The ways to express the future in English are vast, but for course purposes it is best to stick with will and going to. Course purposes are almost always unfortunate, based on curriculum shaving to forge the division of labor. But what’re y’onna do?

Proskauer-Str. Ecke Frankfurter-Allee, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1906/2018


For Whom the Daisy Bell Trolls

I’m half crazy all for the love of you.

This article in the Berliner Zeitung takes a feelgood event and — maybe in striving to be fair & balanced or, even more maybe, in an effort to avoid appearing to ignore the devil in our midst, lest they confirm the treachery the anti-Islam crowd crow about whatever the media do or don’t do — highlights a controversy that turns it into a referendum on the radical associations of religious Muslims at home. If indeed it were only as fair & balanced in background detail as it is through its otherwise laudable microscope.

On its face — assuming one read the face from start to finish — it appears pretty fair & balanced. I would even give it high marks for the editor’s inclusion of pertinent details one doesn’t find in other articles, yet I cannot help but stroke it with a thick red marker for something I find missing, albeit on the obscured ground of the light kind of propaganda-by-default that results from the critical mass of a nation assuming one’s own occupy higher ground. The extent to which one’s own are not above reproach is considered, if taken into consideration at all, hardly relevant to the topic at hand.

The topic at hand is a band of imams & rabbis taking to the streets on tandem bicycles, pedaling together against anti-Semitism and Islamophobia, so to spoke. But all is not well, for one-or-another of the participants “has connections to the Muslim Brotherhood”, which is not okay if you’re an imam not under the aegis of one-or-another of the host nation’s spy agencies, if you’ll excuse the digression.

It is the Berlin Office for the Protection of the Constitution who says so in a report. For those unfamiliar with this office, it is not a grassroots-minded, independent watchdog, but rather a opaquely-funded, government spy agency. But who better to gather intelligence than an intelligence agency with absolutely no history of- or proclivity for bending the rules on behalf of their conflicts of interest, if you’ll excuse the sarcasm.

The article is fair & balanced insofar as it gives the do-gooders the final word, those who remark that the imam in question is not who the spooks say, and others who are, anyway, more concerned about the downside of shutting people out of the conversation, which would drive them into the limbs of the rads, if you’ll excuse the trans-lingual pun.

The mosque man’s alleged connections aside, one should order one’s own house. If the concerns are real and legit, then they’re just doing their job in reporting on them. I have to wonder still what the official constitutional protectorate has to say about their host state’s support of Saudi Arabia, not just because of the latter’s alleged support for the same Muslim Brotherhood, but as it relates to the former couple’s brutally collegial project that has created the humanitarian crisis in Yemen.

Just as the strife between the Union side of the current government coalition threatens (at least as one reads in the media) to destroy European unity with its collateral damage, does no one find it strange that the same government should supply weapons to regimes that violate the same human rights as the party named in that particular intelligence report, said to model themselves after the historical regime, unreformed, while that current regime are with the support of their Western allies killing thousands and driving many more away from home, exacerbating the refugee crisis, which crisis is what this internecine political strife is all about? This connection is not even alluded to by any of the parties mentioned in the article or its editors, regardless of which of the ostensible two sides they come down on: for the iman ridin’ the bike vs. against the imam ridin’ the bike.

While we have learned from the media about the horrors in Yemen, it has not been as comprehensive and obsessively set to REPEAT as has been their reporting on the War between the CDU and CSU. Lemme ask you this: If the imam in question had procured for this so-called brotherhood just such weapons as Berlin has the Kings of Oil, would NATO missiles have destroyed his entire neighbourhood by now, or would they find a better solution?

Update: es geht weiter so. ..  . Gänseblümchen:

Yes, a Gänseblümchen is a daisy. You can’t make up a coincidence.

Oily Bell, Daisy Chain: Links to Fahrradikalen – Berlin, 2018

Re. +49301785853304

Short answer (text-like version) in the 1st of the following sentences: No, I don’t. As a matter of fact, to begin the comprehensive explanation, I let it lapse only relatively recently after the pre-paid SIM card I had been using since my arrival in 2002 had its Terms of Use amended to limit using the minimum loadable amount of €15 within six months instead of what had been for over fifteen years a year-&-a-half. Ironically enough, the only chargeable offense I used the phone for was to write texts, which were 30 cents a piece, so the fifteen euros had over all those fifteen years lasted at least through a couple of terms just inside the entirety of their eighteen months.

Now one might ask (and, trust me, more than one has) why I never just purchased a contract, thereby enabling a more frequent use at a reasonable price, much more convenience, etc., etc. This question crucifies itself upon the assumption that I would have used my phone more if I could have. But it was precisely the way I was using it that led to the realisation that I not only didn’t need it but simply didn’t want it.

Nevertheless on 29 September 2017 at 1:49pm, I was loathe to load an additional €15 to prolong the first new expiry and to avoid losing the 15+ that was already on it. ‘Use it or lose it’ was the agitated cogitation until on 29 March of this year when I lost that entire thirty-something because I didn’t want to prolong the anti-ecological cliché any longer. Obviously I wasn’t using it to make many calls or write a significant number of texts. That last time it served an emergency is in a cloud of forgotten memories.

I have a landline. I won’t go so far as to make the hereditary affirmation that if it were up to me I wouldn’t even have that. It is at least partly up to me, it comes with the Net, and I wouldn’t have it otherwise. My ability to tele-connect makes the expenditure of both the fiat transfer and cognitive tax justifiable. The sometimes inconvenient convenience remains worthwhile. I am all-too aware that the industry I therewith support is manufacturing a world into which I will no longer be able to venture if I don’t change my immobile ways. So be it.

The sole subsequent mobile telephone that I purchased as a replacement of the first one (solely because the former’s display no longer displayed legible lettering) and into which I stuck the SIM card — which was what I’d really purchased on that summer day at a flea market — has become anyway little more than a camera, albeit digital and of quality quite limited, the bulk of primary evidence of which can be found in the hover images here.

The longer background (should this be (or remain) of any interest) is that basically I bought my first mobile telephone used at Boxhagener Platz Flohmarkt, not because I wanted it, but because the first guy I wanted to book T & me grimaced when I said, “No, but I got an email address.” I got the phone. We got the gig.

The most interesting tidbit of this tale only occurred to me as recently as a couple of days ago when I turned on my one-time to me embarrassingly chic flip-phone for its other primary purpose — to be able to track the time for the three hours that followed. A new message appeared. “SIM nicht registriert”. This displayed so prominently for so long that I actually almost wondered if I’d ever be able to see the clock again.

So from 29 March of this year, when my moola minima vaporised into an un-spendable pun, to apparently exactly two months later, I was nevertheless able to receive calls and texts. Now, the final expiry of expiration must have been last Tuesday, I’d wager, 1:49pm. I hadn’t turned it on from the previous Friday until Wednesday so I make this assumption based on the always accurate carrying out of the Terms which this time, seemingly arbitrarily, granted me an additional two months’ passive use. I’m sure in that time I would not have received those few texts in tact… but for some goddess’ grace period.

What occurred to me between Wednesday and now is that the SIM card was never really registered, at least not to me. Having bought it used, I even had to have its digital lock picked by the kind of pro who can do such things. Not that I hadn’t been trackable all this time, but at least in the court of law, I’d’ve had a better chance than someone who’d signed their name along a bottom line. Or I might’ve had the least of lesser chances and been locked up for purchasing a stolen phone and going so far as to assist in the achievement of its unlawful unlocking and, not least of worst, evading the law that says you’re not allowed to use your devices without allowing your being traced & tracked by name & number. At any rate, as far as I can tell, +49301785853304 is over & out.

The machine that houses it, however, remains reusable. Indeed. The following corresponding hover image comes by way of an inadvisable shimmy to the depth of this one-time riverside swimmery (I wudn’t walkin’ that plank, palms & knees for me) and the use of that former courtesy phone of persisting paltry pixelation. Quite conversely, it is only the row of postal addresses of the rooftops in the background that remain from this photograph:

“111” – Osthafen, Berlin-Friedrichshain – 1907/2018

Der Parkbank Pinkler: rückdry Szen


Neulich in Karlshorst durchgedreht mit Schmopfkerzen. Eine eventuell ältliche Dame nach der Uhrzeit gefragt, und sie, als wie mit Stulle im Mund, »Fuff vor hap eens.« Entlang der Treskowallee gibts keine Normaluhr mehr. Woran liegts? Der Uhrindustrie. Janz jenau! Drecksverbindlicher Mangel an Sitzbänken gewiss zur Gunst der Gastronomie. Die Wörterbuchbranche? Frag bloß nicht.

Beine haben ihre Ruhe erst an der Ecke Am Carlsgarten, gerade als man denkt, von Treskow abgesehen, da ist der Carl schon lange weg. Gerade als ich denke, Kopp platzt gleich. Bloß nicht wieder einschlafen.

In diesen Zeiten ist die Freedom Industry zu beachten. Na, jut. Zu jeder Zeit. Ich lebe aber nur in dieser. Während dieser glauben alle an alles und nichts. Durchschnittlich bedeutet das, dass eine Masse einer von zwei am vorherrschendsten Gewalten vertrauen. Mehr oder weniger. Genügend. Daheim wird das eine Regierungsmehrheit genannt,  gedeutet auf da drüben eine Diktatur.

Was ist zu glauben, wenn Waffen zusammen mit Perspektiven für die weiter Entwicklung von frisch zerbombten rohstoffreichen Länder ins Spiel kommen? Auch wenn das Gelobte Mittel nicht stimmt, also die Förderung nicht so reibungslos wie im Vertrag läuft, liefern sich Waffen uneingeschränkt weiter. Bodenschatz bleibt Bodenschatz. Verträge tragen Verträge. Abkommen kommen von Abkommen ab.

Könnte es dadurch ein Ende geben? Jeder Zeit ist eine Endzeit. Damit meine ich, zu jeder Zeit glaubt der Durchschnittsmensch, dass er zur Endzeit lebt. Ich glaube, ich habe einen Satz dafür: Die eschatologische Paranoia wird von einer Perspektive geprägt, dass andere gerade jetzt eine persönliche Apokalypse erleiden und dass niemand, der mit ihrer Ursache vertraut ist, immun gegen ihre Auswirkungen bleiben sollte.

Vorhin wollte ich nur wissen, wieviel Uhr es ist.

Vom Kulturerbe ein R-Gespräch



Der Parkbank Pinkler: rückfear Zähne

„Jenseitig verborgen in unsrer Umlaufbahn, geradenwegs auf der andren Seite von unsrer Sonne ständig, dreht Nibiru.“

—König Tötenkönnen

Colour of your flavor? Kommt drauf an, was „was“ ist. Ob wie im spießigen Britannien mit seiner überkorrekten Betonung und kümmerlich längeren Schreibweise oder wie bei den perv-prüde affigen Amis, faulkurz unausgesprochen, geschrieben ganz zu schweigen, I can’t live with or without u. Der hat unser Lied nicht nur angehört, sondern auch selber gespielt. Sich eingliedern oder aufspalten? Kommt drauf an, wie wir unsre geringsten Brüder behandeln, gell Gläubiger?

Wolle auch nicht, dass sie mir an jeder Ecke so ungelegen kommen, doch der gut gemeint gesellschaftsfähige Klemmbrett schleppende Spendensammler nervt mehr. Sind es kategorisch von derselben Abneigung? Eben. Behaupte nicht anders, meine nur, deshalb, dass man auch noch um Unterschriften bittet, wäre’s nicht gegenüber dem Gammler etwa legitimer. In der Tat hab ich nicht dagegen, wenn Ersteren als Erster vom Ladenbesitzer vertrieben wird. Ob einige Penner die Bude vollstinken, scheiß egal. Entschuldigung. Sei diese Wortwahl unglücklich oder unzutreffend oder ungenau, dann… dass Handeln der draußen wohnenden Unterschicht trifft keinen Sondernerv. Nur weil ihnen kaum Knete gegönnt wird, hieße’s nicht, sie bedeuten eine persönliche Last, wovor ordnungsmäßige Schutz vonnöten ist. Vor dem Bürohengst schon. Leut, die solch nicht sitzend vor der Sparkasse haben wollen, haben ein belastetes Gewissen, das gerade abgehobenes Geld nicht gerecht verdient zu haben. Sie dürfen ihr eigenes Glück nicht ausstehen mit dem Zerrspiegel gegenüber. Es sei denn, sie pflegen Überlegenheitsgedanken, und dann, wieso wenden sie sich an Bankautomaten auf Gesindelboden? Dass die leidgetränkte Realität Alltag geworden ist, liegt nicht an der angeblichen Kühnheit dem irgendeinen Bettler.

Überall schreiben Recht und Ordnung Typen Geschichten im Voraus und Gesetze im Nachhinein. Der Moderatflügel vom Gutmenschkontingent, sowieso als pure Gutmenschen gespottet, dichtet gerne Klauseln dazwischen. Und bezahlen auch mit Karte.

Das Fon klingelt: »Lamprecht.«  »El, zieh dir die Hose an. Wir haben in Köpenick zu tun. Bin gleich da.«