Tag Archives: Philosophy

Squaredancing

A baby blizzard has hit Cologne. At least, they’re calling it a blizzard – though if this was Vladivostok or Sapporo it wouldn’t pass for more than a sneeze.
A friend told me that when you catch a bus in Sapporo in winter, the driver stops twenty yards before the bus-stop so it can skid smoothly to a halt. There are road-heating systems on slopes, as part of the Special Law for Management of Road Traffic in Snowy and Cold Regions. Water discharged from Mt Moiwa power station is pumped into the Yamahana river to create a Snow Flowing Gutter, which is able to handle fifty 11-ton dump truckloads of snow every hour. I like how those words are capitalized: Snow Flowing Gutter.

Anyway, the rare occurrence of snow in Cologne is calming. The best thing about it is how quiet everything becomes, like wool wrapped around a microphone.
Late last night I was catching up with pop culture, investigating some show called Jersey Shore, and reading a Vanity Fair article about the latest casualty among those washed out heiresses who are famous for nothing. Celebrity-seeking detritus: it was a reminder that the worst Monroe-wannabee spray-tanned excesses of our culture are best experienced in 2D: filtered through a blog post on Café Con Lesley or Gawker, frozen in photos where they are not allowed to speak.

After that, I really needed a snowcrash to wipe everything clean. As well as some clattering music to scour the trash from my eyes (see below- a selection c/o Bumrocks, Coco Solid and Molly Kongshuttle). In the words of Velvet Underground, “1000 dreams that would awake me: different colours made of tears.”

Casey has already picked out the baby’s name: Ava-Monroe, after Marilyn, who has long been her idol. “I see a lot of similarities between us,” Casey says. “Her life makes me sad. I don’t think she was very happy. She was just very, very complicated and sort of a deep person, and nobody realized that. They thought she was some dumb blonde, and she wasn’t. She was a smart, smart broad. And I think that sometimes people look at me and think, Oh, Casey Johnson, she’s stupid, she’s blonde, she’s an heiress, blah, blah, blah.”
There’s a hint of melancholy in her eyes, and I ask if she’s feeling well. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m just a little tired.” Back in New York a few days later, though, I get a call from Casey. She’s cheerful now, excited, and she’s been shopping again. “I got a crib, and a changing table, and I got a car seat, and a stroller,” she says. And something for Ava-Monroe she just couldn’t resist: “the cutest leopard baby bikini. Oh my gosh. She is going to be dressed to kill.”

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Alle Tragen Diese Karierten Burberry Pullis

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Last week me & Wulf went to see the Goldenen Zitronen play at the Kultur Bunker in Mülheim, where unfortunately it was too dark to take photos with my phone-cam. But one floor down they had an exhibition of anarchist and protest posters, so I’m posting pics of those instead.

The poster below is protesting against a population census.

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The Goldenen Zitronen were dope by the way. They’re a punk band from Hamburg – their best songs are sparely composed with lyrics about how it’s easier to enter Europe as a sneaker than as a person (Ectomorph thought the sneaker song sounded like an updated DAF). On their merch table they had a poster saying ‘Schwabinggrad Ballet’. (Schwabing is a la-di-da upperclass area in Munich)

After the show me & Wulf got lahmacun with parsley, radish and pickled chillies from the Turkish street in Mülheim. Über-geil!

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Excerpt of lyrics: Die Goldenen Zitronen – Mila.

What I don’t really do often, is to get lost.
I always try to travel paths that are known to me.
At least, in the countryside it was like that.
What’s it called again, that crap shop?
It can’t be possible, that they didn’t pick me up. Shit.
Everybody’s wearing these plaid Burberry sweaters that you can get from H&M. Shit shop.
You can memorise the number for the directory service yourself, you wankers.
I’m really terrified of situations where I’m assessed.
Jens said he only has 13 summers left.
Next stop: the train stops.
Don’t throw any German shepherds out the window.
Again, there’s nothing in the air.
Apart from fear.
This is true: somebody I know named his book “I Can’t Take it Anymore”.
I am Papi the dummest crocodile.
I believe I was in the same street last week, with the same questions.
I don’t dare to call any of you guys.
A topped-up prepaid card doesn’t entail an invited circle of friends.
The lights are blinding my eyes. A spark singed my knee.
Mila. Mila. You psycho. Please.
C’mon, you know what to do when you’re wobbling. No? Mila!
You’re the queen of the stone age.
I’m an idiot in pantaloons.
Tomorrow I’m going to the best Media Market store of all time.
Because that’s what they said. On TV.
Men would destroy telephone booths, but they seem to be blind in their magenta eyes.

Another Big Idea

Everybody’s talking
But I find to hard to hear
They’re all explaining something new
(It happens every day)
A new inspiration that can change my way of life
Another big idea
And then they disappear 

Undercover at the airport
I saw your smiling face
But I don’t have a place to go
So leave a flower or you can fax me

This sinister spin
The state that I’m in
The words that I’ve read
Keep going round my head
Been driving me crazy for years