No an official entry, but I just wanted to let y'all know that tour is going fantastic. The shows and people are beyond great, but we are so busy that internet time is at a premium, and I rarely have time to do more than check my email. Drive/play/sleep/drive. We're in Münster right now, so hopefully I'll have time to do a real post after sound check. We love and miss you all!!!!
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Life is...The PITS!
First off, Otter completely devoured the cable that connects my camera to my computer, so new pix until I solve that little kink. Besides that...
December 3, 2007
So, tonight my friend Indra and I saw the Boss Martians from Seattle at Wild at Heart. Last time I saw them was for Rocket From The Crypt's second to last show in Manhattan, where I received a mysterious black eye, undoubtedly the product of pre-show Jameson and unlimited backstage libations. This time was far less violent and far more coherent (for me), with the Emerald City kids playing for about an hour and a half solid. In my twelve years in Seattle I've seen this unit progress from straight instro-surf and hot rod rock 'n' roll, to new wave tinged punk, and on to Turbonegroesque hard jams. I was stoked they played my fav tune, "Angela" a sweet piece of Elvis Costello worship that could have been a My Aim Is True outtake. Good times.
December 6, 2007
Turns out I had to vacate my flat due to the influx of tattoo conventioneers, so Robert graciously invited me to stay with him in Groningen, Holland. I Packed up Otter and all my junk and hopped on the morning train to the Netherlands, a four-train expedition which became an exercise in the lifting of extremely heavy luggage. I told Robert I had a ton of stuff, but I think he was slightly surprised by the amount of crap I’ve managed to acquire, the bulk of it stuffed into Otter’s hard shell carrier making it into a big plastic anchor. We took a cab to his place and settled in for some of Robert’s famous comfort food – in this case a hearty goulash of mashed potatoes and endives with gravy and sausage. Trust me, Robert is top chef to rockers the world over.
Basically a tolerable version of Amsterdam, the college town of Groningen has all the attractions of that other town (attractive architecture, canals, quaint cobblestonia, and yes, coffeeshops galore and even a small red light district), but without the steady influx of obnoxious English and American tourists. Not to mention it is home to one of the most incredible rock clubs on this side of the pond, Vera. I had my first Olie Bollen, a fried lump of dough with a healthy dose of powdered sugar added for that extra touch of heart disease. The night brought us on a tour of local haunts with predictable results. At some point my brain experienced total shutdown, so I assume I had fun.
The next evening was spent with friends of Robert’s whom I had met the night before (and of course don’t remember meeting at all). We tall drank generic beers, watched the Dutch version of Who Wants to a Millionaire and waxed philosophic, particularly on why Americans are so hung up on marriage. What I thought to be somewhat of a universal custom ain’t the case up here, as the Dutch are more into extended shacking up. If it’s good for the Dutch…
December 9th, 2007
With the bulk of my junk safely in Robert’s basement, I took another early train to Paris to meet my mom, my sister, Kelly, and her boyfriend, Brad. My hotel was modest by Parisian standards but incredibly convenient –in the 14th across from a Metro stop. I unloaded my gear and took the subway to a hotel not modest by any standards, The Hotel Lutetia. Steeped in history (Bon Marche family, used as Nazi officer housing in that big war, etc etc) this hotel was positively drenched in luxury. My family had arrived from Venice with quite the opposite accommodations, so their digs here were an upswing.
After the traditional French breakfast of cigarettes and sarcastic disdain, we spent the next few days hitting the sites: Eiffel Tower, Montmarte, Notre Dame and the Latin Quarter, The Arc de Triumph, and Pere LeChaise Cemetery, which I had never been to but proved to be an incredible labyrinth of above ground sarcophagi. We snapped pix of the stones of Edith Piaf and Jim Morrison, then followed our croissant trail back to the land of the living. Biggest disappointment: The Catacombs, one metro stop from my hotel, were closed for some sort of skull-polishing renovation, and would remain so until next February. Hopefully when the Hex Dispensers come here next year we’ll have time for a walk-thru. And when I say “hopefully” I mean we damn well better see the fucking catacombs.
For dinner one night we discovered a small bistro where I had a cassolet that apparently had every kind of weird meat ever butchered contained within (everyone else wisely got soup). The overly friendly owner immediately started telling me about his Harley Davidson Fat Boy, even though I had made no mention of motorcycles, and he even brought out a portfolio of pictures of his bike to regale me with. It’s interesting how much feigned enthusiasm you can muster when faced with a language barrier. I told him that I had a Triumph Bonneville, and after a series of attempts to pronounce the word “Triumph” ("ahh... Trey-oomph!"), I sensed some malign acknowledgement that even though I was a fellow "biker", I obviously had an inferior machine. The French can be good at that.
This year my sister turned 21. And aside from getting a pony, or a bottle of Czechoslovakian Absinthe (okay, that’s what I gave her) taking a dinner cruise down the Seine is a pretty good gift. A surprise I inadvertently ruined (because some people didn’t tell me it was a surprise…) it really was very amazing on quite a few layers, both culturally and gastronomically, with views of Parisian landmarks at night and Vegas style entertainment. The two tables of drunk Japanese businessmen upped the entertainment ante a few notches, constantly mugging for shots with the busty blonde lounge singer, and toasting each other every two seconds. In any case, certainly a dinner I won’t soon forget.
The following evening I set out on my own to meet my friend Louie for a gig at Mechanique Occulatoire, a new club making a healthy addition to the scant Parisian rock scene. Where there is a surplus of rock ‘n’ roll holes in frosty Berlin, Paris is not so lucky, so it’s nice to see a new joint opening up. In a small alley near the Bastille, the MO features a healthy sized upstairs bar and a narrow cavernous room below. I meet Louie and we watch the Complications, a garage band composed of former Magnetix and Fatals members. I discover that we are ultimately headed in the same direction, the 19th anniversary party for a club called The Pits in Kotrijk, Belgium, and so, with some post-show introductions to the band, Otter and I are invited to join Louie and the Complications in their big rental van to Lille, France and then on to Kotrijk.
I call it an early night (which is easy here since the bars have to close by 2am and usually do so earlier), and take a cab back to my last night of Parisian luxury. We had a final delicious Lutetia breakfast, and then the mom and the gang went to check out the Louvre before taking a train to Amsterdam to round out their vacation. I, meanwhile, took a metro train to the end of the Galleni line to hang out with Louie before the Complications van showed up. We drank coffee and listened to French psychedelic and punk records, while Otter barked at Louie’s kitten, Attilla. Finally, after about fifty cups of coffee the van arrived and we jumped in the back row, beginning the three hour tour to Lille. With French being spoken all but exclusively I had little to contribute to any kind of conversation, a pattern that would pretty much repeat for the next few days. I hope they didn’t think I was some mute asshole, but the next time I come here I’m going to up my French quotient considerably. Sure, I can order a crepe or ask for four tickets to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but when it comes to fluid conversational language, forget it.
We get to the club, and the Complications attempt a sound check, except that the club has a sound alarm that flashes red whenever the total decibels goes over 95. Completely ridiculous. They would start the song, and then whenever Thierry, the bass player, would hit a note the thing would flash a defiant red. After a series of misfires to get the sound dialed in they decided that in regards to the rock police, well, que sera sera, and would just play the gig at whatever level they wanted to. The other band, The Bastoums, engaged a similar approach, and of course the show went off fine. After a delicious dinner at the club, we stayed at a house close by, occupied a brother and sister, Sebastien and Amandine, who are the dual front people for a band called Osni (the name being some kind of French joke for UFO that I didn’t get.). While Otter worked the room, I managed to talk to a few people in English, one of whom offered this bit of wisdom about Belgium: “It’s just like France, only without the French.” I guess he can say that because he’s French. We eventually crash and I snore-blast the room into submission. Sorry about that.
The next day we went to a restaurant specializing in Lille-ian cuisine, which is essentially hearty beef dishes. Sebastian explained to me that here in Northern France there is more of a beer culture due to it’s Belgian proximity, and the dish he recommended to me was representative of that: Carbonnade Flemade, thick pieces of beef served in a sweet beer-based sauce atop some kind of sweet cake, endives and fries on the side. Delicious if nap inducing. We eventually regrouped at the Osni house and hit the road for Kotrijk, a tidy 40 minutes away.
December 14th, 2007
The Pits is legendary. I had met Ramses, Pits bartender and official hotelier to touring bands, in Berlin at the John Schooley show, so it was nice to finally see what all the fuss was about. The band room is, um, cozy, but the most identifying feature is the two urinals facing you right as you enter. They are the only men’s toilet, so it is very common to be having a conversation with a dude pissing right next to you. Ramses mentions to some of the other bartenders that I am in The Hex Dispensers and this earns me a free beer. Pits longtimer/DJ/bartender Bowy saw us at Budgetrock and gave us a great review in the Kotrijk fanzine, Up Yours (yes Alex, I have a copy for you), and he told me that the whole club is excited for us to play there in May. I have to explain somewhat bittersweetly that I didn’t play a single note on the great, great debut LP, but it’s comforting to know that we’re gonna have a good turnout when we get here.
I meet Robert and Mark from Mepple and we start off the evening. The opening band is called the Shirley MacLaines, a group composed of Austrian 20-year-old girls, whose single was actually put out be a friend of mine in Seattle. Later I told them my last name is actually Austrian, so it was cool hearing it pronounced with the proper accent: "Bey-soon-ohffer." They put on a great, energetic set, followed a mindblowing set by the Complications, eclipsing the past two nights by a wide margin. Watching all these great bands has really put the desire to play with my own group, and I feel a painful sting of home, nay, rocksickness.
Besides the conspicuous urinals, the other interesting feature of The Pits is that the shows have to be over by 10 pm due to neighbor considerations. So people get drunk much earlier. And the club stays open as long as it wants to. I don’t know if drunks milling around outside a club is more annoying than the sound of a live band, but thems the rules. So, by midnight Robert, Mark and I along with their friends Gary and Youri walked to the house of another friend of Robert's to crash. The place is comfortable yet eventually becomes freezing, and even though I had Otter curled up next to me the night became quite chilling. I think the beginning of my cold can be traced to this moment. Only some pseudo-drunk ingenuity of folding my blanket in half saved me from frozen death, as it essentially doubled the heating power! Thanks Belgian beer!
The next day we the four of us are set to travel to Rotterdam to see the Masonics. A small adventure I will tell you about...later.
December 3, 2007
So, tonight my friend Indra and I saw the Boss Martians from Seattle at Wild at Heart. Last time I saw them was for Rocket From The Crypt's second to last show in Manhattan, where I received a mysterious black eye, undoubtedly the product of pre-show Jameson and unlimited backstage libations. This time was far less violent and far more coherent (for me), with the Emerald City kids playing for about an hour and a half solid. In my twelve years in Seattle I've seen this unit progress from straight instro-surf and hot rod rock 'n' roll, to new wave tinged punk, and on to Turbonegroesque hard jams. I was stoked they played my fav tune, "Angela" a sweet piece of Elvis Costello worship that could have been a My Aim Is True outtake. Good times.
December 6, 2007
Turns out I had to vacate my flat due to the influx of tattoo conventioneers, so Robert graciously invited me to stay with him in Groningen, Holland. I Packed up Otter and all my junk and hopped on the morning train to the Netherlands, a four-train expedition which became an exercise in the lifting of extremely heavy luggage. I told Robert I had a ton of stuff, but I think he was slightly surprised by the amount of crap I’ve managed to acquire, the bulk of it stuffed into Otter’s hard shell carrier making it into a big plastic anchor. We took a cab to his place and settled in for some of Robert’s famous comfort food – in this case a hearty goulash of mashed potatoes and endives with gravy and sausage. Trust me, Robert is top chef to rockers the world over.
Basically a tolerable version of Amsterdam, the college town of Groningen has all the attractions of that other town (attractive architecture, canals, quaint cobblestonia, and yes, coffeeshops galore and even a small red light district), but without the steady influx of obnoxious English and American tourists. Not to mention it is home to one of the most incredible rock clubs on this side of the pond, Vera. I had my first Olie Bollen, a fried lump of dough with a healthy dose of powdered sugar added for that extra touch of heart disease. The night brought us on a tour of local haunts with predictable results. At some point my brain experienced total shutdown, so I assume I had fun.
The next evening was spent with friends of Robert’s whom I had met the night before (and of course don’t remember meeting at all). We tall drank generic beers, watched the Dutch version of Who Wants to a Millionaire and waxed philosophic, particularly on why Americans are so hung up on marriage. What I thought to be somewhat of a universal custom ain’t the case up here, as the Dutch are more into extended shacking up. If it’s good for the Dutch…
December 9th, 2007
With the bulk of my junk safely in Robert’s basement, I took another early train to Paris to meet my mom, my sister, Kelly, and her boyfriend, Brad. My hotel was modest by Parisian standards but incredibly convenient –in the 14th across from a Metro stop. I unloaded my gear and took the subway to a hotel not modest by any standards, The Hotel Lutetia. Steeped in history (Bon Marche family, used as Nazi officer housing in that big war, etc etc) this hotel was positively drenched in luxury. My family had arrived from Venice with quite the opposite accommodations, so their digs here were an upswing.
After the traditional French breakfast of cigarettes and sarcastic disdain, we spent the next few days hitting the sites: Eiffel Tower, Montmarte, Notre Dame and the Latin Quarter, The Arc de Triumph, and Pere LeChaise Cemetery, which I had never been to but proved to be an incredible labyrinth of above ground sarcophagi. We snapped pix of the stones of Edith Piaf and Jim Morrison, then followed our croissant trail back to the land of the living. Biggest disappointment: The Catacombs, one metro stop from my hotel, were closed for some sort of skull-polishing renovation, and would remain so until next February. Hopefully when the Hex Dispensers come here next year we’ll have time for a walk-thru. And when I say “hopefully” I mean we damn well better see the fucking catacombs.
For dinner one night we discovered a small bistro where I had a cassolet that apparently had every kind of weird meat ever butchered contained within (everyone else wisely got soup). The overly friendly owner immediately started telling me about his Harley Davidson Fat Boy, even though I had made no mention of motorcycles, and he even brought out a portfolio of pictures of his bike to regale me with. It’s interesting how much feigned enthusiasm you can muster when faced with a language barrier. I told him that I had a Triumph Bonneville, and after a series of attempts to pronounce the word “Triumph” ("ahh... Trey-oomph!"), I sensed some malign acknowledgement that even though I was a fellow "biker", I obviously had an inferior machine. The French can be good at that.
This year my sister turned 21. And aside from getting a pony, or a bottle of Czechoslovakian Absinthe (okay, that’s what I gave her) taking a dinner cruise down the Seine is a pretty good gift. A surprise I inadvertently ruined (because some people didn’t tell me it was a surprise…) it really was very amazing on quite a few layers, both culturally and gastronomically, with views of Parisian landmarks at night and Vegas style entertainment. The two tables of drunk Japanese businessmen upped the entertainment ante a few notches, constantly mugging for shots with the busty blonde lounge singer, and toasting each other every two seconds. In any case, certainly a dinner I won’t soon forget.
The following evening I set out on my own to meet my friend Louie for a gig at Mechanique Occulatoire, a new club making a healthy addition to the scant Parisian rock scene. Where there is a surplus of rock ‘n’ roll holes in frosty Berlin, Paris is not so lucky, so it’s nice to see a new joint opening up. In a small alley near the Bastille, the MO features a healthy sized upstairs bar and a narrow cavernous room below. I meet Louie and we watch the Complications, a garage band composed of former Magnetix and Fatals members. I discover that we are ultimately headed in the same direction, the 19th anniversary party for a club called The Pits in Kotrijk, Belgium, and so, with some post-show introductions to the band, Otter and I are invited to join Louie and the Complications in their big rental van to Lille, France and then on to Kotrijk.
I call it an early night (which is easy here since the bars have to close by 2am and usually do so earlier), and take a cab back to my last night of Parisian luxury. We had a final delicious Lutetia breakfast, and then the mom and the gang went to check out the Louvre before taking a train to Amsterdam to round out their vacation. I, meanwhile, took a metro train to the end of the Galleni line to hang out with Louie before the Complications van showed up. We drank coffee and listened to French psychedelic and punk records, while Otter barked at Louie’s kitten, Attilla. Finally, after about fifty cups of coffee the van arrived and we jumped in the back row, beginning the three hour tour to Lille. With French being spoken all but exclusively I had little to contribute to any kind of conversation, a pattern that would pretty much repeat for the next few days. I hope they didn’t think I was some mute asshole, but the next time I come here I’m going to up my French quotient considerably. Sure, I can order a crepe or ask for four tickets to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but when it comes to fluid conversational language, forget it.
We get to the club, and the Complications attempt a sound check, except that the club has a sound alarm that flashes red whenever the total decibels goes over 95. Completely ridiculous. They would start the song, and then whenever Thierry, the bass player, would hit a note the thing would flash a defiant red. After a series of misfires to get the sound dialed in they decided that in regards to the rock police, well, que sera sera, and would just play the gig at whatever level they wanted to. The other band, The Bastoums, engaged a similar approach, and of course the show went off fine. After a delicious dinner at the club, we stayed at a house close by, occupied a brother and sister, Sebastien and Amandine, who are the dual front people for a band called Osni (the name being some kind of French joke for UFO that I didn’t get.). While Otter worked the room, I managed to talk to a few people in English, one of whom offered this bit of wisdom about Belgium: “It’s just like France, only without the French.” I guess he can say that because he’s French. We eventually crash and I snore-blast the room into submission. Sorry about that.
The next day we went to a restaurant specializing in Lille-ian cuisine, which is essentially hearty beef dishes. Sebastian explained to me that here in Northern France there is more of a beer culture due to it’s Belgian proximity, and the dish he recommended to me was representative of that: Carbonnade Flemade, thick pieces of beef served in a sweet beer-based sauce atop some kind of sweet cake, endives and fries on the side. Delicious if nap inducing. We eventually regrouped at the Osni house and hit the road for Kotrijk, a tidy 40 minutes away.
December 14th, 2007
The Pits is legendary. I had met Ramses, Pits bartender and official hotelier to touring bands, in Berlin at the John Schooley show, so it was nice to finally see what all the fuss was about. The band room is, um, cozy, but the most identifying feature is the two urinals facing you right as you enter. They are the only men’s toilet, so it is very common to be having a conversation with a dude pissing right next to you. Ramses mentions to some of the other bartenders that I am in The Hex Dispensers and this earns me a free beer. Pits longtimer/DJ/bartender Bowy saw us at Budgetrock and gave us a great review in the Kotrijk fanzine, Up Yours (yes Alex, I have a copy for you), and he told me that the whole club is excited for us to play there in May. I have to explain somewhat bittersweetly that I didn’t play a single note on the great, great debut LP, but it’s comforting to know that we’re gonna have a good turnout when we get here.
I meet Robert and Mark from Mepple and we start off the evening. The opening band is called the Shirley MacLaines, a group composed of Austrian 20-year-old girls, whose single was actually put out be a friend of mine in Seattle. Later I told them my last name is actually Austrian, so it was cool hearing it pronounced with the proper accent: "Bey-soon-ohffer." They put on a great, energetic set, followed a mindblowing set by the Complications, eclipsing the past two nights by a wide margin. Watching all these great bands has really put the desire to play with my own group, and I feel a painful sting of home, nay, rocksickness.
Besides the conspicuous urinals, the other interesting feature of The Pits is that the shows have to be over by 10 pm due to neighbor considerations. So people get drunk much earlier. And the club stays open as long as it wants to. I don’t know if drunks milling around outside a club is more annoying than the sound of a live band, but thems the rules. So, by midnight Robert, Mark and I along with their friends Gary and Youri walked to the house of another friend of Robert's to crash. The place is comfortable yet eventually becomes freezing, and even though I had Otter curled up next to me the night became quite chilling. I think the beginning of my cold can be traced to this moment. Only some pseudo-drunk ingenuity of folding my blanket in half saved me from frozen death, as it essentially doubled the heating power! Thanks Belgian beer!
The next day we the four of us are set to travel to Rotterdam to see the Masonics. A small adventure I will tell you about...later.
Monday, December 3, 2007
If it's Thursday this must be Antwerp
November 21, 2007
My friends Perrin and Emily are also doing an extended Euro jaunt, and after finishing an involved collaborative art project at a farmhouse in the Czech Republic, relocated to Antwerp. Their friend Salem from RISD already lived there with her German boyfriend Jens, and managed to get a fairly large flat for the month for a very good deal while it was under renovation. I had no idea they were there, but a week before Thanksgiving I received the call via MySpace, which I heeded immediately. Probably counter-productive to my adventures in monolingual isolationism, but speaking English with fellow Americans is exactly what I needed.
The day before t-day the alarm went off at 5:30, for today was about a ten-hour train day. I left Lina’s flat at 6am, and she sent me a groggy “goodbye” from her room as Otter and I left for Warschauer Str station. The train day followed thusly : Warschauer to Ostbahnhof to Dortmund to Cologne to Bussells to Antwerp. The train from Brussels to Antwerp involved a 20 euro supplement on my Eurail pass, due to it being a Thalys high speed train – probably the nicest in Europe outside of the Orient Express. Infact Otter and I had the front of the train, (the Salon) to ourselvex, and we immediately brought a meal of sliced beef, potatoes, bread, cheese, chocolate and coffee as soon as I sat down. There’s something great about train travel, something I admittedly have not done much of in the US, but am pondering doing once I get back. Maybe it’s the foreign countryside that rushes by as the miles tick way, or just that movement, the barely noticeable motion of train on track. I’ve never really been that bored on trains, and find that I can actually sleep on them, as opposed to airplanes which I find almost impossible. Plus, there’s no dining car on an airplane, so that may have something to do with it. Now if they could just figure out how to put high-speed internet on the cars I’d be set.
First we stop at the Underground, to catch Two Tears, the new band fronted by former Red Aunts shieker Kerry Davis, who were opening for the Donnas. As none of could stand the Runnaways-redux of the Donnas, we stayed only for the Breeders-esque Tears, then walked back to the Ballroom. Tonight's rock provided by German teenagers the Dead Rats and garage punk superstars the Hidden Charms. Both bands ruled, but I gave the edgee to Rats, based on enthusiasm and creative Hot Snakesmanship. We stayed, rocked, drank Robert's patented white wine/water concoctions, and finished the night off with pita kebaps and a stay at Cellophane Suckers guitarist Hauke's flat close by.
Thanksgiving. Far and away my favorite holiday, aside, of course, from National Sleep Until Noon Day and Pizza Appreciation Week. I thought last year may have been my best Thanksgiving yet, which I spent by myself watching all three original Star Wars movies accompanied by that Thanksgiving staple, a DiGiornos frozen pizza. How could this year possibly top that? How about this: Antwerp, the only turkey in Belgium, and cardboard costumes?
My friends Perrin and Emily are also doing an extended Euro jaunt, and after finishing an involved collaborative art project at a farmhouse in the Czech Republic, relocated to Antwerp. Their friend Salem from RISD already lived there with her German boyfriend Jens, and managed to get a fairly large flat for the month for a very good deal while it was under renovation. I had no idea they were there, but a week before Thanksgiving I received the call via MySpace, which I heeded immediately. Probably counter-productive to my adventures in monolingual isolationism, but speaking English with fellow Americans is exactly what I needed.
The day before t-day the alarm went off at 5:30, for today was about a ten-hour train day. I left Lina’s flat at 6am, and she sent me a groggy “goodbye” from her room as Otter and I left for Warschauer Str station. The train day followed thusly : Warschauer to Ostbahnhof to Dortmund to Cologne to Bussells to Antwerp. The train from Brussels to Antwerp involved a 20 euro supplement on my Eurail pass, due to it being a Thalys high speed train – probably the nicest in Europe outside of the Orient Express. Infact Otter and I had the front of the train, (the Salon) to ourselvex, and we immediately brought a meal of sliced beef, potatoes, bread, cheese, chocolate and coffee as soon as I sat down. There’s something great about train travel, something I admittedly have not done much of in the US, but am pondering doing once I get back. Maybe it’s the foreign countryside that rushes by as the miles tick way, or just that movement, the barely noticeable motion of train on track. I’ve never really been that bored on trains, and find that I can actually sleep on them, as opposed to airplanes which I find almost impossible. Plus, there’s no dining car on an airplane, so that may have something to do with it. Now if they could just figure out how to put high-speed internet on the cars I’d be set.
I arrived at Antwerp Berchem station at 7pm, crossed the courtyard to the number 8 tram, which brought me through the center of town to Perrin’s pad. Antwerp is a curious place: a mixture of old world Belgium and high finance, which means lots and lots of shopping. Being the diamond capital of Europe might of something to do with it, as well as its role as one of Europe’s busiest ports. Whatever the reason, one has the opportunity to buy lots of shit here, from jeweler to furrier.
There is also a huge Cirque De Soleil is semi-permanace, and their white circus spires are my signal to get off the tram. A few directionless rambles aside, I find Perrin and Emily’s flat, a fifth floor walk up with the steep narrow stairs you find in as you head West. Greetings, hugs, and warmth. As I drop the bags and Otter gets busy running around the joint, I notice that all the furniture is made out of cardboard. By furniture I mean the kitchen table, which is at a low Morroccan level, as well as the seating cushions, each decorated in revolving patterns by removing sections of the top cardboard layer by knife. There was a cardboard cornucopia filled with cardboard corn, tomatoes, and fruit. Even Perrin and Emily’s mattress was a creation involving a cardboard box spring. The flat came unfurnished, but they were supplied with a generous cardboard donation, which they obviously used to the maximum potential.
Perrin and I set off to pick up the turkey. At the local supermarket, Du Haze, the butcher presents us with two choices: a little five pounder and a massive fifteen pound bird, each decorated with a gold ribbon. Of course we take the biggun, as we’re expecting 10 hungry people, five US (Indians) and five Europeans (Pilgrims). As Perrin and Emily were commited to other dishes, I as only happy to provide turkey–cooking services, which I have done many times in years past and was looking forward to doing in a foreign country. Since I didn’t have enough time to do my usual brine method, I decided to do it breast-down, which supposedly results in a much juicier breast than when it is roasted in the traditional fashion. We shall see.
November 22, 2007
Today was spent in largely in preparation. After all, there was food to be made, and an argyle tablecloth to be made out of tape, created by Salem and Jens. Friends arrived from various locales: Emily's brother Everett from Amsterdam, Cecil from Groningen, Pieter from down the street. The kitchen was was packed with too many dishes vying for crucial oven time, the same as any american Thanksgiving. While I was occupied with all things turkey, Pieter and Cecil finished my aborted project of constructing a cardboard Mayflower replica. Perrin, Emily and Everett, meanwhile busied themselves with the all important costumes, truly authentic native american head dresses for the Americans, mad-hatter sized "pilgrim" hats for the Europeans. Nuts. When we finally sat down to eat it sort of resembeled a school play, only with a lot more wine. I late night excursion to the "Nachtwinkel" (night store) for more wine in full costume garnered appropriately confused looks from the Antwerpers, but Emily attempted to ease their confusion by explaining "It's Thanksgiving!", although I doubt that changed their perception much. However, from now on I am requiring costumes at every future Thanksgiving, cardboard or not. Oh, and the upside-down turkey turned out delicious!
November 23rd, 2007
Tonight I was to set off for Amsterdam to meet my friend Robert, but before catching the train we did some important walking around. Ostensibly a search for Belgian waffles, we wandered along the harbour, through the Maritime museum, into an creepy abondoned building and through the main square. The merging of semi-ancient and modern is perfect here, with the narrow winding streets opening into grand spaces and back again, trams running back and forth and shoppers spending an ungodly amount of euros. I decided on Beligian Frites rather than the pre-made waffles across the street, and sadly have determined that the Dutch version is decidedly better, based solely on crunch factor. These things are important, folks.
Perrin and Em were kind enought to watch Otter for the weekend, so I set off to try to catch the train. While I eventually did, I could not find a cab to the station just didn't feel like messing around with trams. I eventually found a cab willing to take me to Antwerp Central, wandered around the staion for a bit, and boarded the train for the 2 hour ride to Antwerp Centraal. One stop before the end, at Shiphol airport, the nearly empty train was invaded by obnoxious English 20-somethings out to party for the weekend. Excruciating. I broke free of the mod squad and met Robert outside, where he took me to punk squat bar Cafe The Minds, while we waited for his ex Kat de Lijn to show up. The thing about Amsterdam (and Europe in general) that make most Americans shit their pants is that they really don't care about how old you are in regards to the drink, and saw a lot of kids in that bar that couldn't be muc older than 14. I mean, they looked young. Which means Robert and I felt old, so when Kat showed up we bailed via taxi for a club called Pacific Park.
This place is huge. Probably as big as the Sage in Berlin, but more open, and with an upper balcony that provides an overview of the dancing throng below, which I completely forgot to get pictures of. Japanese tourists, rockers, artists, old dudes, young girls and everyone in between packed this place to the gills. Wooden Tit was supposed to play but they cancelled, so another garage combo played in their stead. A great night, marred only by the sudden appearance of unstoppable hiccups, and I was unable to find my only remedy (peanut butter) until we reached Kat's place, where we were staying that night. As soon as we got there, relief could not come soon enough as I'd been hiccuping for about 20 blocks, and with sweet peanut butter putting my hiccups to rest, we called it a night.The next morning/afternoon consisted of a concotion that Robert made involving turkish sausage, cumin cheese, scrampled eggs and mayo on a baguette that was miraculous. We later boarded a train for Ahrlen, a small Dutch town occupied primarily by an outdoor shopping district. I didn't but anything, but I did come across a curious display of wax ears. Apparently Ahrlen is the center of worl'ds ear supply. We wandered around while we waited for Robert's
friend Mark to pick us up for Koln, were I would make my second visit to the Sonic Ballroom.
The next day I declined the invite to carry the party on to Utrecht to catch Two Tears again, as I was anxious to relieve Perrin and Emily of dog watching duty. I arrived back in Antwerp just in time for Thanksgiving leftovers with Salem and Jens, with a ghetto-kids-make-good double feature of Roll Bounce and Drumline. Lessons learned from each film: girls like guys with big skates, and one band, one sound. True 'nuff.
The next few days in the 'Twerp were filled with pinball, walking, more movies on the computer (Disturbia and Real Genius) and the search for a reliable internet connection since the freebee we were using was shut off by the man. We spent some time an Antwerp staple De Vagant, home to Jenever, a belgian grain alchohol infused with a variety of flavors. The final night we went to club on the edge of town to see French art punkers Papier Tiger, and became involved in a dance party that lasted until 4 am, in which I somehow managed to tear he crap out of my shoulder, an injury for me when I have too much to drink and become obsessed with lifting people. The next day would be a long one, as I had to go to Diegem, Belgium to resolve a work issue. Diegem is basically the Brussels airport and a succession of Office parks, and the "station" is merely a platform. Getting to the Belgian office involved a train a tram ride to Antwerp Berchem, a train to Brussels, a train to Diegem, a mile walk with Otter and my all my bags, then a walk back to the station, then on to Brussels, to Koln, To Berlin. I needed to move into a rental apartment for a few days, so from I went to Lina's grabbed my junk and we huffed it the four blocks to the apartment and up the five flights of stairs, finally capping off the night at Fuermeder, a sweet punk bar we had a beer, battled it out on Spiderman 3 "flipper" and retired to our respective flats, exhausted.
December 1, 2007
Tonight I met with Daniel, the owner of the Alien Snatch record label that is putting out the Hex Dispensers album, at the John Schooley One man band show in Kreuzberg. We talked official rock biznatch and had a few beers at Franken, then mover on to The Bull Bar, a small uncrowded joint with good music. We met again the next night, with Phillip from the Kidnappers and had amazing pizza at a gigantic, bustling Italian joint called Due Forni, and caught the last two-thirds of the set by a reunited Undertones, which was a great show save for the presence of two shirtless skinheads who insisted on the "skinhead staredown". I met my friend Jessica and her boyfriend Dav who were travelling from Seattle, and we shared a shot later with fellow ex-seattleite Chris Bell, who was DJing at the Franken. Always great to see friends from back home, but I called it an early night and got back to Otter and sweet, sweet sleep. Next its off to Paris to meet the mom and sis, and hopefully a successful search for more permanent digs. Stay tuned.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Czechs and balances
November 14th, 2007
I had a great plan to try to make my trip to the Natural History musem seem interesting. but ultimately that would have been an exercise in fiction. True, the largest set of assembled dinosaur bones is here so that's something, and there are some interesting collections of professional and amateur taxidermy, but ultimately the experience was breid and underwhelming. My favorite part had to be "DNA - the code of life" which looked like some jizz in a lightbulb. Anyway, there are pictures. Enjoy the pseudo-educational mayhem.
November 15th, 2007
I know I did something today, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. I'm sure it involved wandering around a train station, probably Alexanderplatz, and wandering around. I still have not yet got around to enjoying Kaffe und Kuchen (coffee and cake), a Berlin tradition, but that's mostly because I haven't had anyone to enjoy it with. There are tons of places that offer this specialty, and I found a detailed listing of them in ExBerliner magazine, a rag for English speakers living in Berlin, which has been something of a godsend. Although cake doesn't necessarily need to be a group affair, so perhaps next week I'll hunker down for a slice and a cup.
November 16, 2007
Last night I was hit by wanderlust yet again. With Lina still off working in Bavaria, I had become a little bored of the Berlin shuffle and decided to venture into the unknown again. Destination: Prague. Prague! Glorious birthplace of decadent Bohemia! Prague! City of a thousand dreaming Absinthe fiends! Prague! A city in Czechsolvakia! I booked a pet friendly hotel, The Atlantic on Expedia for $80 US a night for two nights and began my version of preparing, which entails going to sleep and dealing with it in the morning. I had found a used copy of the borderline-retarded party manual to Europe called "Hanging Out in Europe" (2003 edition) which I had actually bought the first time I went. While there is a lot of focus on rave and disco foolishness, there are some nice sections on bars that might be less traveled, so I ripped out the Prague section, packed my bag and the sherpa, and headed out to Ostbahnhof bright and early Friday morning.
Upon arrival at the reservations desk I was greeted with this news: the Die Bahn union was on strike, and train service was limited, so I would have to take a bus from Hauptbahnhof (the brand new central station located near Potzdammer Platz) to Dresden at 11am, and then take a train from there to Prague. Fair enough. I had plenty of time, so we take the train to Hauptbahnhoff and wander around. At about a quarter to 11 I make my way to the busses, which was hard to find since it was actually a parling lot across the street and not in the station at all, just in time to see two busses completely full leaving the lot on the way to Dresden. Fuck. The reservation desk says the next bus won't leave til 3pm. At this point I figured cancelling the reservations in Prague would be the best bet, and resume travelling the following weekend. However, Expedia's ridiculous adherence to policy would charge me $100 for cancelling my room on the same day, train strike or no. The blood rises and a dilemma approacheth: just eat the hundred bucks, or wait until 3pm and try the bus thing again. And then plan C appears like a phoenix rising from the bratwurst: Screw travelling with the little people, and screw you Expedia, you don't own me. I'll rent a car and drive my own damn self.
It has been one of my lifelong wishes since I was a kid to drive the autobahn. Childhood fantasies conjure visions of driving nearly 200 miles per hour in a Porche 911, as the Black Forest and various castles whoosh by in teutonic blurs. If not now, then when? But other people had similar ideas, and SixT, the rental house for the more swank autos was sold out. Fortunately Hertz was not. So what kind of car did I get? An Audi TT? A Boxter? A BMW M3?
Can you say Opel Astra?
Sadly, none of the cool cars, not even Volkswagens, were allowed by Hertz to drive into the Czech Republic. Apparently, The Opel fleet is expendible. It wasn't a bad car, a small hatchback with decent oomph, but not the performance monster I had dreamt of. But it was a good car to get aquainted with in Berlin and the autobahn. I splurged for the extra GPS, without which I would mostlikely still be lost somewhere in the CR, hunting wild boar for survival. I bought a couple cds at the Virgin store in the train station; Einsterzende Neubauten's new one, Alles Wieder Offen, and seminal Düsseldorf experimental duo Neu!'s album Neu! 2, and so thus amed with krautrock my soundtrack was in place.
After an interminable amount of time getting out of the city (My GPS, a British accented woman's voice whom I dubbed the Navigatrix, seemed confused in the city center), we finally made our way from Berlin and onto the open bahn. "In three hundred meters, enter the motorway on the right" says the lady in the electronic mapbox, and it's on. I immediately floor it, thinking I will be rushed into the spawning mayhem of Germans in transit. Nah. There's a nice merging lane for ou to get aquainted with the traffic flow, and driving the highway is a stress-free affair. Primarily two lanes in either direction; stay to the right, hit the left lane to pass. Occasionally you'll see some brights flashing behind you, and these are the guys who are diving at top speed, 200 kmh or more. Try as I might I couldn't push the Opel past 180, and that was downhill with a substantial amount of terrifying wobble. So I kept it in the safe zone of 120-140 kmh, enjoying the freedom to go faster with out being hassled by the fünf-null.
We ventured off the highway and into the mountains, and the weather changed markedly. From the eternal gray bubble of the Berlin skyscape, we came to snow, gradually getting deeper and more prominent as made our ascent up the E55. The architecture changed too, as IKEAS and modern achitecture gave way to narrow, snow lined streets and alpine terraces. Somehow the Navigatrix became befuddled in the mountains, her satellite guidence becoming lost in the thinning air, and the phrase "calculating route" was heard with redundant frequency. I stayed true. At one point she even told me to make a u-turn, which would have sent me right back into the tyrolian villages I had just driven through. Thankfully as we summited she found her way, and we came to the Czech border, which involved a passport stamp, a quick police check on whatever Eastern European criminal database they were using, and a wave. And from here it gets crazy.
As we decend into the Czeck Republic, the buildings look the same as on the German side: A-framed structures surrounded by snow. But what's this building with red lights up ahead? As we drive by a hotel, I notice a wide window facing the street, and behind this window, bathed in warm reddish light, are two nearly naked women pressing their breasts against the glass and beckoning cars to pull over. More examples of this exist for the next 4 km, there are a string of "nightclubs", each filled with Czechoslovakian succubi attempting to lure innocent German motorists and their huge...exchange rate.
Had I known I'd be driving through Pussy Village I probably would have made the trip sooner.
I mean, I had been on the road for nearly four hours. A man can't expect to drive that long with getting some Eastern Bloc sumpin'-sumpin'. Luckily the Navigatrix scolded me into taking "the third exit at the roundabout" and kept me on task. Otter approved. We kept on.
After about 45 minutes we approached Prague proper, and I was a touch worried as the Hertz woman said that the GPS wouldn't be reliable in Prague, but such was not the case. It found the hotel easily and without incident. The room was ridiculously large for one person - a king-ish bed (okay, 2 doubles pushed together), 15 foot high ceilings, and my own bathroom. After travelling in budget hotels and hostels this was a big step up. And it was mere meters from Old Town, the storybook Prague that Hollywood has made into the very vision of "Europe" After checking in and plopping my bags down, I took Otter on an extended walk through the winding cobblestoned streets of Prague's Old Town. Night had already fallen, and the Winter crowds were in full force. I had assumed that it would be less packed in the Winter, and prehaps it was, but there was still a large amount of fellow wanderers, and the was certainly a bit of storybook romanticism to be felt strolling these streets in the crisp air of Winter.
My free map from the hotel was vague enough to be useless, and the gudebook section I had brought with me was even worse. It is very easy to get lost in Old Town, and even easier for me since I am famously navigationally-challenged. But getting lost here is like getting lost in Venice: you are never truly lost, and if you maintain a consistent direction you are likely to end up in a familiar place. I was specifically searching for a famous expat bar, Zalezna dvere, but I could not get my bearings never found it. However, I did find this statue of Franz Kafka, sitting atop a man who apparently has a vagina for a head.
We strolled to the left of Franz and continued on, making more winding turns and noticing resturant after resuraunt, and bar after bar, the ubiquitus Pilsner Urquell sign hangng from nearly every establishment. As I went deeper and deper into old town, we found ourselves at:
We took the other direction. Surely Zalezna dvere must be close by. We wandered past the Square, chased landmarks both familiar and foreign. We drilled deep ito the city's core, surely the most alien and forbidden section of Old Town, where no one had been in years, a section so forgotten it was accessible via only the most arcane knowledge. I am the minotaur in this maze, you devil. You have no secret I can't crack. And at the very next turn I found myself face to face with:
Franz, you son of a bitch.
I still couldn't find the damn bar. I was holding out for the brass ring, but tonight that was unattainable. I tried to make my way back to the hotel, since we had been walking for about two hours and the restaraunts were closing. I did succeed in getting somewhat lost, but I was at least far from the drunken Germans and Slavs, English students and American trust-fund babies. I found a tiny, tiny pub called the Orange Bar, which was too packed for me and my little dog. I made a note to come back, and we made our way back to the hotel were we both collapsed into sleep.
November 16, 2007
Our first full day in Prague. After a filling (an complimentary) breakfast of bacon, toast, some cheesy broccoli thing, juice, coffee and crepes, Otter and I strolled along the water to the Charles Bridge, gateway to Castle Prague. Tourists in abundance here, as well as as venders selling pictures of the bridge in photographic and artistic interpretations, trinket sellers, and boat trip shysters. I believe Otter was the only dog, and was probably overwhelmed at the amount of ankles crossing her eye level. Saturday monring is apparently a big day on the bridge, no matter whatthe weather.
Crossing the bridge brought us to the ascent of another narrow shopping district that winds much the same as Old Town, except in an uphill direction. Various resturaunts, cafe's absinthe hucksters and postcard line these streets which lead to Prague's buggest attraction, Castle Prague. The trip to the castle, despite the many crowds and merchandising opportunists, is still an enticing affair, as most westerners have an old word affection for anything cobble-stoned.
We arrived at Prague Castle at the precise moment of the changing of the guard, a ceremony much like it’s British counterpoint, the castle even containing the guardposts inhabited by unflinching Czech Beefeaters, only without the tall, funny hats. As Otter was prohibited to making the tour of the castle, and the line was for entrance was too long for me to really want to try to smuggle her in, we made do with touring the grounds, enjoying both the stunning examples of gothic architecture and the view of Old Town from the other side of the river.
After walking back to the hotel, I set Otter down for a nap and continued on my way to the next destination, the Globe Bookstore, the supposed center of literary Prague. After finally finding the place through a combination of misunderstood map directions and general wanderings, I have to admit that it was a little underwhelming. Perhaps my reading of guidebook descriptions had set the bar a little high (Ginsberg read here?), but the shop itself was pleasant enough, just not what I expected by something given the title of the “center of Literary Prague.” Essentially an expat bookstore and café stocking books mostly in English, it did contain a large number of Czech Translations which are difficult to find elsewhere, so I stocked up. Herman Ungar’s The Maimed, Film maker Jan Svenkmeyer’s treatise on creativity, Transmutations, and two by Vítězslav Nezval, Valerie And Her Week Of Wonders, the basis for a bizarre ’70 film about a young girl’s first period and , uh, witches (the soundtrack of which I’ve been somewhat obsessed with), and Edition 69, a George Bataille-like story of surreal eroticism filed with crazy collages of lobsters with penises. And thus armed I once again attempted to find Zalezna devere.
A metro stop brought me nearby, and when I finally found the address I was standing face to face with…an Indian restaurant. Cripes. An internet search after I got home told me that the bar had moved to a new address a year ago, but I was not connected on this trip. Feeling somewhat dejected (and thirsty) I crusied back the central square and bought a “hot dog classic style” – a steamed frank served in a hollowed out baguette type of roll with ketchup and mustard squirted inside, and a can of Gambrinius, Prague’s other famous beer.
Still feeling peckish I went back to Old Town, and made the amusing discovery once I stepped off the metro that I was in fact within a short walking distance from the hotel, the winding streets giving one the illusion of having travelled longer distances. I decided to eat at Caffrey’s, an Irish pub known for good food, and I managed to snag a table in a bar full of fairly drunk Irish football fans with very short hair. I had a steak with Jameson sauce, and despite not being traditional Czech food, it was fucking delicious. Two Pilsners and a full stomach later, I headed back to the hotel to take Otter for a walk.
While we’re walking, Otter decides it’s time for a deuce, and while I’ve become kind of accustomed in Berlin to not picking up after her, in Prague they’ve been making great strides in the field of dogshit elimination, and as she finishes her biz I hear a man saying something in Chech behind me, not really yelling, but definitely saying whatever it was with some degree of consternation. I turn around and he points to a pole in the ground that I had at first not even noticed, thinking it was a parking meter. Turns out it is a paper bag dispenser, specifically designed for keeping the streets of Prague crap free. Inside the bag is a piece of cardboard, pre-scored to create a shit shovel so that one never has to touch the stuff. I was so excited by the poop kit I ripped about ten of them from the dispenser. I was sure to never walk Otter without one while I was there.
Hotel>Otter sleeps>Me out again. I wanted to make a stop at the Orange Bar, the tiny drinkhole I had seen on the previous nights wanderings. Tonight it was nearly as crowded and I saw a set available, but I was ordering my beer a swarm of American tourists came in and snagged it. I was thereby forced to take a seat with a table of native Czechs, far more agreeable to the annoying 20-something crowd to my left. I met a guy who is actually PHP developer, who has sort of a freelance gig like mine. When I asked him about the Hooker town I had passed through he explained that it was a well known center of prostitution, and was not representative of the rest of The Republic. He told me I should visit Cambodia. Not because of the prostitution, but that it was a nice place to visit. Fair enough. I also met a Russian woman, and upon finding that I was American she immediately said “Bill Gates.” Perfect.
I drove back the next day. I approached the border and looked for my lady friends from the other night but apparently they don’t get up before noon. Oh well. Usually neither do I.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Phisikal Graffiti
November 13, 2007
Here's a bunch of shots of graffiti and street art from my neighborhood. I am certainly no photographer, but here you are regardless.
1. I love you, Alias:
Here's a bunch of shots of graffiti and street art from my neighborhood. I am certainly no photographer, but here you are regardless.
1. I love you, Alias:
2. Spray paint make pretty pretty:
3. Berlin, Rock City:
4. And my personal favorite:
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Life is a cabaret, old chum
November 7th, 2007
Today I finally had a chance to escape the rusty iron shackles of my laptop and venture out of my neighborhood, so I took the train to Keuzberg, which I'm told is the hip epicenter of Berlin (except for Friedrichshain of course). I visited an aquaintance's record store, the great but rather hidden Wowsville, run by a Spanish expat via NYC named Alberto. We chatted for a bit, I bought Las Vegas Grind Volume 3 from him (I'm glad Crypt never lets these sweet burlesque records go out of print), and we promised to hook up at some point in the future. One interesting thing he told me is that after being here for over a year he doesn't even speak German, and that there are a ton of native Spanish speakers here. Huh. At least there's hope for me, 'cause I'm pretty sure I'm speak German like a stutterer with a cleft palette.
Further explorations down the Oranienstraße revealed the punk rock record specialty store Core Tex, which only sold punk junk, but classified into crust, hardcore, street etc etc. Not my bag right now, I wanna go where Blixa Bargeld would hang out, if he still lived here. Actually, I do have an Eisturzende Neubauten badge but I haven't been wearing it for fear that it is the German Pearl Jam. Hit a comic book shop that actually had a fairly large English section. Walked around, got lost, found my way and headed home. Tonight was filled with glorious amounts of nothing. I got back to the flat, ordered a small pizza from one of the million or so (mostly Turkish-run) joints that dot this city, did some work and crashed out. I'm not sure if I'm ever really going to recover from jet/party lag - I've been embracing sleep like a lost pet. If Otter didn't wake me up to pee I'd probably remain on my ridiculously comfortable couch-bed for the entire week. But alas, I have stuff to see.
November 8th, 2007
More explorations. After waking up at at the crack of 11:00 am, I leave Otter at home and hop the train to Wittenberg Platz, one of the largest shopping districts in Berlin. Mission: new coat. right after jumping off the train you are hit with the capitalist megashopalith KaDeWe (Kaufhaus des Westens) - the largest department store in Europe. With 60,000 square meters of shit to buy, I felt sure that I could fulfill my objectve here, hop back on the train, and revisit the couch. Bah. While it is amazing, (and I didn't even get to the floor devoted to food, and presumably, sausage), there are no certainly no bargains here. I could have bought some Levis for 180 euro, but nothing very good for me in the jacket department, as KaDeWe is essentially a gigantic Nordtrom/Macy's/Dillards/whathaveyou. My tastes run just a touch left of the Europosh, so I ventured on. Down the street I snapped a couple pix of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church (the Gedächtniskirche), and mosied down to one of the three H&M's in the district, finally settling on a black synthetic number with a bunch of pockets, some gloves and a scarf. Hey, German Winter! Suck it!
When I get back to the flat Lina is here and she tells me her friend is playing at a club tonight and we're going. She plays me the tunes of myspace and it sounds like some kind of mellow Lilith Fair jazz, so neither of us is too excited and it looks like another early night. We take a cab to the club, which from the outside looks like a standard train station with a short line out front. They have an annoying habit of letting in a fonly ew people at a time, so the queue moves slowly, and it isn't getting any warmer. Finally we get our turn at bat, and since Lina knows the entire town we get in for free. But once inside - woah. It's like we just stepped into the Wiemar. Two rooms of labrynthine hedonism, packed to the gills. We march towards the room where Lina's friend was playing and are greeted with a band playing some kind of amped up swing, with three fraulines up front, a horn section, stand up bass - the whole deal. I feel transported to 1929 and half expect Joel Gray to appear from the shadows. The timetravel didn't last however, as after a short break the group launched into a swing-flavored cover of Nirvana's "Come As You Are" which is probably a more esoteric joke here than in America. Not bad, but a hexbreaker. More covers followed: Nancy Sinatra, En Vogue. Still entertaining, but at that point I am half-hoping for an erotic snake dancer or something.
Our final stop was at the site of Hitler's bunker, now a parking lot, and the place in which Hitler and Eva Braun spent their last days. Our guide told us that Hitler had taken poison, but apparently Hitler was not sure if that that would be effective, so he shot himself in the head to make sure. Many think that his remains were cremated upon discovery, but our guide told us that this was not true, and that his corpse was taken to Russia to be buried in the grounds of The Kremlin where he remained for many years until he was finally officially cremated and either a) thrown into the sea or b) flushed down the toilet. Of course I hope neither story is true and that his body is secure in an underground laboratory undergoing experiments by an society of evil scientists, or that his animated, rotting corpse is currently haunting the depths of the Black Forest. Mustache intact, of course.
Today I finally had a chance to escape the rusty iron shackles of my laptop and venture out of my neighborhood, so I took the train to Keuzberg, which I'm told is the hip epicenter of Berlin (except for Friedrichshain of course). I visited an aquaintance's record store, the great but rather hidden Wowsville, run by a Spanish expat via NYC named Alberto. We chatted for a bit, I bought Las Vegas Grind Volume 3 from him (I'm glad Crypt never lets these sweet burlesque records go out of print), and we promised to hook up at some point in the future. One interesting thing he told me is that after being here for over a year he doesn't even speak German, and that there are a ton of native Spanish speakers here. Huh. At least there's hope for me, 'cause I'm pretty sure I'm speak German like a stutterer with a cleft palette.
Further explorations down the Oranienstraße revealed the punk rock record specialty store Core Tex, which only sold punk junk, but classified into crust, hardcore, street etc etc. Not my bag right now, I wanna go where Blixa Bargeld would hang out, if he still lived here. Actually, I do have an Eisturzende Neubauten badge but I haven't been wearing it for fear that it is the German Pearl Jam. Hit a comic book shop that actually had a fairly large English section. Walked around, got lost, found my way and headed home. Tonight was filled with glorious amounts of nothing. I got back to the flat, ordered a small pizza from one of the million or so (mostly Turkish-run) joints that dot this city, did some work and crashed out. I'm not sure if I'm ever really going to recover from jet/party lag - I've been embracing sleep like a lost pet. If Otter didn't wake me up to pee I'd probably remain on my ridiculously comfortable couch-bed for the entire week. But alas, I have stuff to see.
November 8th, 2007
More explorations. After waking up at at the crack of 11:00 am, I leave Otter at home and hop the train to Wittenberg Platz, one of the largest shopping districts in Berlin. Mission: new coat. right after jumping off the train you are hit with the capitalist megashopalith KaDeWe (Kaufhaus des Westens) - the largest department store in Europe. With 60,000 square meters of shit to buy, I felt sure that I could fulfill my objectve here, hop back on the train, and revisit the couch. Bah. While it is amazing, (and I didn't even get to the floor devoted to food, and presumably, sausage), there are no certainly no bargains here. I could have bought some Levis for 180 euro, but nothing very good for me in the jacket department, as KaDeWe is essentially a gigantic Nordtrom/Macy's/Dillards/whathaveyou. My tastes run just a touch left of the Europosh, so I ventured on. Down the street I snapped a couple pix of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church (the Gedächtniskirche), and mosied down to one of the three H&M's in the district, finally settling on a black synthetic number with a bunch of pockets, some gloves and a scarf. Hey, German Winter! Suck it!
When I get back to the flat Lina is here and she tells me her friend is playing at a club tonight and we're going. She plays me the tunes of myspace and it sounds like some kind of mellow Lilith Fair jazz, so neither of us is too excited and it looks like another early night. We take a cab to the club, which from the outside looks like a standard train station with a short line out front. They have an annoying habit of letting in a fonly ew people at a time, so the queue moves slowly, and it isn't getting any warmer. Finally we get our turn at bat, and since Lina knows the entire town we get in for free. But once inside - woah. It's like we just stepped into the Wiemar. Two rooms of labrynthine hedonism, packed to the gills. We march towards the room where Lina's friend was playing and are greeted with a band playing some kind of amped up swing, with three fraulines up front, a horn section, stand up bass - the whole deal. I feel transported to 1929 and half expect Joel Gray to appear from the shadows. The timetravel didn't last however, as after a short break the group launched into a swing-flavored cover of Nirvana's "Come As You Are" which is probably a more esoteric joke here than in America. Not bad, but a hexbreaker. More covers followed: Nancy Sinatra, En Vogue. Still entertaining, but at that point I am half-hoping for an erotic snake dancer or something.
We exit to the other room, which played nothing but solid, loud-ass metalcore, the thirsty crowd served by a shirtless tattooed bartender. Sorry guys, it was a he. No topless bartendress action yet. We stay for a while on the network of couches; Lina catches up with her friend the singer and I people watch while drinking Berliner's. Observation: there are no ugly people here, which makes all the beautiful faces monochromes. I search for some kind of character to pop out from the throng, but things are getting blurry at this point anyway. Of course theres nothing left to do but head to a new bar!
We end up at a place called Travolta's, which made me laugh as I was hoping for some kind of Battlefield Earth/Scientology theme bar. I end up dissappointed. We stayed after hours and I switched to water. I met a man named whose English had a slight accent to it. Thinking he's from Spain or France I ask him where he's from. He replies: "Michigan". He hasn't been back to the States in 21 years, and he told me the story of how he came to be an American expat. Apparently he had followed the love of his life to a small town in Germany, he knocked on the door and found that in their separation she had married a local. Broke and alone, he travelled to Berlin in an attempt to show his value, to be somebody, and to possibly win her back. He's still here, they're not togther, and his story immediately brings to doubt any notion of emigrating here. This city certainly has many attractions, but the idea of being that guy in a bar wondering how the US has changed in his absence and still pining for a lost love was by turns frightening, heartbreaking, and pathetic.
We finally get home at nearly 5 in the morning. Lina has to leave the next day for work in Cologne. I can tell already that I will be sleeping all day.
November 9th, 2007
I slept all day.
November 10th, 2007
Nazis! Nazis! Nazis! Today I took a walking tour of famous Thrid Reich sites in Berlin. The tour was offered by Original Berlin Walks and has many informative tours for the Berlin sightseer. I originally wanted to take the "Berlin-Nest Of Spies!" tour, but that only ran through September, and as mom always said, when in doubt, go with the Nazis. We began at the Ministry of Propoganda, Joseph Goebbels gigantic brainwashing empire. The father of modern propaganda, Goebbles was the first man to apply the principles of advertising to politics, and came up with the idea of the People's Reciever, a cheaply bought radio set that brought Hitler's ranting insanity into nearly every home in Germany.
Our walk brought us next to the sights of the Luftwaffe Headquarters (now the Ministry of Finance), depicting the "best" in fascist architecture - large stones, narrow windows - attributes contructed to fashion a fortress-like appearance, a building meant to last a thousand years. Turns out that these bulidings were built very quickly and very cheaply. After the war, the deteriation was such that renovation would cost as much as a completely new building, but they pulled down the eagles, pried off the swatstikas, and left it standing.
A hail storm erupted as we make our way to the "Topography Of Terror" memorial, a citizen funded and constructed monument to the horrors of the Third Reich. Built to approximate both the look of a concentration camp and a fighting trench, the exhibit gives a timeline of the Nazi Party's rise and fall, with all the major characters and locations described in detail. Most interesting of which the story of Johann Georg Elser, the man who very nearly assassinated Hitler in Munich with a home-made bomb. With the hail turning to snow and the temperature dropping, we learn about the Nazi occupation in Russia, capturing three-million Russian POWs in a fenced-off concentration camp without food or shelter. More than half died the first winter, the survivors used for slave labor. This sobering monument is constructed of all weather laminated museum boards that hang from the rafters of the mock-trench and has recently been updated with text in both German and English - I hope to go back if I have more time.
Our final stop was at the site of Hitler's bunker, now a parking lot, and the place in which Hitler and Eva Braun spent their last days. Our guide told us that Hitler had taken poison, but apparently Hitler was not sure if that that would be effective, so he shot himself in the head to make sure. Many think that his remains were cremated upon discovery, but our guide told us that this was not true, and that his corpse was taken to Russia to be buried in the grounds of The Kremlin where he remained for many years until he was finally officially cremated and either a) thrown into the sea or b) flushed down the toilet. Of course I hope neither story is true and that his body is secure in an underground laboratory undergoing experiments by an society of evil scientists, or that his animated, rotting corpse is currently haunting the depths of the Black Forest. Mustache intact, of course.
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