Tom's blog of whatnots and other stuff
Write. Just write. Write more.
Not quite sure. But I am sure that this photo will join the rest of my collection of worst-photos. Should’ve taken better care with the photo. When I took the shot it was clearly the remaining half of a rodent that got the attention of Beckett, the killer pug, while we are on his morning walk. I assure, dear worst-reader, my dog didn’t cause this obscenity. Then again, now I’m not sure if it’s a mouse half anymore. Nomatter.
Rant on.
-t
I’m seriously trying not to pay attention to all the BS that’s going on with #Trump right now. But it’s hard, you know what I’m worst-saying, dear worst-reader? It’s hard because my best guess tells me that #Trump is a frickin genius. Forget all the firings, the crazy tweets, the whacky press briefings by that snobby bed wetter. #Trump is playing me. I know he is. Has there ever been this much power consolidated in the republican party before? Now that really-really frickin scares me. Yeah. It scares me more than that comb-over that he’s so good at hiding–or is he so good at feeding it?
Rant on.
-t
I suppose this would work well as Bill O’Reilly gift, too.
Rant on.
-t
Part 2 of this pseudo-review is here. Part three is here.
Picked up my R&M Charger GX Touring the other day. For those not in the know, R&M stands for Riese & Müller. Or it could also stand for: two well endowed German engineers that couldn’t get jobs in austerity ridden #eurowasteland so they decided to adhere to their passive/green post WW2 upbringing and start making really, really cool electric bikes while at the same time flipping the bird to BMW, VW, Audi, Mercedes, etc.,–who wouldn’t otherwise hire their genius.
This is a restricted 25km/h version of the bike. It’s also available in a 45km/h version but then you have to get permission from some cocksucking bureaucrat to ride it and when you do ride it you can only ride it on roads with cars and not bike paths or in pedestrian areas and you also can’t use bike parking spots, you have to park it where the cars park.
Needless to say it was an exhilarating first ride on this communist-like regulated bike. In just a few days I’ve managed to put well over 200km on it–which says more about the bike than it does my semi-early-retired nature. And before anyone starts calling me bourgeois for paying such a high price for friggin bicycle, heed this. The bike has been purchased as a commuter vehicle, it’s a tool. Also. I’ve literally replaced a car with it. Not sure about you, but I’m about done with gas-guzzling automobiles where politicians are incapable of planning, adjusting, working–on better transportation infrastructure. With that in mind, German Autobahns, especially the congested area I live in, are in a perpetual state of contruction as though they are being built for the first time. Go figure. Yeah. Politicians! And so. With this new tool, a tour to the coast of Holland this summer is already in the works where it might take me two days to get there but it’ll be funner than blowing bubbles through #Trumps comb-over.
Before I get into any details of the bike, allow me a few worst-words about the dealer and purchase experience. I really wish this or any of this caliber bike could be purchased w/out a dealer. The only thing I got from the dealer (i.e. old school business model) was the opportunity to test ride a variety of these bikes. Other than that, dealers are a waste of time and, most important, money. Goodness knows what R&M has to sacrifice to dealers for their ill service and whatever it is it ain’t worth it. Add to that I wasn’t informed about the outrageous delivery time of these bikes… In the end, it took two months to get it.
Moi: How long do I have to wait before delivery?
Dealer: Two months.
Moi: You mean two weeks, right?
Dealer: No. You’ll wait two months and you’ll like it!
Moi: Wow.
By-the-by, when I tried to contact R&M about my order they just blew me off saying that I need to talk to the dealer. How f’n rude! Wouldn’t it be great if R&M could at least provide some “tracking” info? Oh wait. We live in a day & age of just-in-time assembly lines (R&M does not manufacturing any bike parts) that most likely utilise every means of modern communication yet the company is not able to provide it’s customer with order info? What am I saying? Knowing how #eurowasteland works, especially at this bourgeois price-level, I shouldn’t be surprised at the wait time–or the corporate rudeness. And that’s not all.
The Bad.
After pick up and initial ride on the bike, something wasn’t right. The handlebars or the stem was out-of-whack. Not only that, but the small front rack, which is part of the GX series, wasn’t properly attached. Luckily the rack is easy to adjust. There is also something wrong with the cork grips. One of the grips is lower than the other. As of the writing of this post, I’ve not got around to figuring how to adjust them yet. Call me lazy (since I do ride an e-bike). All of this has got me thinking that maybe there is something wrong with the handlebars. I’m gonna put off dealing with this for a while because when I look at the bars from the front, they look straight. There aren’t any useful measuring lines on the handlebars to check if something is out of whack. These are the widest bars I’ve ever had on bike–so maybe there is some adjusting I need to do… on me.
Some sadness.
The first thing the dealer did was point out the paint damage. There is a 2-3mm chip in the paint of the top-tube. I have since heard from the dealer that R&M will be sending a new frame for replacement–but it will take till at least winter before I can get it. Something about the spring and summer riding season and frame inventory, I guess. It’s a good thing that imperfect paint doesn’t effect how this thing rides. Indeed.
By-the-by, this is the second bike I’ve purchased in the last year. The first one was a cross road racer which I use for leg and cardio training. Would you believe that the manufacture had to replace that frame too? The thing started to crack where the top-tube meets the seat-tube. Is there a coincidence or conspiracy theory here regarding where/how bike frames are made? I mean, aren’t they all made in the same sweatshop factory in… China? Nomatter.
Oh, and one last bad thing about this bike. At this price they should put something more than cheap pedals on it! It’s like delivering a Ferrari with snow tires. The pedals suck. I immediately replaced them with some fancy Shimano XT pedals. Yeah, money is for burning, eh.
The Good.
This is by far the best bike I’ve ever ridden. It’s incredibly balanced and smooth, it oozes confidence. At a stand still this bike is The Panzer. Under power it is a well-tuned machine with topnotch components that work perfect together. The Bosch motor is so smooth that at times you don’t even now it’s there. It has enough torque to let me ride up steep inclines while remaining seated or cruise along at top speed easily blasting through heavy headwinds. Other than a slight humming and the occassional power surge, you can easily forget that it is an electric vehicle.
The brakes are nothing less than incredible and even provide motorcycle-like feedback. Although I’m not a fan of suspension on bicycles, this one may change my mind. (I’ve always preferred to spend money on a good frame instead wasting money on a mediocre forks.) These front air forks eat up terrain that is sometimes unbearable on my cross road racer or my trekking/cruiser bike. I’m not tickled with the Thudbuster seat post yet but I think I have to give that some more time and maybe change the rubber mounts to figure out how it works. But like I said before, maybe there are somethings on me that need to be changed for this bike.
As far as purchase decision goes and price, I based my decision on the following criteria:
The Price.
This is not just a toy. (Or is it?) And don’t bother asking about what I paid for it. (Way too much!) If you’re interested, R&M prices are online. Also. Keep in mind. My wife and I–after a move from Germany to India and then–quicker then we expected–a return to Germany–and in that crazy process we ended up selling our second car–I was most adamant about not getting another (2nd) car. Anywho. I managed to get a farily decent discount on the R&M Charger. Perhaps I’ll post something about how that happened later. Anywho. I’ll mainly be using this bike as a replacement for a car. Obviously it can’t replace a car completely. But if it’s about shopping, going into town for meetings, commuting, etc., it should be fine. And let’s not forget the Köln and Düsseldorf trek where I’m constantly testing the stability and viability of ancient pillars and citadels and old money, and finding out which tastes better: Kölsch or Altbier. Although I’m not a regular working stiff anymore, I still need to show up for an office meeting or presentation here and there–you know, to entertain the troops. And would you believe, I even have rain-wear to keep my suit and shoes out of the acid-rain.
Competition.
Of the bikes I looked at, I narrowed my choice to three–each, under other circumstances, I would still buy. There was the Haibike (either with Yamaha or Bosch motor) and the luscious Stromer St1. All these bikes start at around the same price range with the R&M topping them by a few hundred Euros.
As far as I’m concerned even the Stomer St1, their low-end offering, is the sexiest e-bike on the market. For 2017 the St1 can be purchased with a 600+watt battery, replacing or complimenting its standard 500+watt battery. The battery increase should provide significant range. The only problem is, for whatever stupid corporate greed reason, Stromer decided to put a 250watt hub motor on their new low-end bike. Now I doubt that the production cost difference between a 500watt hub motor and 250 watt hub motor is significant enough to warrant a totally different product offering than last year’s model. Which brings me to the following question for Stromer. Do you really have to be like Apple Computer–forcing arbitrary pricing and thereby taking advantage of customers?
And since I’m on the subject of Stromer, there’s the whole hub v. middle motor thing. Personally, I like the Stromer hub motor. To me hub motors feel more natural. But that’s neither here nor there at this point. In Germany it seems like all e-bike’s are going with middle motors. Of course there is the issue that Stromer has the best integrated battery system there is. Then there’s Stromer’s new integrated touch-screen monitor thingy on higher-end models, the St1X and for-rich-only buyers, the St2. To which I say: stupid! Sure, including a cellular phone (“connected”) on the bike is cool. But then again, I guess only rich buyers would actually put the bike in a situation where it could be stolen–the only reason for putting a cell phone in it? (Sarcasm off.) The price increase for the same frame as the low-end ST1 but with a stupid monitor on the top-tube that you can’t see or use while riding… Wow. Sounds like Stromer and Apple Computer have something in common. Can you say MacBook Pro w/ Touchbar, dear worst-reader?
Then there’s the Haibike. In the end, after lots of testing, feeling and licking, the Haibike’s mass produced feel wasn’t worth the price. (When my spendable income drops, it will be, though. Sarcasm off again.)
Hopefully paying the highest price for the Charger GX will be worth it in the end. We’ll see.
Rant and ride on.
-t
PS Part 2 of this pseudo-review is here.
It is beyond astonishing the effort put into negative politicking in my beloved United Mistakes. Add to that a few dick jokes from a washed up former Congressman…
#americant, baby.
Long but worthwhile article about how #Hillary was slaughtered–among other things:
Rant on.
-t
I love the French. Although having grown up in a world that gives rise to to the likes of #Trump, ever since I got somewhat of a grasp of history, I’ve always had this thing for the French. Obviously it’s never bothered me what happened in the WW2, especially when one considers what happened in WW1. (If you don’t know what I’m referring to then just ask any American white male from any “red” state that was born before 1970 what he thinks of the French.) Besides being fascinated by Napoleon’s Egypt campaign–my goodness, the man wasn’t even thirty years old then–he means nothing in comparison to what I really, really love about the French. And so. Are you ready for it, dear worst-reader?
Up till today I’ve loved the French for one thing and one thing only. But this morning that changed. I never knew that the French had a law that prohibits media coverage 48 hours prior to the start and finish of a national election.
What a great f’n idear.
The French actually have a law that tries to at least curb some of what makes humanity so f’n stupid and also might be of some use regarding Putin’s lust for ruining the West. In fact, any other country with a half-bit more brains should probably implement the same thing, if not adding a few more hours to it. But we know how it is these days trying to find a country with brains, eh. For you see, dear worst-reader, from what I’ve read so far, the same group of Russians that hacked the Democratic National Committee last summer, thereby ending my relationship with that party, and also ruining Hillary at the same time, just hacked Macron. But the news can’t publish anything about it.
God I love the French!
Obviously, for Hillary, things were different with her and the DNC hack. I mean, those damn DNC emails really hurt her but they were in the news and thereby fodder for bathsh*t republicans for months prior to the election. Free speech is a bitch! Does this mean, even though the Russian hackers are pretty damn good, they didn’t do all their research about how the French govern their elections? Indeed.
Yeah, let’s hope Authoritarians the world over won’t be able to rejoice with the election of France’s fascist party which will most surely lead to the demise of #eurowasteland. Yeah, let’s hope.
Oh yeah. Almost forgot. The #1 reason I love the French.
The f’n French Revolution. The way they got rid of a useless monarchy… As far as I’m concerned, that was/is one of the greatest human achievements ever. It’s unfortunate that so many other countries still adhere to that krapp. Yeah, real unfortunate.
Ran on.
-T
Finally broke down, dear worst-reader. I splurged the 4,99-€ to rent Snowden last night. Do I regret it? In German the answer is: Jein. It’s a cross between ja (yes) and nein (no). I suppose the more significant question is: would I do it again–as in maybe even buy this movie so that I can play it when I want, how I want, if I want? F’n no! Luckily there’s not much to say about the movie other than… Well, it sucked. In that vein…
During the movie my better half was sick of me turning to her and sticking a finger down my throat. Barf! Especially the various lovey-dovey scenes between Snowden and his pole dancing girlfriend. My guess is Oliver Stone doesn’t really care at this point if his dialogue sucks. He obviously thinks there is a bigger story to be told. Yes, indeed, he thinks that.
I did perk up a few times, though. The scene where the NSA guy lies in front of Congress was pretty good. I even cracked a joke about how the NSA can lie to Congress and get away with it but when Clinton lied about a White House back room blowjob… Then there was the scene where Glenn Greenwald gets pissed at The Guardian and he threatens to go rogue. In fact, during this scene I paused the movie to explain to those watching what really happened–which is a mystery to me why Stone didn’t put this in the movie.
Glenn Greenwald did leave The Guardian and with the help of a mega-rich dotcom funder started the most expensive blog in history: The Intercept. As I’ve posted here, my biggest gripe with the whole Snowden ordeal is the fact that people like Greenwald, to this day, are sitting on all the data. It’s fine if Snowden thinks he was being strategic by giving his data to “responsible” journalists and that they should decide what/when to publish. I just disagree with having to leave it up to profiteering journalists to make that judgement. But I digress.
All in all, this film is horrible. The cinematography sucks. The editing sucks. The screenplay sucks. Etc., etc. Also. I learned nothing new about Snowden–which is the main reason I decided to watch it. Questions are still un-answered and/or un-addressed that I think are important and would have helped people better understand what is really going on with not only Edward Snowden but the entire US government apparatus that reared him. For example:
I could go on but I’ll leave it at that.
Good luck suckers.
Rant on.
-t
Beckett the killer pug was taking me for a walk the other day while I listened to a podcast or three. After a few hours of peeing on trees and licking the dew from morning grass and counting the barges that traverse the Rhein, I decided enough was enough and told the old mutt to take me home. He did. He then fed me a late morning breakfast and proceeded to find a place on the couch to take a late morning nap. Motivated from a podcast and after consuming too much post nap coffee I decided to re-watch the movie Wag The Dog. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw it. But I’ve seen it at least once before going back to the early 2000s. I think I might have tried to watch it a second time after that but gave up on the film. I remember when the movie came out around 1997/8. It was somewhat of a hit within the stretched minds of German intellectuals–who always get a kick out of laughing at my beloved #americant. For the life of me, though, I couldn’t remember what the film was about. But I vividly remember that other 90s political film Primary Colors. Um.
Something obviously motivated me to re-watch Wag The Dog. Damn podcasts! So I purchased a rental verison of it via Apple’s krappy streaming system and by 5pm had consumed it. Then I realised something.
Say, this would be a good movie to watch with my über intellectual better-half.
I was sure she hadn’t seen it and since we’ve been going back and forth about Trump and #americant politics lately, this would be a good show starter for an evening of dilemma or love. Indeed. Since I was late at preparing dinner, I jumped to the task and whipped up something delicious (as usual). After feeding my better-half, I surprised her with…
Hey, baby. How ’bout a film?
Being the stoic German female she’s always been, I had to first inform her a bit about the movie, which I proceeded to do. Her skepticism aside, I poured her a glass of Spanish red wine, put the cheese and cracker plate on the table next to her couch and then hit the play button on the really, really stupid little aluminium Apple remote control device. Within the first twenty minutes she was bitten. By the time it was over she had loved both my cheese plate, the wine and was asking:
Short story long. It was a nice marital bonding evening. I guess. And so…
By the next morning the movie had triggered something in my mind. It took me back to the 90s when the world had learned the specificities of things like blowjobs and protein stains on blue dresses. In the film the president allegedly had an affaire with an underage girl. Technology in the form of network connected gadgets was gonna take us into the future. At the beginning of the movie there is a Palm Pilot device. And in order to be famous you should make a sextape with your gadgets that features blowjobs because in the future those sextapes, morally and ethically, will pale in comparison to what a broken society can be made to do after it’s been so thoroughly manipulated. Even though the sextapes have nothing to do with Wag The Dog, thinking of the 90s just brought that out of me. Indeed. While watching a film I was re-living a past worth forgetting and there were these titillating images of Paris Hilton, Kim Kardashian and a few stupid white people haunting humanity.
Why does the dog wag its tail?
Because a dog is smarter than its tail.
If the tail were smarter, it would wag the dog. (-BS from the beginning of the movie)
Back to the present.
How is it that a movie like Wag The Dog can be so misinterpreted so many years after its inception? Easy. It’s the same as with The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Comedy is ok as long as it stays funny. Go beyond funny…. That show was about one thing and one thing only. Make fun of politics. I’m sure its audience thought it was funny, too. You know, people thought that the show was actually political–or about politics and those stupid white men who are in it. But consider this, dear worst-reader. Making fun of something is no different than dismissing it. Dismissing something also means that you run from it. The grave error of Wag The Dog–or the error of people putting such a film on any kind of pedestal–is that in the end all one does is avoid reality. Another by-product of reality avoidance, btw, is conspiracy theorising.
In the podcast that motivated me to re-watch Wag The Dog, the film is lauded as a work of genius that fortold the future about how the #americant public can be easily manipulated. This fortelling, of course, is embodied in Robert DeNiro’s character who plays a kind of political spin-doctor for the president but actually looks like a professor that lost tenor. The podcast also mentioned how DeNiro & Co, in order to manipulate further, come up with things like The B-3 Bomber and a military special unit called The 303. The podcast was comparing all the krapp from the movie with what Trump is doing and, of course, how conspiratorial it all is. Oh my. This use of the number three, btw, is supposed to have some kind of conspiracy theory significance about the fate of the world–and more importantly the fate of #americants that both can’t pay their mortgage because they can’t afford the rest of their gluttonous credit card consumption or their God fearing sex practices that linger in their minds while being sexually repressed to the hilt. Oh my.
But before I get too off subject. The movie Primary Colors left a bit more of an impression on me because it didn’t have to use so much innuendo and conspiracy theorising to tell its story. It was basically the same movie but it got a bit closer to the self inflicted misery of a greed society run amok and how that society elects its politicians. It’s also a bit clearer about how those politicians actually behave in a game facilitated by an inept and ignorant society. Indeed. John Travolta deserved more recognition as President than Dustin Hoffman got as Producer. But then again, what do I know about movies?
And here’s the catcher that worst-writer should have been worst-writing about the whole time in this post.
David Mamet was in a bit of a feud over who should get screen writing credits for Wag The Dog. That about says everything about this film. Well, that and the fact that Primary Colors was pretty much being made at the same time says something, too. Mamet is without a doubt a brilliant writer but he also a money grubbing shitbag that thinks just like a faux newz old white man that never really found a place to put his cock or his misery so he puts it on others in the name of some kind of political ideology that, according to California, treads on me. Or maybe not.
Nomatter. I think I’m gonna re-watch Primary Colors in the hope that it will purge the nonsense of Wag The Dog from my system.
Rant on.
-t
One last thought before heading back to the old country where rational thought (still) prevails in the confines of political discourse. I spent a lot of time joining my mother this visit to her various church gatherings. Whether it’s mass on Sunday morning or happy-hour at a local lodge, I’m there watching her, witnessing, taking in the carnage that is my beloved #americant–and its old people. The only problem I have with hanging out with mom and her “friends” are the staunch republicans that occupy not only her church but the entire community where she lives. Which is kind of odd because, well, at least at the church, the pastor is an obvious liberal type–liberal as in he’s a hippy. That combined with an open door policy towards minorities, gays and, goodness forbid, immigrants (there is a sign in front of the church that reads: “immigrants are welcome”), it’s a bit of a wonder that so many church goers are atypical republican followers. Or maybe not. Nonetheless.
I was sitting at a happy-hour gathering of Mom’s church goers the other day and an elderly couple started complaining about Nancy Pelosi. It was right out of the blue. They were chomping down on their tuna salad sandwiches and chips and sodas when suddenly the doors of TV propaganda hell opened up and Pelosi was the wrath occupying their mind’s eye. I assumed that since they had gotten rid of Hillary in the last election, Pelosi was next in line–which I guess, for them, made sense. But then I popped a question to the patriarch that lead the anti-Pelosi wrath.
“Why are you concerned about a Senator that represents California? Aren’t there more important things for a Marylander to be worried about?”
“She’s the worst. She’s gotta go. Trump’s gonna take care of her, too.”
Keep in mind, dear worst-reader, this conversation was right in the middle of Trump’s attempt at getting rid of Obamacare–which, btw, was on the brink of failure.
“Let me ask you a question, sir,” I said. “I’m fifty-three years old, can you name me a liberal policy in the last thirty years that has negatively effected your life?”
“Obamacare!” he said.
“But sir, Obamacare is Mitt Romney’s health care plan for the state of Massachusetts, when he was that states republican governor.”
“Oh, then I guess you know everything,” the old, wrinkled, spoiled rotten American said.
“So you can’t answer my question, then,” I asked.
Both he and his wife got up with their paper plates full of processed food and walked to the other side of the room. They sat with other old people and continued eating.
It was a disgusting moment as I watched all those old people, born around the end of WW2, filled with rage because, well, they weren’t able to take even more than they already owned to the grave with them. Shame. Shame. Shame.
Rant on.
-t
It was a good press conference, I’m sure Trump would say. But then again, what else can he say? I mean, come on, dear worst-reader. Have you actually listened to him talk? He talks like…
But allow me to move on.
The thing that world citizens should remember (in case you’ve forgotten or never considered) is that the person most interested in the press conference between #americant and the corpo neo-feudalistic Germanin state is Vladimir Putin. In fact, there is only one thing that Putin hates more than Hillary Clinton–which he most likely proved by helping Trump get elected. That’s right. He f’n hates Germany.
If nation states could pick a fight in a redneck pub to determine which form of corruption would rule the world, Putin would have beat the krapp out of Merkel by now. And do you know what’s stopped Putin from doing just that?
The only western country that has suffered the least from neoliberal globalisation (but by no means is it unaffected by it) is Germany. Putin and many in #americant hate that. The reason they hate it is because Germany…
Indeed. Putin, oligarchs and certain banking figures around the world hate Germany for its collective nation state success which enables it to NOT choose The Anglo Way. Ironically Germany has built its own bulwark to fight off the whims of modern neoliberalism and thereby, maybe, perhaps, rivalling with The Germanin Way.
But don’t get me wrong. I’m not tooting Germany’s horn here–even though I’ve been living as an expat in the country since the summer of 1989. (Oh that wall fell hard on me.) I have my issues with Germany’s politics, with Merkel’s silly refugee policy and, even though I’ve been able to assimilate into German society by learning the language and drinking the Bier, the country’s automaton corporatists that live in and run the show have never accepted me fully. But that’s a whole other worst-post.
Oh well.
Rant on.
-t
I know you’re not supposed to talk politics while consuming beverages at your local redneck pub. This is doubly so when beveragizing during happy-hour. Yet. Being the politically accute person I am, there are times when I can’t help myself and I do that which I shouldn’t. (Does that contradict being acute?)
Scene: extremely windy late afternoon, the sun is shinning, the hour of happy at local pub just started. I walked from my parents ageing beach house down wind–the whole time conscious of how many beers I would consume to make the same trip upwind. Put another way, even sober, if my long coat got caught in the downwind I’d be blown off the sidewalk. Nomatter. The day was less weather hectic compared to previous days and the winter storm had passed us by to the north. The temperature was just below freezing.
When I reached the bar I entered through a door that looked as though it had been broken into recently. The rim of the door was reinforced with steel platting and heavy rivets. The bar was not yet steamy from bodies and drink but a few fellow rednecks occupied the seats that got the most sun through the large front window that was mostly covered in neon ad lights. I sat on the corner of the bar next to an older lady that had bouffant hair. She wore too many pieces of jewellery and when she reached for her tall, pink drink the rings on her fingers clanked and clicked. I ordered my first draft and thanked the easy-on-the-eyes bartendress.
By the time I got my drink a group of four entered and sat at the shadowy end of the bar. The bartendress obviously knew the group. While she filled their drinks and also added drinks to the few people next to the bouffant lady, a commercial flashed on one of the many TVs hanging from the wall behind the bar. It was an add for the army. When the commercial was over the bouffant lady yelled: make America great again. The people next to her said here here here. Astonished at what I just witnessed I turned to the bouffant lady and asked:
“Mam, I’m curious. Were you not offended by Trump’s vulgarities during the campaign?”
“Hell no,” she said. “I know for a fact that men have said worse things about me. And besides. That damn Bill Clinton raped five women…”
And so. Dear worst-reader. That is how it begins. That is how one opens a can of worst-worms in the redneck happy-hour bar that is (my beloved) #Americant.
Which brings me to the following question: Why do shredded Brussel sprouts (pic above) remind me of how an entire country can sink so deeply into a cesspool of the obscene where intellect is the enemy, where rational thought a rarity, where life itself cannot find a way out of the psychotic. Oh my.
Rant on.
-t
No reason to be shocked. This flight, technically, I guess, has a “price” of “20.00 €”. And why shouldn’t it? Talk about a bargain. But then again, I did fly once across the Atlantic about thirty years ago–and for the life of me I can’t remember the name of the airline–that costs somewhere around a hundred dollars. Back then that was THE BOMB. It was the coolest flight ever, too. Everybody bought their own brown paper bag full of lunch and other munchies because there was neither service or stewardesses available. There were only these nice ladies dressed in purple that would provide water because there was some kind of regulation requiring the airline to at least hydrate passengers. Since the the entire fuselage was filled with economy class seats there was nothing but the boring sound of an a nine hour flight and the crunching of plastic bags, chips & doritos, and a few cracks of beer cans during the entire crossing. I think, if you paid (lots) extra, you could get those weird tube headphones and watch a movie from a drop-down cathode ray tube. And there is one other thing I can’t remember about the past (where my expatriation began). How much “Taxes and carrier imposed fees” did we have to pay for flights back then? Nomatter. I suppose if anything does matter anymore it’s where all the money goes that we have to pay to consume to survive. And by-the-bye, the “OPC” charge is for the use of a credit card. But I digress. Rant on. -t
As mentioned in a previous worst-post, as a b’day gift I was forced to attend a cooking seminar last weekend. I say ‘forced’ without the intention of holding a grudge against my better-half’s gift choice. It’s just that I’m already a damn fine cook so my initial reaction to such a gift must be a bit apprehensive. The combination of being a skeptic, a cynic and a self-aggrandising cook means that I have to suck-it-up like a buttercup when my wife gives me a b’day present. Then there’s the issue that if you’re gonna attend a steak cooking “seminar” hosted by a company that specialises in selling premium meat, which includes a four course meal, well, how much was this gonna cost? With that in mind, dear worst-reader, I rarely go out to eat anymore because I’m not only stingy but:
(Seriously. One of the best places I’ve ever eaten was on Phi-Phi Island, Thailand. It was literally a shack where three lady-boys cooked and served the best fusion asian food I’ve ever eaten and it all only costs a few bucks. But I digress.)
I told my better half that she’s not really giving me a gift but instead lining the pockets of guy who thinks he knows beef. And then I said, “Schnooki, the problem is the guy giving the seminar is German.” There was a long pause. Trust me, dear worst-reader, when I say Germans don’t know beef. It’s über true. Of course, it’s not that they don’t eat beef. They do. It’s that, until recently, they have been clueless about even the simplest form of bovine consumption. If you don’t believe me then the next time your in the old country and get tired of driving your rental car a gazillion miles per hour on the Autobahn, go into any grocery store. There you’ll find that Germans still offer two cuts of beef. One is called the Rumpsteak and the other is called Huftsteak. Unless you’re trained to tell the difference, there is no difference in these two cuts of meat. These “steaks” are then usually cooked in a pan with some kind of grease and then served with potatoes and, if you’re lucky, garlic butter. It’s no wonder that Germans have a certain reputation in the world–that doesn’t include culinary prowess. Luckily, even at my bitter-old-age, I’m open to moments of entertainment that potentially could include subpar cooking. What the hell.
In order to protect the innocent I’m gonna refer to the company behind our recent steak cooking seminar as White Man Steak & Co.’s Evening of Red & Juicy or WSCERJ. The seminar itself takes place in the fancy foyer of an old, converted textile warehouse. This foyer can be changed into a kitchen by moving modular ovens, grills, stove-tops, etc. Because of the size of the foyer, though, the number of participants is limited to about twenty people. The seminar is already fully booked through most of 2017. So it was nice to find out that my better-half actually started planning my b’day present almost a half year in advance. This place is definitely fancy-fancy.
A small company, WSCERJ has about thirty or so employees that handle all the typical corporate krapp and a small staff of culinary experts that include two chefs, a sous chef, two butchers and a “food designer”. According to the owner, though, they were short staffed for this particular evening. That meant that the owner and his young daughter were our servers for the four course meal that integrated with the seminar. Later we learned that two of the people attending were also from a German industry magazine and were there to do a review. Needless to say, the owner was at the top of this game.
After a short tour of the facility that included offices, backrooms full of supplies and industrial refrigerators full of hanging beef, pork and chicken (see pic above), the owner of the company continued with a long-winded monologue about the greatness of product that only he is able to offer the German meat market. The key to his success, he claims, is the fact that he personally knows all his meat suppliers. Of the seven cuts of meat that were being featured and were also strewn out in front of us, four came from Germany and three from God-knows-where Nebraska. The absurdity of a sales-pitch combined with the frivolity of overpriced ingredients that were about to be cooked up in front of us was only matched by bullsh*t galore. Luckily the BS was quickly accompanied by food and plenty of drink.
The four courses meal was:
Beyond the fact that tartar shouldn’t be made from a bull’s rump, the first course was ruined by too much sauce and too much salad accompaniment. The only thing that saved it was the canned caviar that topped it off. In fact, I ate all the fish eggs but left most of the tartar and rest behind. I also kept it to myself that I could make better tartar by buying some half decent hamburger meat at the grocery store and throwing a raw egg yolk on it accompanied by some white pepper. It’s just wrong, nomatter who the bull is, to use rump for tartar. The second course was sous vide pork belly that was briefly grilled just before serving which made the upper layer of fat nice and crispy. Not a bad dish but, to me, it isn’t the right thing to follow tartar. The beef short rib was ok, but that’s about it. Forget the dessert. Seriously. Forget it.
Which brings me to the reason for this post. Or have I succeeded in fooling you that I’m trying to write a review? Nomatter. It was between the 2nd and 3rd course of the meal that the real seminar took place. As I said, there were seven different cuts of meat on the counter when we arrived. The rump was cut into large pieces by the two chefs and then given to those who volunteered to turn it into tartar with knives and cutting boards. What a mistake, eh! The tartar sucked. Two other “aged” steaks were then cooked and served as appetiser finger food in a glass of beef broth and butter. It was awful. A third cut of meat was not actually beef but instead two pork steaks. The owner went into an extended diatribe about how pork is the new steak–as long as you buy it from him and his supplier. The owner then added that he wanted to offer capon chicken (see pic) in the mix but none of his birds were ready yet. The remaining four cuts of meat, all of which were from Rex and his über ranch in God-knows-where Nebraska, were the crème de la crème of the evening. There were two lean cuts of Bison, one thick Wagyu t-bone and one thick Kobe. All of these meats were cooked in pans on a stove using fat and butter and then sliced up and given to the seminar participants for taste testing. The pork was awful and should accompany the dessert in the bin. I didn’t get any of the Wagyu t-bone, but I assume it was good. The Bison was fantastic–and it is the only meat I plan on ordering from this company. And, just before the sous chef started cooking the Kobe, I asked if he would cut me a thin, sashimi style slice so that I could try it raw. He did and I consumed it and it was good.
But here’s the thing.
While explaining the ins and outs of the best beef in the world coming from a supplier in God-knows-where Nebraska (probably) named Rex, that he obviously enjoys visiting and fraternising with, the owner of WSCERJ seems to have gotten naively mixed up with some American style white-supremacy BS a’la Faux Newz. How do I know this? Well, for starters, the American Indians that died because of the greed European mentality that was conquering North America (at the time) didn’t die from starvation.
Whaaaaaaaaaaa….
That’s right, dear worst-reader. During a seminar about how to consume beef, most of which comes from my beloved (and missed) grand united mistakes of #americant, a full grown family man who is running a vibrant and flourishing business in Germany, actually believes–because of what he has been told–that American Indians died from starvation and not from genocide. It was at this point I raised my hand, put down my drink, and interrupted the host of his seminar. I gayly told him and the audience that I was more than happy to eventually purchase some of his product but he should refrain from making comments about things he heard from some white guy in God-knows-where Nebraska. There was a brief silence in the room. Then the owner of WSCERJ commented about the movie Dances With Wolves and I marched off to the bathroom to gather myself.
Upon returning to the foyer and the seminar, I was met at the entry by the sous chef. He was a young bull of a man from what used to be the former East Germany. I joked with him during the evening that he should be a linebacker and play American football. He smiled and obviously approved of my flattery. But before I could re-enter the seminar we had the following discourse:
Sous-chef: Tell me, do you like Donald Trump?
Moi: He’s ok. A bit over-rated both in the good and the bad. But ok.
Sous-chef: I think he’s much better than Hillary. You know Germany has a female president…
Moi: Chancellor, you mean.
Sous-chef: Yes. Whatever. You see how she let in so many migrants? Not good. That’s why I like Trump. He’s right, you know.
Moi: Ah, yeah, sure. As long as he doesn’t go on some crazy war path like George W. Bush, he might be alright.
Sous-chef: Exactly. Trump good. (He drags his knuckles returning to his place in the foyer-kitchen.)
And so. Dear worst-reader. There you have it. The world is amassing and mobilising knuckle draggers from all over and in all corners. I’m faced with them in the heart of prosperous middle Germania and God-knows-where… else.
Bon appetite.
Rant on.
-t
As my beloved #americant waddles in the ease and comfort of blissful ignorance and the gayety of dysfunction, I’ve spent most of this day continuing my research as an expatriate in finding methodologies of distraction and systems of self medication. For example, tonight I’m due with my better half to visit a place that is gonna teach me about cooking steak. When I questioned Fräulein Betterhalf if she was trying to tell me something, aka trying to say that she didn’t like the way I cooked her steaks, she replied: no, silly, this is your birthday present. Oh, I thought, unhappily. Nomatter. While walking Beckett the Killer Pug this afternoon I came across the concept of The Overton Window while watching barges fight for position in the over crowded Rhine River. How I got to that deserves a few worst-words. A few days ago I was thinking about the idear of Eugenics. This coincided with a conversation I got caught up in with knuckle draggers aka neo-nazis a few days prior to that. When one of the neo-nazis found out I was American he turned to me and asked if I ever slept with an American black girl. Why American, I asked him. Because I think I could go for one of them, he replied. How so, du Arsch, one of his comrades said. Because they’re all mostly white anyways. It’s only a matter of time before we get the black out of them. Have you seen that Beyonce Weib! Nomatter. Beyond the reality of how some neo-nazis make fun of me, one thought entered my mind after that encounter. Of all human races only the white race still contains the gene of the extinct Neanderthal. Hence the knuckle dragging syndrome we all must live with in this day of corporatism, cronyism and government run amok. This could be the reason, I fashioned, that the western world is so batsh*t right now. White people are simply incapable of getting rid of the nasty gene that nature deemed unsuitable. Yet somehow it’s hung on. Nomatter. Ultimately, river barges, stupid white people and dog walking got me thinking whether or not Eugenics and the Overton Window have something in common. Guess what? They do. Both of these idears fit perfectly into the batsh*t that is the reason why humanity is so fcuked. That is, they both are social science constructs that are born out of political agendas. As humanity had to face the reality of enlightenment, i.e. people acquiring the ability to think for themselves, those who had, for whatever reason, i.e. monarchies, cronies, pawns, etc., reached positions in society that put them above others, had also to come to terms with humanity not wanting to drag its knuckles anymore. Perhaps some of this was clarified in the 18th, 19th and 20th century with the owners of the world being forced to move their politics to the left of the political spectrum and thereby allowing people to live their own lives. As hard as it is for me to take the bullsh*t of Eugenics seriously, it pains me even more to think that there are those out there who still do. In fact, Richard Dawkins is kinda pushing for it to return to the public domain because, he seems to think, the Nazis aren’t around anymore to misuse it. My problem is, idears like Eugenics and the Overton Window are nothing more than ways & means whereby those in the Above are able to control those in the Below. In other words, science and method are used as weapons of oppression and control. Nothing new there, eh! A world of Haves and Have-Mores, it seems, can only resort to repeating history because, well, knuckle draggers seem to like the neanderthal gene that the powers-that-be can wield at will. How else can one explain Faux Newz, the republican party, etc.? Nomatter. The Overton Window is supposed to be a way to understand the viability of political idears. Yet, when I look at the pic above I can’t help but see a pattern. It is a pattern of self-doom. And I can’t think of a more deserving species. We are starting to look like roadkill just under the bus. Or maybe not.
Rant on.
-t
Links:
Well, dear worst-reader, did you think it couldn’t get any worst? Surprise! You thought just because He won your hearts, your TV screens and your presidency that the batsh*t show of electoral politics was (all) over? You thought it was time to sit back, like you always do, visit the mall and consume things you don’t need, and that’s that? In a way, you’re right. The fun, nostalgia, entertainment factor and advertisement earnings of electoral politics is over. It’s just that something else has happened of late. Do you feel it? Indeed. Something above and beyond a measly consume-to-survive life is before us all. Your problem now is how to deal with that. Or is it?
Oh boy, what elation is ours at this moment in time & space?
But first, let’s cover a few things. To begin with, just for a moment, go with me here and give a thought or three to Dubya Dipsh*t Bush. I suppose there is some consolation in having had the nicest, hippest, coolest POTUS after Dipsh*t Dubya. Indeed, that’s what you can think about when you think about Dubya. For there is no forgetting/avoiding that Barry-O was/is also the lamest duck POTUS ever–and he’s also the only president to ever serve two whole terms while being at war during both. Thank you, Dubya.
(Note: Please keep in mind, dear worst-reader, that worst-writer doesn’t actually consider the use of US military power since 9/11 to be in a state of “war”. War takes place between armies of countries and/or nation-states. What we are doing in the middle east is better categorised as imperialism and/or empire. But let’s not split hairs in this post, eh.)
While I’m on the subject of who gave us the best POTUS ever, I suppose there’s no avoiding everybody’s favourite über-feminist: Hillary. And what did Hillary give us? Can you say: Mister Pee-on-me? That’s right, dear worst-reader. Now we not only have a slime-ball, comb-over n’chief that is stuck in his gold laced 1970s egocentricities, but we also have (finally?) a president that likes to be peed on. Thank you, Hillary.
Within the first few seconds of opening his anus-like mouth, I cringed and almost went into convulsions. But then something caught my attention. One good piece of information came from Mr. Pee-on-me and his news denial conference. The source of the pee-on-me story was revealed. For you see, dear worst-reader, I was all kinda confused with the whole thing as the sh*tshow of #goldenshowergate happened on twitter. Up to that point I wasn’t sure where all this krapp was coming from. I mean, come on. But now that the smoke screen has dissolved, it’s easy to see how political conservatism has permanently adopted #fakenews as a new channel for its (dis)information. Of course, those of us with half a brain know that #fakenews is nothing if only really bad journalism. The fact is, #fakenews has been going on for years. The difference now is that political conservatism has managed to take ownership of it. Hence, President Pee-on-me called out CNN during his press conference by making one of their reporters go to the back of the room and put on a dunce, i.e. #fakenews cap. Although CNN is a terrible news organisation, calling it out as the source of #fakenews shows how delusional our new pee-on-me-combover-n-chief is.
By-the-by. What is and what is NOT #fakenews? According to worst-writer:
And while I’m on a roll, allow me to move on with another worst-definition. What, for goodness sake, is a golden shower? Well, according to Frank Zappa’s song “Bobby Brown” it is an act of soul cleansing. Is it possible that Trump, since his humbling election, wants to clean his soul? (Sarcasm off.) I’ve always associated the concept of golden showers with Zappa because, well, the song Bobby Brown, since I can remember, always reminded me of Donald Trump. I wonder if that has anything to do with having seen Zappa in concert and not long after that having read Trump’s first book. A mind boggling association, eh? Yeah, the 80s were a trip.
Twitter was so awash with #goldenshowergate that I didn’t bother trying to figure out where the story came from–although that’s one of the first things I usually do when news catches my interest. I mean, come on, the 45th president of the united mistakes of #americant is already a batsh*t nutcase who’s been swinging it (yes, swinging that) since the 80s. Is it necessary to deal with his über-creepiness that is, literally, unmatched? I mean, it’s the creepiness that the electoral college voted for, right? Is anyone surprised that a guy like Donald Trump likes urine?
Wait.
Step back a sec.
According to Buzzfeed–and the dossier that I only glanced over–while in Moscow on a business trip, Trump hired a few women to pee on the same bed that Barry-O and his wife slept on when they visited Moscow. Trump had the bed peed on because, well, obviously, he hates Barry-O so much. Are you kidding me! What a great way to cover up (the) truth. I mean, extravagant story telling is what all closeted people do. Or? Wow. I guess, at this point, all I can say is: Thank you Buzzfeed–this is gonna be fun.
I also want to thank Buzzfeed for showing the world that the word Germaphobe has nothing to do with hating Germans. Now we can get on with the whole Mr. Pee-on-me thing. For example…
How did Howard Huges die? He died in a pile of his own shit. Seriously. And do you know what he was before he liked to swim around in his own shit? He was a germaphobe. The natural path of someone that goes batsh*t, i.e. delusional because of their wealth, stature, popularity, etc., is to continue either hiding or avoiding the reality of their deprived personality and/or massive character deficits. America is a country that has bred generation after generation of sexually repressed knuckle dragging grunts who are both rich and poor. The only way for most of these grunts to cope with the life they couldn’t choose is to live in it in fear. One way they deal with their fear, their phobias and paranoia is to stop shaking hands, avoid bodily contact (which makes their already repressed sexuality even worse) and, eventually, they even fear their own bodily functions. The effect this has on the mind–already weakened minds–is horrific. I suppose, for some, being a germaphobe and American in the 20th century (and beyond) is akin to waking up in Sodom & Gomorra version 2.0. But get this. Once a Germaphobe goes completely overboard, he is also capable of realigning his fears. In fact, some of these nut cases learn to like and/or obsess over what they once feared. Hence… pee on me becomes sexual. But to hide the shame that society’s stigmas have they also learn crazy story telling. How many generations of men did this? Indeed. The salacious and lewd nature of #goldenshowergate is too much for even Sodom & Gomorra v 2.0. So the story telling, to cover up the disgusting truth, rewrites the part about who or what is actually peed on.
Your president likes to be peed on.
(I’m laughing so hard right now that I might have to see a doctor soon.)
Btw. There is another example of this type of batsh*t behaviour in stupid rich white men. Ever heard of John McAfee? He’s the numbnuts that put all that anti-virus software on the windows computer you bought in the 90s. He made a mint on that krapp! And while fighting his delusions (inner demons?) he might have been part of a conspiracy where his neighbour in Belize was killed. Would you believe that this guy was almost the libertarian candidate for president? While investigating who and what McAfee is, a documentarian found out that one of the his obsessions was to have women defecate in his mouth.
Welcome, fellow dipsh*t citizenry, to your Donald Trump America.
Rant on.
-t
Links that motivated this post:
– Trump’s train wreck press conference | The Guardian
– Trump blasts allegations | Buzzfeed
– Bobby Brown (Going Down) | Lyrics
– John McAfee accused of many things | The Daily Beast
The thing I remember most from Steve Jobs presentation of the iPhone ten years ago wasn’t the device itself. No. The thing I remember most were three words that he said: “Internet Communication Device.” Nothing else in that iconic corporate presentation remains with me. I don’t care how the thing looks, what colours it comes in, how the edges are designed or how they put the on/off switch exactly opposite of the volume switch (on the iPhone 6s) which means every time you try to adjust volume with one hand you also turn it off.
The concept of an internet communication device is as profound now as it was then. The difference being, Apple missed the boat on making it. With that in mind, I’m still waiting for an Internet Communication Device. I’m still yearning for it, too. I’m still dreaming, like in Star Trek, all I gotta do is tap my chest and I can place a call to anyone simply by saying their name. Put another way: building an internet communication device is as far off now as it was ten years ago. Put yet another way: we should be over and done with words like cellphone, phone network, AT&T, Verizon, GSM, signal strength, etc., etc. Yet we’re not. Instead we’re still stuck and hung out to dry by the old economy that has won the battle. The iPhone is the device that proves: old beats new. The new bows its head in submission. Old farts rule the world. Gee. Turning over in your grave, yet, Steve? No. Of course you’re not. You didn’t really know what you were doing when you claimed that the iPhone was something more than just an old economy toy. Or?
Was Jobs and his über arrogant company fully aware of the significance of the third denominator they/he had put into their gadget but have long since abandoned? It was a phone, it was an iPod–or a music player–and it was an internet communication device. The phone meant nothing to me. Since the advent of carry-around phones only one thing stands out about them (all). The cellular networks that they depend on are shit because they are ALL run by dinosaur companies that should die. Talk about a chain only being as strong as it weakest link!
As far as carry-around music players go, even though I have an extensive digital music library at home, the idear of lugging thousands of songs around with me is just stupid. Alone the misery of music through headphones–an extra frivolous cost to an already frivolously priced gadget–should motivate people to curb their music listening habits. Music, like wine, shouldn’t be consumed in a plastic cup at a baseball game in order to wash down a krappy hotdog. (Or should it?)
At the least, the phone and the iPod aspect of the iPhone should not be celebrated after an initial decade of extravagant nothingness. Like everything else in the tech industry iPhones are nothing more than widgets in the vastness of monopolies and corporate do-nothing humdrum of an old economy that won’t die. So little is innovation in a world where screens get smaller, cameras get fantastic-er and computing capabilities in handheld devices get super-er. Seriously. What is there to celebrate when, even after all the pageantry of gadgetry, we’re still stuck like a crumb in an old man’s beard that is being eyed by a distant seagull?
I got my first iPhone at the end of 2012. Even though I admired the look and design of the device from afar, the cost of it is just stupid. How much does stamped-out, glued components, made by slave hands in Asia cost! As far as cellphone usage goes, I used to buy cheap, regular cell phones (where the f’n battery lasted a week) and even today my new iPhone isn’t any better. And with that same iPhone I still use prepaid phone service–because of how much I hate cell phone providers. The contracts one has to sign with old economy corporations in order to afford a new-fangled, fancy smart phone is at best a cruel joke. Why do people put up with this shit? But that’s neither here nor there. My wife likes iPhones. When she gets one, she’s nice enough to buy one for me, too. Who am I deny her that pleasure?
But get this. Even though I can afford to pay around seven hundred dollars for a phone every few years, I still think they are frivolous, extremely overpriced, and have yet to meet my expectations of what/how technology should be. Indeed. There should be no celebration of the iPhone because its invention has only lead to convention. Fcuk Steve Jobs! Fcuk the iPhone! Fcuk closed eco-systems. Fcuk iTunes. Fcuk app developers. Fcuk all you well paid useless corporate minions that keep dinosaurs alive.
As usual, I’m off subject. My point of this post is to simply state that Apple has missed the boat when it comes to technology. We see this in 2016 and how the company is regressing with its products. The new MacBook Pro line of laptops is a joke. The AppleTV, probably the first product they’ve ever made where it got bigger instead of smaller, is also a joke. iPad sales are down because the iPad Pro creates an unnecessary product line in an already overpriced product line. The Apple Watch… Oh, the Apple Watch. You’ve got to be kidding me. Should I even mention the headphone jack issue in a device that was initially brought to market as a music device? Apple is not a technology company as much as it is a smart-ass, sell shit to suckers, fashion-marketing company–designed in superficial California. Btw, when is that earthquake gonna finally sink California?
What is an internet communication device? Simply put, it is a device that is not the iPhone, Apple and an eco-system that locks one into nothingness. At the time Jobs said those words while introducing the world to his new gadget, he was deep inside his distortion field. Either that or he was tripping on acid. Wait. Are they both the same thing? Nomatter. Obviously I can’t criticise the iPhone too much. It is part of the gazillions of dollars that Apple has in offshore accounts and lots of people use the device for crazy things like making films and taking pictures and and and. And that’s the only thing that matters anymore. I guess. But then again, like the Swedish pop band Abba once said: money money money in a rich man’s world.
Fail upwards.
Rant on.
-t
So I’m sitting at a bar, nursing an Obstler. I can’t figure out if my drink tastes like peach or pears. And that really confuses me when I’m on one of them special self-medicating evenings. Btw, for the longest time when I was a child I never really understood the difference between peaches and pears. Of course, obviously, both look different and they even taste different, but to me, while youthfully contemplating fruit, there was so much more of a difference between pears and oranges that trying to figure peaches and pears was just too much. Which brings me back to the subject at hand–i.e. steering gallantly away from my subpar intellectual youth. And so. Like I said. While nursing a drink at a local pub a man and a woman near me were arguing about politics. And not just any politics. They were arguing about grabbing pussy-politics, i.e. fascism–which means, in short, they were talking about my beloved #Americant. The thing that made the argument interesting to my ears, though, was the fact that the woman was defending #Trump. According to emancipated-slash-feminist Euro-babes, Trump’s boy-talk while exiting a bus wasn’t such a big deal. Obviously it’s gonna take #Eurwastelanders a bit longer to get over Trumpism and I suppose many a pub, bar, kneipe, drinking dump will see conversations like this one en masse. Or maybe not. Which is fine by me on account these confused, tribal people (Eurowastelanders) are a hoot to behold while they discuss pussy-politics. Seriously. Europeans are clueless to politics these days, especially real politics. (For those who get it… pun intended!) Seriously. The only thing Europeans can do is buy stuff, pay taxes and take in war torn refugees because of wars of oil, etc. Anywho–before I get too far off subject yet again…
Almost finished with my drink and about to pay, the man next to me who was gayly arguing with his counterpart reached around and said to me: can you define fascism?
How do you know I’m American, I said to him.
He then pointed to the bartender to give me another drink–on him. Not one to refuse the kindness of strangers, I gulped down the remainder of my drink and had a long look at the woman my new friend was drinking and arguing with. I said to myself: I’d have a gooh with that philly.
My new drink arrived. Obviously my benefactor was a friend of the bartender because the drink was definitely a double. I took a sip, stopped goo-goo eying the mans arguing counterpart and then said: are you sure you want to talk to me about this stuff? Besides, I continued, Europeans don’t know politics anymore. It’s been kinda beat out of you, don’t you know. Except, of course, maybe the French. Yeah, the French know politics a bit. But you Germans… (gulp, gulp, gulp; the Obstler was starting to have an effect.)
Fascists are just authoritarian capitalist, right, the woman said.
No, they are political extremist, racists, bigots, they are the riffraff that behave in any manor that would facilitate their day-dream of rags to riches, my Obstler benefactor said.
As the only American in the room, it was time I took control.
Well, my fellow comrades, Freunde, federalists, I’ve actually given Fascism a thought or three during my years as an expat on the continent. Without turning over all the rocks we’ve politically lined our shores with (from under which rare jumping oysters thrive), allow me to put it this way. It’s really quite simple. Fascism is nothing more than a political answer to communism. If you want to define fascism you can read all the scholarly and academic writings about it or you can just look up communism, then try to understand what went on in the former Soviet Union, and what’s now going on in China and North Korea, among other countries, and then simply find the polar opposite.
The polar opposite, the woman asked.
Well, almost the polar opposite I said taking another swig from my Obstler. Let me put it another simple way. Fascism is the answer to post 1917 communism. There would be no fascism without communism. Communism came first, never forget that. Fascism is the only way for capitalists to save their own greed souls when humans turn to social collectives. What we have now with America’s new Trumpism is simply another colour, another version of Fascisms many faces–or as an old friend of my mine once called it: the rainbow coalition of greed mongers.
My phone. My editor from LA was calling. So I gulped my drinking benefactors drink, smiled at the Euro-babe he was arguing with and left.
Not a moment too soon.
Rant on.
-t
See those little air bubbles? Well, I’ve finally managed to get a pic of this rare oyster species. It’s called the Rhine River Jumping Oyster. No. Seriously. It’s an oyster that jumps. When the oyster is, for whatever reason, out of water those little air bubbles grow and expand and can be used to move it around in very ingenious ways. When you find the oysters on the shores of the Rhine it’s usually due to…
Indeed. This particular oyster’s prey avoidance trickery has gone haywire. I followed it around for a few moments while walking Beckett, The Killer Pug, along the Rhine the other day. It was batting itself all around the shore till, suddenly, like a bullet out of Sig Sauer, it shot up into the sky and while in the sky it let out a second burst of propulsion, albeit in total misdirection, and landed on the sidewalk on top of the Rhein dike where I was walking killer. Everything happened so fast I was unable to film it. Actually that’s not true. I’m such a dunce with modern tech that, although I did try to film it, I had the camera lens set to selfie mode. I managed to fix my hair at the same time I was chasing this thing around. At least I did get a pic (above). Neat, eh? Of course, obviously, there’s one issue this creature must deal with when it uses its unique propulsion. Sometimes, don’t you know, it propels itself right out of its shell. In this case, losing its shell in midair meant that the shell landed in the Rhine but its innards on the road. Luckily I was able to snap this quick pick before a bird came along and snapped up a delicacy. Or maybe not.
Rant on.
-t
Like a previous post, the digitalisation of (worst-moi’s) life continues. As usual, though, at this time of year, the mystical holiday season threw me for a loop.
But what could throw worst-writer for a loop, you ask.
How about the physics (the E=MC2 stuff) of Santa being able to actually deliver all those presents to the world in one night. If he was able to do it, would he survive? Which rings another question: does mystery require survival? Nomatter.
Although I was able to finish scanning a bunch of old notebooks before the big day, I haven’t been able to scan anything sense. I guess the time off of my better-half means that she gets first dibs on the new scanner during her seasonal and obligatory end of year use of remaining vacation time. With that in mind, the pic above is the end of my black & white collection of old school notebooks. That’s right, dear worst-reader. I literally ripped twenty year old notebooks apart trying to get scannable pages out from under the confines of those heavy covers and knitted bindings. At the least, my hat is off to Fujitsu for making a very useable scanner. With only a few adjustments to the software it scanned every old page front and back. Now to get it all in this blog.
Rant on.
-t
Link: Could Frankfurt become the new Berlin for startups | The Local
The confusion continues. With the insertion of (fill # here) refugees into an already dysfunctional social-market-economy (Germany’s newspeak for its politburo, pseudo-communist status) there’s little room for anyone in an already bursting-at-seams country (unless, of course, you’re a PHD totting white German). But let’s skip the old talk about Elbogen (elbow room) since we all know where that lead. Instead lets have a laugh at the idear that yet another German city could become a technology hub. As far as I can remember… (sarcasm on) the tech hub cities so far have been (not necessarily in this order):
Keep in mind, and according to the article linked above, Frankfurt is already a business hub–for banks. But since #americant’s president-elect owes Deutsche Bank something like 300m Euros–which might not be “peanuts” anymore–it’s only logical that the country has plenty of cities where the ills of negative creativity reign free and can prosper. And besides, Germany doesn’t need hub-cities where industry can promulgate. No. All it needs to cure its ills is to kill the families that own all the 19th century industry that’s been sucking the life out of everything, always. And while you’re killing all those useless, greed-monger families, kill all the senior and junior corporate executives that keep those useless families buying their yachts and whatnot.
Or maybe not.
Rant on.
-t
The singer in the pic is an example of what’s to come or she’s just more of how it’s all been. Or did you miss her pseudo performance the other night? Btw, I’m wondering if I too could pack myself into something tight for a winter gala and still look that good while performing so poorly. The funny part about Mariah Carey’s recent NYC New Years performance is that it’s not the first time she’s had her way with the audience. Didn’t she screw-up a national anthem once at a sport event? And didn’t she screw it up badly? Nomatter. The reason she exemplifies what #americant is about is because people still consume her. We love gimmicks and feel-good krapp. I mean, she does look plumply delicious, or? And that’s the ticket, ain’t it dear worst-reader? Or maybe not.
Link: She rings in 2017 as only she can | HuffPost
Rant on.
-t
When the end slowly reaches you all that remains is nostalgia. Boy have I got a lot of nostalgia these days. Or is it baggage? I’ve also got a lot of baggage that has finally reached the point of no friggin return. For example. I have around twenty years of worst-writing material laying around taking up space, collecting dust, in the way. No. Seriously. For a long time I’ve been wanting to throw all this sh*t away. Like life, the dream must come to an end, eh. And so. I’ve got typed manuscripts, hand written plays, stupid poems made from words cut out of newspaper articles and doodles of snot and cum that is all just begging to be finally put where it belongs, where both of us belong–in the fcuking trash. Of course, there is some worst-writing that I regret throwing away–which is probably the reason I’ve held on to this krapp for so long. I had a hundred page manually typed manuscript once that, due to the circumstance of birth, NOT being able to pick & choose parents, sibling rivalry angst, etc.,–and finally coming to terms with NOT being a victim (of life) but instead just accepting the fact that I’m a loser–that I threw in the trash bin. After waking a week later from that drunkin stupor I turned to the swollen chick next to me and said: where the fcuk is my manuscript? Oh well. I actually kicked myself for doing that. I think it might have been a story that I could have learned to like–which is what happens to most of my stories. Or at least I could have found a way to get used to dealing with the fact that such krapp came out of me. But I threw it away. I threw it away like I fcuked bimbos here or there when my cock could still be veiny and purple and careless about the walls we must get threw. The walls have won. Again. Oh well. So I decided to keep around some of the stuff I’ve written. Until now. Until the world could finally create a machine that would help me get rid of all the material that collected the dust of my life and allow me to put this krapp where it belongs. Welcome to worst-writer’s digitised world. Or maybe not. Nomatter. Above is a pic of about a third of the material that I’ve scanned so far. And the only reason I’ve been able to get this far is because I bought something. I mean, dear worst-reader, isn’t that how we all get somewhere, something, somehow? Buy something. Consume to survive. In my case, I bought some fancy engineered scanner. Not one of them bullsh*t flatbed scanners. Flatbed scanners suck. Can you imagine having to put each one of the pages (from the pic above) in a flatbed scanner? Fcuk that! Well, since we’re on the subject, thank your God for two things. One, they finally made a scanner with a feeder that works. Two, I can afford to pay the stupid-money for such a device. I mean, come on. This device cost four hundred plus euros. You can get a flatbed scanner these days for under a hundred. I know. I know. Flatbed’s suck. I’ve already made that clear. But still, just because it has a half decent paper-feeder doesn’t mean that it has to cost stupid-money? Do you know what stupid-money is, dear worst-reader? It’s the money we pay for this life that leads to more of our devaluation. Or maybe not. Moving on. Enough of my bitchin’ about stupid-money. The thing is this: it took me less than a few hours to scan more than a thousand pages of worst-writing in order to continue digitising my worst-world. In fact, the thing that took longest was figuring out how to organise the scans. And I’m not sure if I’ve figured that out. But I also don’t care. The sh*t is scanned and the pile in the pic above will be where we both belong soon enough.
Rant on.
-t
Look closely at the pic above. It is the pic of your future. Your future is now. And there is nothing to come after it. Except. Maybe. Another candidate full of Hope & Change. But I digress. In the pic above an a$$hole businessman did something that will make a bunch of a$$hole follower’s hearts beat a bit faster. The businessman is something like Japan’s richest man and he had just met with #americants pseudo-richest man, i.e. comb-over & chief. These two men, as are most businessmen, are nothing more than bull$hitters that have reached the top–a “top” that rests on the lives of The Stupid. These men are, indeed, that which has built a society of greed galore–of stupid galore. How all this came to past is another useless post from worst-writer. So allow me to just focus on the pic above. The pic above is another great example that no one will understand because it is so full of truth. Make America Great Again! Great compared to what? Oh, the idea of America was great. The dream was great. The patriotism is great. And now? Elect your comb-over & chief so that your misdirected anger that allows you to never look in the mirror is itching you right now–so keep looking away while you scratch. In a way, the pic above is part of your mirror. In fact, it’s such a small part that you can look at it without seeing the truth of who you are. It’s like going to a wrastling match. WWE. Do you know why wrastling is so popular? It’s popular because the people who watch want to be ridden, abused, mis-used, etc., it is all they know. These people get satisfaction out of their misery because they have been programmed to KNOW that someone else is to blame for it. Which makes them feel a-ok. Like a snort of cocaine, a needle in the arm of heroin, smoking some meth. And so. There is no difference between the content of the “signed” piece of paper–that promises so much nothingness–wrastling, and a political system that is able to exploit the drugged-up-stupid. But you can’t see that. Because you actually think that a businessman has signed a deal with another business man that will bring you jobs and wealth because you believe you are going to be great again. Itch. Itch.
Rant on.
-t
PS Go ‘head and look up the companies listed on the top of the BS signed page in the pic above. Remember the time when all those people jumped to their deaths because they couldn’t deal with building Apple iPhones? Foxconn is Apple’s manufacture since all the company actually does is design shit in Cupertino. Since then Foxconn installed nets around the roofs of their slave buildings in order to catch the slave jumpers. These are the “jobs” promised in the signed document in the pic above. Enjoy your next WWE match.
You are not a victim of Bertolucci’s film making. Or are you? Wait! Let me put that another way: When will the left learn? When will liberal thinking people grasp reality? The pathway to right above wrong is not traversed through political-correctness but through those who don’t give a fcuk. But there is a way to get to the ice-cream truck where butter flavoured joy awaits us all and the one who will serve you should be Marlon Brando.
Warning: minor spoiler alerts to a film I highly recommend even though it’s not Bertolucci’s best.
Bernardo Bertolluci is a brilliant film maker. Even though it’s not one of my favourite films, Last Tango In Paris is a really cool movie. In fact, I used to own the novel version of it. That little paperback has since become one of those rare books I lent to someone and never got back. Gee, I wonder why. Could it be because I highlighted the butter scene in it? No. That can’t be why Giuseppe never gave it back to me. Remember when they wrote novel versions of movies, dear worst-reader? Oh, they only do that these days with Star Wars because there really is no place for a butter scene in such a story. Or?
The thing about Last Tango In Paris is that I always compared it to Hitchcock’s Psycho. I saw both movies in the early 80s. Hitchcock desperately needed one thing in all his movies: sex; more scary sex. Bertolucci needed one thing in his movies: less scary, a lot less scary. And so, we have one of the scariest characters ever filmed and guess who gets to play him? Mr. Scary himself, hence take note of the letter on his shirt in the pic above. No. Wait. What should the world do with bored, confused, middle-aged white men who get a kick out of objectifying objects and who are scary, really scary? Indeed. Make movies about them. But I digress.
The moment in Last Tango In Paris where Paul’s wife is revealed in a state of decomposition really through me for a loop. Like I said, having seen Psycho only a few weeks prior, the imagery was uncanny. Nothing else in the film really got to me. The sex was kinda titallating and the actress was hot, even if she did have a jungle-forest “down there”. And the moment with the butter? My first thought was: is butter the best choice for what’s about to happen? But all kidding aside. Let’s quote Marlon:
It’s just a movie.
And you know who else pulled off scenes that were just as fcuking great! For all you believers in purple unicorns and tasty rainbows–for all you who can’t face reality and hide behind your false sense of righteousness and shiny über-glorified pussies (i.e. grabbed vaginas)–just check out the brilliant sex in The Dreamers or Stealing Beauty. For those of you don’t know, Bertolucci is obsessed with sex in his movies. It is inevitable that such an obsession deal with rape as much as deflowering. Indeed. A rape scene in a work of fiction, as traumatic as it was for the actress to portray, means that it’s now time to ridicule the story teller? Or will Maria Schneider finally press charges? Cause I’m about fed-up with all this talk without the walk. Anywho.
Now that the world must face the consequence(s) of political correctness in the form of sexually degenerate American presidents and a renewal of anti-feminism, what’s left? Are we gonna now dismantle one of the greatest film makers of all time? Bertolucci’s depiction of sex, especially in Tango, is innocent by today’s Internet standards. Not to mention the fact that we now live in a world where one president makes blow-jobs with White House interns dinner table fanfare and another president makes… Well, you get the grabbing picture.
A rape scene in a piece of fiction from forty years ago is NOT the same as the abuse you experienced while living among the broken-ness of #americant or getting caught up in a no-means-yes frat-party or worrying about your pussy being grabbed–by your fcuking presidential imagination.
Oh well. The good thing is, at least all this uproar will mean that a few politically-correct-obsessed young people might see a great movie that they otherwise wouldn’t have seen. Either that or Bertolucci needs some money from DVD or iTunes sales of Last Tango. Go get’em politically correct nut-bags. Go grab something.
Link that motivated this post:
Rant on.
-t
