part.)

This book seems to pander to overly ambitious PhD theses writers in either the humanities or social sciences or it attempts to bridge the gap that is college educated idiocracy that makes-up the demographically profitable side of Pareto’s Principle (80/20 rule) in all this consumer chaos. And… yes, ultimately, I believe that it is the college educated that are the ones making things so bad in this world. Remember, if you are one of the few that actually manage to get a college education (degree) and then, on top of that, manage to get a “career”, what else can you do with your life but… Shut the F-up and buy things and be your own narcotic?

Below a quote from a letter from Aldous Huxley to George Orwell in 1949 regarding 1984. Huxley and Orwell had it down back then and their thoughts should have served as seeds for Ms. Klein and all the idiot careerist college grads that read “The Shock Doctrine” and then think “Yeah she’s right” and then go back to their comfort-zone, status-quo corporate careers.

“Within the next generation I believe that the world’s leaders will discover that infant conditioning and narco-hypnosis are more efficient, as instruments of government, then clubs and prisons, and that the lust for power can be just as completely satisfied by suggesting people into their servitude as by flogging them and kicking them into obedience.” (See Huxley at Wiki, if you will.)

I hate to say this because it’s very pretentious of me, but, what the heck: I have the feeling that Ms. Klein is out of her league here. Don’t get me wrong. I really enjoyed reading “The Shock Doctrine” – even though I’m aware of most the stuff she writes about. But then again, I’m kind of a masochist – I guess. Ms. Klein’s research is impeccable. But other than retelling the news, well…

Where’s the poetry?

For Aldus Huxley to suggest in 1949 that the future would be able to “suggest people into” their corporate servitude is what I mean when I say that Ms. Klein lacks anything poetic in this very large work of research. I heard in an interview with her that she lived for a year in Argentina as part of her quest to research/write this book. Then came the Iraq war. She said in the interview that she got side-tracked and continued her research in Iraq. If she was in Argentina to research the negativity of fundamentalist capitalism from Milton Friedman and the so-called Chicago School and all it did in S. America, well, yeah, I guess she really did get side-tracked. I think she gets lost in one mess-a-potamia (United Mistakes of America in South America) and then gets lost in another mess-a-potamia (U.M. of A in Iraq) and the key word is “lost”.

The issue of torture – as wrong as it is, and bad “capitalism”, as bad as that obviously is – requires a little bit more connectivity to be brought together between Chile (of the 1970s) and Iraq (who knows when that’s going to end).

Are all things lost? Beyond the geo-political aspect of Ms. Klein’s critical work she has one other problem with this humongous book. To me she blatantly affronts Milton Friedman. In fact, she seems almost obsessed with him. Can you say “bogeymen” Ms. Klein? Friedman does not deserve so much of Ms. Klein’s attention in this book – unless she’s trying to attack academia – which I wish she would. Even if Donald (the rich-small-minded-fascist) Rumsfeld was schooled by Friedman you ultimately can’t blame the teacher. Friedman was either a good teacher or a bad teacher – nothing more.

In fact, of all the nation-state evil deeds done in (recent) history and of all the bogeymen we know about, I’m not aware of anyone trying to condemn their (bogeymen) teachers.

As far as Friedmanism goes… Let me say this in the only pretentious way that I can. I first heard of Friedman when that dimwit politician Ronald Reagan used to carry him around in the form of a book. But then I thought of that old toothless, redneck, raping uncle who lived in the valley above and I quickly learned: if these (then they weren’t known as “neo-cons”) self-loving morons are getting their economic ideology from a school teacher and because of them I couldn’t get any financial help to go to college… Well, it might be better if I resort to self-teaching and continue reading Gogol, Henry Miller, Bukowski, etc. I knew, at the least, I would expand my mind instead of closing it in order to make a buck. At least that’s what I remember my creative and giving Aunt saying before she died of abuse in the valley below.

Please forgive me if I drift… It happens to me when I think about our U.M of A. God: Money.

One thing I’ve gathered over the years about Milton Friedman is that he believed in liberty – and even I’m not cynical enough to believe that his liberty was only about corporate liberty. Check out any interview with him. His problem – if any – was that he was an elite academic entrenched in theory. He was nothing but a fuckin’ school teacher who never earned a living from the/a “free market” that he preached. Maybe that in itself is worth criticizing – or laughing at. Either way, there is no reason for Naomi Klein to turn Friedman into 666. I went through American public schooling – and a bit of college (until Reagan made college impossible for me and millions of others from the low-middle-classes).

Seriously. I had some pretty whacked-out teachers. I don’t blame one of those teachers for all my failure today.

I think Ms. Klein spends too little time on issue(s) regarding human behavior, collectivism, social ignorance, merit-less achievement, serfdom, or even modern media driven politics, etc., all the things and more that will make up the end of Rome – I mean, America. Instead she likes Torture and describing Sadistic behavior – which ain’t about to be expelled from man’s mind – no matter how many pages you write. She should spend at least a bit of time talking about the level of ignorance and stupidity that has become the American Way of Living. As I said here, in a completely unrelated post, and with tears in my face: the way America has been acting as a collective nation domestically and internationally, it deserves the ugly white men that are hell-bent on…

If only I could digress.

The thing that Ms. Klein does well with her book is to distort the fact that only one form of “bad capitalism” actually exists which in turn leads to a thorough depiction of bogeymen – who are sitting atop all things bad. With that in mind, it is not my intention to belittle the atrocities that right-wing, neo-cons have caused in the world in the last fifty (or so) years – which she do diligently footnotes.

I simply do not believe that these idiots (neo-cons) do these things in the name of… “capitalism”.

I believe that liberty (or freedom) is something that has to be politically protected and obviously shielded from those who would take it away. It is a matter of inalienable rights – which some of us have heard mentioned in a relatively famous document, although the intention of such words in the past might not be the same today. I also believe that (a) capitalist economy can co-exist with a participatory democratic system. The failure I live with in this life is due to a world where words, like goal posts, are changed according to frivolous will. In fear of being redundant, I’ll say again, there is no real “capitalism” in the world. Therefore, as an individual I am incapable of engaging in a system-gone-awry where words take on more meaning than the value of my time and effort.

• Professionalism = Obedience.
• Career = Lifestyle
• Survival = Consume(r)

Noami Klein should have addressed what “capitalism” could be in her book instead of just dogging on it and showing her disdain for certain influential people. If she would have gone that route then we would hit it off because I think, well, she’s hot. Instead, the system she criticizes isn’t the problem, and I wonder if she’s ever going to address what the problem really is. Even if you continually call it things like “disaster capitalism” or “vulture capitalists”, “monetary whiplash”, “casino capitalism”, “great creative cauldron of capitalism”, “Friedmanism”, “Chicago School Capitalism”, etc, etc. None of that matters because you can’t take it all out of the context of what is real in the world today. There is not just a fight of things evil or of things terroristic or trying to protect the environment or being social or saving the f’n whales. We are in a struggle of survival and that struggle is being sanctioned completely and utterly by SUV-driving ignorance in ALL aspects of humanity – by both rulers and followers.

But then again… At least I take some comfort knowing that Ms. Klein spent half of this very thick book thinking of new ways to give a name to something that doesn’t really exist.

Go to commercial break. Here now a word from my inner sponsor. Lackadaisically I tried to manifest my idea(s) of “capitalism” in a play I wrote a few years back – before becoming (worst)writer – after experiencing the disillusioning reality of dotcom dystopia first hand. I titled the play “The Good Criminal” (Der Gute Kriminelle). It was/is a really cool play. If I ever get a chance to produce it again, I need to rewrite the ending. That’s all. Whoopee.

Book review and rant on.

-tgs-

If you’re here about the Hermes, here a somewhat newer post with the/my Hermes Baby in action.

Here and here for other posts on old fashioned writing devices. I’m a stickler for old typewriters. The only stipulation I have for collecting them is that with minimal elbow grease they actually work.

Today I’d like to (worst)write about two (relative) new devices in my collection of writing paraphernalia. Blogging on or about this stuff is not only a great way to spend a drunk Sunday afternoon but also a way to express myself about things that mean absolutely nothing… Which is better than running amok – I guess.

Waaaaay cooooool typewriters:

Groma Kolibri (Made in East Germany)

Hermes Baby (Swiss made)

I have several very old and small typewriters. The device that is my benchmark is the Olivetti Lettera 22, which you can read about in another post of mine here. Obviously, making typewriters small had its trade-offs. I think Olivetti was the only European maker to break any ground regarding both size and functionality in this arena. That is, Olivetti was able to make both small machines and machines that had functionality that was usually reserved for bigger desktop size machine. We’re talkin’ things like remote adjustable tabulation, multiple colored ribbon, multiple line spacing, etc. The typewriters pictured above and most typewriters of this size/category have only black ribbons and 1.0 or 1.5 line spacing. They are so-called “travel” typewriters. What makes them cool is that they could mass produce these things so small – and most of them work real well.

But before I continue, here a short differentiation between “travel” and “portable” in the world of yesteryear typewriters.

Portable Typewriters: This is/was a typewriter that could be easily packed into a carrying case and you could move it around, say, from desk to desk within an office or desk to storage space within a household. These devices are heavy and cumbersome and usually have a pretty large desktop footprint. Most of them work real well and are a blast to type on. My favorite portable is the Alpina which you can read about here. If I’m typing hundreds of pages, I use my Alpina portable or my Olympia SM5.

Travel Typewriters: These were the smallest mechanical machines made up until the early to mid 1980s when electric and battery driven machines and then computers easily replaced them. You could actually pack these machines into your suitcase or just carry one with you on a train or airplane. Perhaps they were the first “laptops”. They were usually limited in functionality due to their size (they only had black ribbons, no tabulation and dual line spacing) but if you take time to analyze these devices you’ll see that they employ some very interesting engineering. For a limited time or number of pages they are a blast to use. In fact, the Swiss made Hermes is so good, I use it for regular (worst)writing.

Hermes Baby.

My Hermes Baby was probably made in the late 40s. It has a QWERTY keyboard but also has the capacity to write German, French and Spanish text. (It has Umlaut, Cedilla, Tilda, etc.) I think this was/is sold as an “International Version” or something (I bought it from a German who said he bought it from a German dealer). The negative thing about this machine is that it has the vaguest keyboard I’ve ever used on a small typewriter. You never really feel the hammers hitting the platen – which might be a good thing on such a small device and obviously has something to do with it being relatively quiet. I also think the vagueness is due to such a small platen. Everything on this machine is precise and snappy. Typical Swiss manufacturing, I think. The carriage return is a bit stiff but when I’m going at it (typing fast, typing a lot) and do a carriage return the whole machine remains rather stable in it’s footprint. Which is real nice.

Both the Hermes and the previously mentioned Olivetti (my benchmark for small typewriters) are made of light-weight aluminum yet carriage returns on the Olivetti move the machine around on whatever surface it lies, whereas the Hermes remains still. A bit annoying with the Italian. A solution would be to get new rubber for for the feet of the Olivetti but have you ever tried finding things new for Italy? Whoopee.

I make a lot of typos on this Hermes because I’m used to QWERTZ keyboard but I only paid one Euro for the thing so I’m not going to complain. Probably typical of Swiss manufacturing at the time, this machine is so well built that I’m sure it will last forever – almost like the Princess 300 I own. The margin settings, type-guide, paper holder, etc., are all made with wonderful precision and eye for detail; even the platen rubber has remained elastic after all these years. Typing upper case is fun on this machine because the carriage pivots backwards which means you don’t have to force it upward with your little finger – which is nice if you type nine-finger like me. Brilliant design.

Groma Kolibri.

From the 1960s. When I first decided to acquire one of these I really wasn’t sure what to expect. I mean, come on, the thing is/was “Made in East Germany”. But, as far as typewriters go, it doesn’t matter if it’s east or west – the Germans make great typewriters. In fact, I think this is one of the best designed travel typewriters ever made. And… It’s gorgeous. The Kolibri is flatter than the Hermes but is also a bit wider. Even though the first one of these I bought arrived kaputt, I gladly put some elbow grease into it. After a few hours of cleaning and adjusting I got it to work. But it will always be worn out. So I set out and bought a second Kolibri but it was in worse shape than the first. At least I was able to steal some parts from the second purchase and use them to fix the first – which is pictured above. I’m still on the look out for one of these in great condition. Obviously this device does not have the same precision manufacturing as the Swiss Hermes.

Yet I like the Kolibri. It is one of the flattest typewriters ever made. The most surprising thing about this machine is that it types like a big machine. I think that’s due to the Kolibri employing a parallel type mechanism, large fonts (12pt?) and a relatively heavy platen. Parallel type mechanism doesn’t use keys that curve inward while being pushed down, as is the case with almost all typewriters. All the keys are connected to the same vertical pivot which then moves the hammers. This makes the keyboard a bit bulky but the designers simply spread that into the width of the machine. A negative on this machine is that carriage shift is very heavy (carriage shifting does not employ a parallel mechanism). I miss a lot of capitalization on this machine because of the heavy carriage. I love the direct connection between the keys, hammers and the platen, though. Hope to get one in better condition soon.

The Groma Kolibri is in no way built as well as the Hermes – that’s obvious since I have two Groma’s and both are in pretty bad shape. But the Hermes types too much like a Fisher-price toy. But hey, ain’t toying around what makes all this (worst)writing worthwhile…?

Maybe not.

-tgs-

Did a lot more posting last December. Whoopee, eh. I was still in a blank then. After that, though, I finally got around to trying to actually write something cohesive again. You know, something not quite like this. It was also the time where I probably – and finally – gave up on the playwriting dream. I know it doesn’t sound like much but I did write one, two stories from Jan. to March ‘06. Naturally the stories were rejected for any sort of hum-drum, mediocre publication that ultimately serves the mediocre publisher and her/his habitual desire to see their own name in print. (I know, such platitude-like accusations make me look even more silly, right?) But all bitterness aside… The silly writing I did at the beginning of ‘07 was enough to get me started on a third story. The inertia was even good enough to turn that into something more. Gloria’s Device (working title) has truly preoccupied me for most of mid to late ‘07. Now, unfortunately, I’m in a (worst)writing rut and can’t get any further with this story. I swear, I’ve typed five-hundred thousand pages for this thing. I truly believe I’ve reached a kind of turning point. You know, this is where the men are separated from the boys. It looks like I will remain one of the boys.

While working on something I try not to lose track of the rest of life. This is not an easy task. I swear, if I could, if I had the privilege, if I had the minuscule financial means, I would lock myself up somewhere in Delaware or the eastern shore of Maryland and live like a hermit and just write. But being poor and unsuccessful and turning into a bitter middle aged man, there are very few choices I have in this life. I am a slave – aren’t we all? So I mix with it all and try not to become the monster that is stuck in all of us. One of the things that keeps me sane is lavishing in the fact that I’m a redneck moron trying to get a few more smarts in life. So I read and I study and I try to comprehend. I think this is doing me well because I fervently stay away, as much as I can in this slave-life, from things entertaining. This morning, for example, I finished reading novel number four of my little Douglas Coupland collection. (No. This type of writing is far from being entertaining. As it should be! All writing should be provocative – somehow!)

Hey Nostradamus!

What a great read. What a great writer. You can read about the book here. When I read Generation X so many years ago, while struggling to write for the stage, I said back then, “Wow, I want to write like this guy.” Of course, I knew that I would never be able to do that. But at least, when you’re lost and don’t know where to turn, and you are the manifestation of being born alone and dying… Well, you get my negative-rant drift. It feels good to be able pick up something from Coupland and feel like a human being again and fight away the devils that haunt me in my own little pitiful world of mendacity.

So how ’bout some Coupland words to go with your coffee or snuff? There’s a lot of wisdom in his work. Here some really nice food-for-thought from Hey Nostradamus!, by Douglas Coupland:

“I looked at the shadows of sleeping cattle and thought, Lucky farm animals. Lucky space aliens. Lucky anything-but-humans, never having to deal with knowing how foul or desperate their own species is.”

“I do believe in God – I think that He created an order for the world; I believe that, in constantly bombarding Him with requests for miracles, we’re also asking that He unravel the fabric of the world. A world of continuous miracles would be a cartoon, not a world.”

“The heart of a man is like deep water.”

“…if you want to get close to somebody, you have to tell him or her something intimate about yourself. They’ll tell you something intimate in return, and if you keep this going, maybe you’ll end up in love.”

“I was raised to believe that the opposite of labor is theft, not leisure.”

“I wish I could say that success turns people into plastic dolls, but the truth is that I don’t know any successful people.”

May the great ones ramble on…

-tgs-

PS Xmas sucks even more when you’re a loser and know it shouldn’t be that way.

Not many posts here lately. Perhaps there will be even fewer in the coming days. I’m trying so hard to focus on something else right now. Is the effort worth it? Most likely it is not.

Have been working profusely on a novel. As noted here, I began work on this novel in April of this year (2007). Believe it or not, I’m trying to actually write a publishable novel within one year. (Stop laughing.) Currently it has three working titles. Gloria. Gloria’s Device. The Device. The Hollywood tag-line to describe this novel goes something like this:

Mad scientist meets mad businessman and the two…

That’s all you get for now.

In order to toot my own horn, I admit to having typed (yes, on a manual typewriter) over a thousand A4 pages for this novel. Of the thousand (or so) pages I have kept about five to seven hundred as a form of kindling for when my supportive German girlfriend can afford a new home with a fire place. The rest of the pages I’m still working with. I have to admit that some of those pages have found their way to various trash-cans in and around the town of Wiesbaden, Germany, where I regularly run out of the apartment in a rage of (worst)writing frustration, singing the blues and complaining to regular working stiff Germans I meet on the street, how much a f’n loser I am for not having a real job.

Needless to say, writing has been a big struggle over the past few years because of financial woes and other insecurities. I owe my German girlfriend more than just a dedication when this novel finally gets recognized as being worthy of publication – even under the guise of a poorly written piece of krapp. With that in mind, there are moments where I try to suspend my mind from thinking about Gloria and the story that unfolds in my head both day and night. Some of these moments allow me to whisper around the world via the Internets. What a relief this new finagled tech-krapp is, eh?

One of the many blogs I follow in order to give my (worst)writing mind a break is onegoodmove. Run by a guy named Norm, this blog provides me with much needed liberal biased vid clips regarding the things in my grand United Mistakes that are really screwed up. (But don’t think I’m a “liberal”, I’m just a lost expatriate.) Other than the fun political stuff that Norm blogs about, every once-a-once he does stuff that just throws me for a loop. For example, check out this post. It got me so riled that I actually broke my nightly inebriation ritual, where I’m not supposed to write anything for a few hours, and wrote a comment. Of course, the comment doesn’t work re-posted here unless you read the post by Norm. Good luck.

“Norm, I hope you don’t hate me for this but… I have a belly full of South African wine and I’m checking your site and… § Love this post. Hate this post. The link title of the video especially appeals to me. “It’s worth a million.” And then there’s the grey text: “according to certain rules.” § I wish that they would have shown me this in High School geometry, calculus, trigonometry, or algebra. Maybe then there would have been some interest. Unfortunately, it’s (30 years) too late. I dislike math. I dislike numbers. And now computers, two numbered machines, really, dance for us. And? § Here’s a (drunken) wrench in my motor, for you. Does anyone think abstractly about how Bush really got elected? Wasn’t it ultimately a math game? How silly I felt when I heard that Gore won by such-n-such a number in 2000. Yeah, numbers dance and preclude the next sip of my Cistercian schnapps. Can you put that to music and graphics as well – like Gore did? Why aren’t we swimming and twisting just like this video? Oh no, that would be over-kill – and it might take something away from f’n university professors. § Put your graphical numbers to music as much as you want. It fits well with the lie we live. Like pop-music. Isn’t that what numbers ultimately do – according to certain rules – become so popular that you can use them on Hiroshima in order to make an impression on Soviet Russians? § I have nothing against mathematicians and the like. Numbers have a place. But what’s the point of thinking or pretending that numbers are magical, poetic and, as the music so frivolously tries to impose, emotional? Numbers, mathematics, are a big problem in the world we share. A little less math – like the mathematical formulas used to extrapolate values that determine the fictional price of oil – might be a good thing… Or? But what do I know about math. I can’t dance. Gulp. Gulp. § You know, it probably took me twenty years to really understand Einstein’s special relativity theory. Mathematically, I’m still a dunce to it. But abstractly, it’s nothing more than taking Time away from those who think Time is/was a constant. Where’s the math in that? Whoopee.”

Pause & Rant on.
-tgs-

Two posts in one month about Germany being in the English language news. Oh boy.

Warning. There is some very suggestive language in this post/article. Reader discretion is advised. If you are offended by… I don’t know… the reality you live in, then you might want to click here. You’ll feel better as soon as do.

As I tried to say here, nothing interesting happens in Germany. Although this place seems to be governed with a social greater-good in mind, it does so at the cost of innovation and cultural dynamics. Sure, Germany has Internet access aplenty, high-speed trains and airports almost under every roof. It educates people to the university level almost for free and when those people finish with their education they all get Phds and could, if there were only more of them, run really undynamic companies like Deutsche Telekom or SAP, etc.

Then there’s that “green” thing where Germany has the highest per square-meter density of trees in all of Europe (but don’t quote me on that). It also has the world’s best separated trash pick-up and a bottle deposit return policy that forces consumers to consider not the type of drink they want to consume but the container it’ll be delivered in. In some cases the bottle return policy is so good in Germany that if you don’t have a receipt to coincide with the bottle you’re returning the vendor/retailer might not take it back. Which means you lose the .25 cent deposit.

Quick update a few days after posting this. I was trying to return a bottle but the retailer told me, because the bottle didn’t have the original cover, that is, the original wrapper (it was plastic returnable coke bottle) then he didn’t have to take it back. Is that just… spey-shall.

Where’s the empirical study written by Phd career professionals about the profits made from bottle deposits not returned? If I were a German politician, I would propose taxing the profits made from jerking consumers around with returnable bottle regulations.

What else is there to praise about the wonders of Germanland? Oh, how could I even dare to put this one last?! z’German thing with cars.

Being born and raised in the US, I really thought I had seen it all regarding how crazed humans can be about their cars. But then I moved to you-know-where. Get this. In Germany it is illegal to wash your car on Sunday. That’s right. There is actually a law in Germany that makes washing your car on Sunday a punishable legal offense. (Do I need to say that again?) And do you know why? Because if Germans could wash their cars on Sunday the entire country would dissolve from the face of the earth due to the amount of soap it would have to absorb. And that’s not all regarding z’auto.

Why is it that the Germans, who have a tradition of building great automobiles, do not have one single alternative powered car on the road? NOT ONE! And for you Americans reading this, get this regarding German innovation. You still cannot get (as an option) those fancy video screens behind car seats in German cars. Doesn’t that make car-lovers across the great United Mistakes just cringe with disgust? Ok, I guess you can get the video screens if you special order them in your new Mercedes 500 S-Klasse.

At least Germany has a political system that seems to care for its citizens, which is a great consolation for not being able to afford fancy video screens in your new Opel Vectra for those whining kids. Probably the most important part of the Great German Political System (or GGPS), is its health care. Now, when talking about health care in this day-n-age, forget the fact that German insurance companies over-charge because German doctors and hospitals over-charge which in turn makes German politicians raise taxes and bottle deposits and so goes the tune…

Ring around the rosie,
Pocketful of posies.
Ashes, ashes.
We all fall down. GGPS.

Of the major western industrialized countries, Germany has dealt fairly well with the whole welfare-state-thing conflicting with capitalism. But it does that by using that one magical solution that politicians so cleverly pull out of their frocks.

Taxation.

More on what I think of Germany here or here.

Living in Germany – as a privileged Ausländer – really is mind-boggling. Nothing innovative or dynamic happens here. NOTHING. Yet life is good. Just don’t expect to achieve something – at least not as an individual. But I suppose it’s kind of cool when something German is printed in the English news, especially when it has to do with hot German babes.

Let’s blog about blond, blue-eyed, hot German MILFs.

Her name? Eva Hermann. (What a name, eh?) Here’s an English language news report on her recent faux-pas that has the world aghast. And here’s another link (albeit from a German magazine – but in English) to her running her mouth a bit too much to sell a book. And that is ultimately what this post is about. It’s about a hot German chick/babe that is trying to sell a book. And guess what? The book the hot German chick/babe is selling has a pink cover…

Eva Hermann, a relatively famous news anchorwoman, was recently caught on German TV promoting Nazi family values. Of course, my German girlfriend says “that’s not what she said”. What my German girlfriend doesn’t understand is that, often, and perhaps disproportionately, it is not what a German says that matters but what is perceived that a German says that matters.

Eva Hermann is running her trap on the back of a book she wrote that is trying (I have not read it and don’t plan to read it) to push the clock back on German feminism. On top of that, during a recent TV appearance, (correction from original post) she refused to apologize for remarks she made (wrote?) about how much better the Nazis cared for families. Now don’t go ballistic on me for judging her book even though I haven’t read it. And don’t go postal on me for not even having seen her TV appearance. For one thing, my book reading list is too long already and I’m simply not interested in German chick/babes writing non-fiction books with pink covers. Another thing is, this is a blog where I can write anything I want and I really like bitchin’ about (having) to live in Germany.

No. Seriously.

I can tell you first hand, German women are in a pickle of a situation in this new century. And I don’t think a woman like Eva Hermann is gonna help anyones cause. The Germans have been reared by, as I like to call them, woman-folk who literally rebuilt a pacified and bombed-out nation. So it’s really no question in so-called family situations, who wears the pants over here. Having said that, many career oriented and ambitious German women (my girlfriend, my ex-wife, and many of the Tussies from my past) are very dominating. (What can I say, I dig chicks that almost act like men). And that’s probably a good thing. On the other hand, I am in complete contempt of German men.

Wussies.

(If had to translate the word “Tussi” then I’d used the word Wussie, but that probably doesn’t quite work. Tussi is a pejorative term used to describe young women of questionable character – whatever that means. I think the word is better suited to the men running contemporary German society.)

Women in western culture have to play more than a duel-role these days. As well as any pacified nation can, Germany is playing the globalization game. And they do this by assuming, based on gender, the role of the individuals in the game. As the game whines down, as the apex of the pyramid lengthens and stretches and the base widens and becomes more dense, there is less and less of the pie to split between the extremes. And so… the easiest of all possible routes is chosen. Men run to their role with the assumption that they are MAN. How archaic and devoid of merit. How exemplary. Simply because of gender, they go to their offices and desks and careers. And to top that off… there is not one woman running a major German corporation.

Arschgeier.

What does this have to do with Eva Hermann? As I (obviously) failed to state in facetious terms above, I think the situation for German women in modern Germany is downright unjust. When one looks at the situation in most corporations in the white, anglo, western man’s world, it is easy to see how women are (still?) being displaced. Things are getting tight in this global economy, right? Corporations have to watch, as though they, under “normal” and profitable circumstances never watched, the bottom line. It all can only mean that there’s simply no room left for progress. As if “progress” could ever so graciously stand still like a great and sustenance-giving corporation.

Honey, why don’t you stay home and raise the kids? Uh? Sweety…?

In Germany everybody goes about their mundane business, there is no (real) debate on any issues (other than taxation and bottle deposits) and women don’t have to wear Burqas. So every thing is OK, right? Right. Or is it possible that z’Germans just don’t get it? How can they? Life’s too good. It would be complicated, even for a bunch of Phds, to figure out that the dissipating reality of trickle-down, supply side economics is turning the clocks back on all human (feminine) progress. To try and put things in perspective, here’s a small example of what goes on in the mind of 25-38 year old Germans when considering the Times:

(Something) is preventing my beloved Mittelstand, the ones who inherited so much from the Wirtschaftswunder, from heeding the call of Fernweh (wanderlust) and I don’t understand this. What could that something be? Suddenly why do I have to work harder than my Wirtschaftwunder parents for my God-given Right to lavish vacations three times a year? “Vat, huh mean I Kant hev z’Audi A6 az firmenwagon b’cuz z’icon-o-me is schlecht? Unerhört. Scheiße!” Etc., etc.

Am I over-doing it? OK. I’m just one whacked-out blooger stuck in Germany who disagrees with some whacked-out German chick/babe that thinks women should spend more time at home taking care of the “family” because, well, that’s what a bunch of idiotic National Socialist would have wanted.

Economic hardship prevents human progress, right?

Or how ’bout this…

If the first casualty of war is the truth, then what is the first casualty of failed democracy? Isn’t it amazing how so many in the west are willing to give up the innate human right of choice? In a period in history where you have to calculate whether or not you can afford a family, especially when there’s so much gluttony in our political and social system, I guess it’s no wonder that we’ve long since given up on progress and creating more and better choices. Or something like that…

In terms of feminism, civil rights, habeas corpus…, the irony here stinks to the hilt! And so… The German press – and a few of the English presses as well – try to change the subject and avoid what really is important. Germany is struggling so intensely with trying to keep the “family” intact while misconstrued economic policies eat away at its foundation, that there is little choice anymore for the womb-laden to decide their own fate. Men, who are wrongly running the show in Germany, are wimps and scoundrels and they are the real Tussies. And now a famous chick/babe anchorwoman is rightly being ridiculed for saying that Uncle Adolf and his cronies enabled families to have a nice life because you could leave your bicycle unlocked on the street and it wouldn’t get stolen. How ’bout saying something about all the families that were torn apart because of the monster only Germans could create out of the civilized world. Gee, I wonder what the Nazis would do with all the profits from deposits on bottles of Afri-Cola.

Here’s a name for a new cola to put a deposit/tax on… Kristallnacht.

The whole of contemporary German society is falling apart under the lie that is Social-Market-Economics. And all they can talk about in domestic and international press is some mother I’d like to fuck who runs her trap a bit too much so she can sell a book with an ugly pink cover. I mean, why doesn’t Germany deal with something more important? Like raise a few more taxes, create more ingenious bottle deposit schemes, or… say something very loud about why women in Islam have to be covered in the year 2007. Oh. Here. I’ve got it! Why don’t the Germans, with all their innovation and agility and success in making cars without any options but have a really, really, really, really great nationalized health care system figure out a way to turn lowly, blue collar train drivers into shinny white collar pseudo-execs and then give them Phds and a career pathway to running the magical Deutsche Bahn all by themselves and still get five weeks of paid vacation a year and only have to work thirty-four hours a week and, and, and…

Eva Hermann, you dip-shit, why can’t you say something worthwhile to sell your book?

Rant on. Go figure.

-tgs-

…

Technorati Tags: Germany, Nazi, Politics, Germany Politics, Writing, Political Commentary

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Here previous post regarding this wonderful trade fair where so much success and intellectual buoyancy is made available for all the world to graze – as long as you’re conveniently located in or around Frankfurt/Main.

Unfortunately I won’t be attending the Frankfurt Buchmesse (Book Fair) this year, even though it’s right around the corner. Which fits perfectly to my schedule of trying to become an author because I didn’t attend it last year. Just like the waiting I’m doing to become said author, I’m also waiting for an invitation from that really lucky lit-agent or publisher. You know the kind of invitation I’m talking about. It arrives with snail-mail in a white envelope and the gleaming golden ticket within shines as though it were a piece of Ra, the sun God of Nevermore. It’s sent to me (you?) with a sealed kiss and the welcome-into-my-world-smell of ground sassafras, mintless-julep and a touch of roasted fenugreek seeds. Attached to the VIP ticket, where I get access to all the clandestine personnel within the publishing industry, and, perhaps, to a few real authors, is a small, pink post-it with a note written by my new lit-agent:

“You finally made it.”

But then reality hits me (again). I was watching the German news coverage on opening day of the Buchmesse – it gets a serious amount of TV coverage here in Germany! – and some blow-head politician was giving a numskull speech at the opening ceremony.

“The Frankfurt book fair,” she said, “is Germany’s Hollywood.”

Well, that about covers it for me. There is no hope for a (worst)writer to ever make it in a world where so much of what s/he believes in is compared to a town made of tinsel. Game over man. There is no hope.

Just write.

-tgs-

Technorati Tags: frankfurt book fair, writing, becoming a writer, novel

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Or… Writing = Rewriting (?)

Here’s part 1, although it might not exactly be related to this one (part 2); here’s another semi-related post.

Writing isn’t what most (worst)writer’s think it is. Which brings me to this: Oh how I admire those really productive “writers” out there. The (real)writer(s) that can produce and produce and produce and then actually have an audience – even if their work appeals to everyone but me. Thinking: TC Boyle, Somerset Maugham, Marcel Proust. Struggling as I do to find the time and the peace to produce often makes me dream of trying to invent something that would allow me to turn off the world around me so that I could focus. Eventually, of course, I realized that such an invention could only be either to quit writing or face the result of (wo)man’s true desire: death. (Insert dramatic music here.) I swear, if I could, all I would do every day is write. I wouldn’t drink, eat, watch the news, go on the Internet, fuck, or take walks. I would simply write and do so till I shrivel away. The justification for such behavior would be the stack of millions of typed pages that were/are around me. But then again… what is “writing”? Is it the miracle pedestal that I’ve put it on? Is it the achievement that lingers in the black spot of my heart?

Although I don’t believe in very many things, especially things/stuff like God, I do believe in fate, the hierarchy of human self-interest ruling ALL, and the flavor of sweet, white corn from the eastern shore of Maryland.

When you reach a certain age and have achieved absolutely nothing there are very few things that keep you hanging on. Breathing is certainly one of them. Having a child is another. Then there’s the admiration of nature and the amazing artistic (creative) achievements of those you admire (from afar). Oh how I admire (real)writers such as TC Boyle, Somerset Maugham, Marcel Proust, among others. Although I’ve only read a few short stories by Maugham, was unable to get through any of the books I started from Boyle, Proust is on my list to fight through no matter what, I can’t say that I really “like” these authors. Yet I admire them to the hilt because they are/were able to write.

Not only did S. Maugham write a lot but he was also (something like) the highest paid writer of his day. Not sure if Proust earned anything. And TC…?

Writers are great (in my mind) if they write and, unfortunately, if they are read. Yet I say (paraphrase) that the best writers are those who write nothing. The writers mentioned here and those not mentioned here are like supermen to me. What an amazing achievement by this thing called Evolution. To make beings with free-will so that only the strongest of free-wills can make it as (real)writers.

I guess.

At least I can find a few moments of solace. I spend practically every hour of the day thinking about writing – even when I’m not actually writing. When a person or government or a social norm makes me do this or that, I usually do it. And while walking along the streets doing what I am being told to do I think of a line I wrote a few hours ago or a scene that I tried to turn from nonsense to making-sense and think: how can I make it better, or, where does it go from (t)here, etc., etc. A long time ago I realized that it doesn’t really matter what you write but only what you…

Rewrite.

For the last half year I have produced 180 (or so) badly typed pages of my newest book. Actually, I’ve typed close to five-hundred pages because so much of it has been rewritten. I’m not even close to finishing it. The hardest battle has been the required rewriting and then finding the time & peace to do it. To focus. To concentrate. To do it… What a luscious pain in the ass…

So how do/did the (real)writers do it?

In (relative) sequential order, according to file names, here examples of Tommi aka (Worst)Writer rewriting. Big f’n deal, eh… At the least, here’s an example of the difficulty and joy of writing with a typing machine. Here you’ll find “page 89″ in four different versions. I particularly like the cramping of words, the sudden break from double space to single space. You see, when I get to this point, where page after page become elements of the book/story, I literally turn each page into an object. When I rewrite the page it is then difficult to actually change the object. Does that make any sense? Each page must remain in tact until the rewritten page (object?) is ready to replace it. As you can tell, when single space doesn’t do the trick and I have to increase the obect then I resort to numbering the pages with sub-numbering, or lettering, ex.:, page 76a, 76b, etc., but I’ve provided no scan-example of that here. Isn’t that interesting?

Whoopee!

Write badly and still survive.

-tgs-

While reading a news article today I got all flushed and tingled. My girlfriend was staring at me with that look – “Ach je, was jetzt!” (Oh no, what now). After I finished reading the article I turned to my girlfriend, looked her straight in the eye(s) with the utmost sincerity I could muster, showed her the picture of the person that the article was about and said: This is the only woman in the world that could be a threat to you.

Of course I was only kiddin’. Except for the motorcycle. The motorcycle could be a threat. Maybe.

Every once-a-once I link one of my (worst)writer posts/articles to Wikipedia or some other source, but mostly everything published here is from yours-truly and it’s about the trials and tribulations of being (worst)writer. Other times I write articles about the books I read, like here. And then there was the beginning phase(s) of this blog where I just bitched about everything (purposefully no link added here). But today something happened that made me say, wow, I have to let my fellow (worst)writers know about this and it has (almost) nothing to do with me being (worst)writer.

I want to tip my hat off to a woman that has tickled my fancy like no other woman before. And that’s not because of the pic above. For more journalistic detail you can check out this English language article on the subject. For less detail, let me just tell you the name of a very, VERY, V E R Y special German chick that has motivated my thoughts this day:

Gabriele Pauli