Tag Archives: Berlin

Deutschland Ueber Boston

Herr Werkhausen has come to visit me from Berlin, his first trip to Amerika! Two things you can’t find in Berlin are sweet potato waffles and non-potato root-type objects. Fascinating!

There is more Americana in store!!! Long, leafy walks, Thanksgiving dinner, & the Simpsons in English. But if someone really wants to feel like an American, we must teach them how to fritter away their money. I mean spending great flipping wadges of cash on utterly useless items such as rubber goldfish suspended in handsoap, a Dukes of Hazard thermos, a Mr. bubble t-shirt or an issue of Rolling Stone with a List in it.

So I am sending Herr W. back to Berlin with blue bathwater dye. And then we are going to the harbor and eat a nice piece of fish.

Honorable ME-ME-MEntion: the Women’s Art Organization of Berlin has published a new book and it includes the work of yours truly! If you wish to purechase a copy, email Lambchop and she will procure one for you to the tune of a C-note. (Shut up, I had to buy my own copy, too).

-xo

Postcard for Berlin

(we interrupt the schedule griping and carping to umm…gripe and carp! in german!)

Eine kleine Frau sitzt im Buero in Boston und denkt an Euch. Nach zwei Wochen fernsehglotzen in meiner Unterhose, unhealthy spiele ich Sekretaerin in einer Anwaltskanzlei. Wenn es nichts hier zu tun gibt, zeichne ich kafkamaessige, alptraumhafte Skizzen von Menschen die im Buero sitzen und nichts zu tun haben. Ich male mein zweites Kampfbild im Atelier. Obwohl ich so fleissig bin, finde ich irgendwie noch Zeit oft betrunken zu sein. Nach wie vor bin ich Eure,

heather

The Ship Song

It just goes without saying that a Nick Cave show is a rad thing. He flailed and growled and punched the air with his fists. He tickled the ivories. Not quite the same without Blixa, medicine though. Who else murders a guitar with that kind of grace and contempt? Still, it was a great show and hallelujah we all did cry. Then it was up the gangway for the glitterati party. The word “honored” was stamped on my forearm upon entrance. The boys from the band were all there, besuited and besotted. I did not get Nick to cha cha with me, sadly. But it was really an amusing evening, downing Kuba Librés with Conway Savage and spinning around the deck poles. Alexander Hacke put on Slayer. I passed my catalogue around in the bathroom. Fancy!

xo

Take the skinheads bowling

I like to bowl even though I am not very good at it. What other sport encourages you to drink beer and knock things over? The Disco Bowl in Kreuzberg is where its at! My team was horsing around and bowling a strictly average game over tall glasses of Schultheiss. In the next lane was a man called Crocodile, with one good and one malformed arm. Crocodile was bowling alone, and he held the ball up with his stump, throwing one strike after another, spinning the ball from left to right. Shazzam!

My shoes were brand new, red and blue. Very Sharp. I would have pinched them but I don’t do that anymore (though I did knick this photo from art frahm). I set a sterling example to be sure.

xo

Super Sexy Bingo

Once a month I troll on out to the SO36, hospital where david and iggy pop used to make the scene and probably do terrible things in the bathrooms. I save my pennies to attend the gaudy glitter of their bingo night, shop hosted by two cynical transvestites. My favorite is the platinum wigged Kitty Carell, cialis with the fake and charming Holland accent. If you dare to win, you are summoned to the stage where your person, dress, and manner are subject to ridicule by the witty and poisonous ladies. Even the prizes (donated by neighboring shops, and drawn by the winners themselves) seem to mock you! A crocodile handbag goes to the mannish lesbian. A tome about American Indians is handed to the young, bouncy boobala who is waving chirpily to her boyfriend. Kitty casually disdains them all, and coos with self-love.

A girl after our own twisted and glamorous hearts!

xo

(special note to Licketysplit when she returns from her washboard lessons: avoid the squirrel stew and the cherry kiafa. Virginny always wreaks havoc on your poor gizzard!)

Summer in Berlin…its alright

A Japanese garden just opened in a park in Marzahn. It was very lovely- there were stepping stones for you to cross the little brooks and raked gravel to appear as a pool with swirling eddies where there was actually no water. Unfortunately, order it was Sunday, so I could not take a photo that would not include a bunch of East Germans in it. That is not an example of an East German, that is a frog. There was a pond full of them out front. They were talking a lot. They were saying, “Damn, its hot here.”

Prost!

Prost!

Spring

lambchop

… is so slow to arrive in Berlin. I refuse to leave the house until i can exhale sharply without producing a puff of steam. So what is there to do but stay home get drunk and write lists like this one:

Things I Should be Doing- making a chicken and pepper wrap with melted cheese, watching some liposuction on the surgery channel, calling up random strangers and singing them a couple bars of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”, working out pent up hostility by smashing coffee cups on my balcony (it keeps my collection fresh at any rate), and returning to that scrummy dream i had this morning (SEXSEXSEX).

Well, before I could rot in my own filth, Steele decided I needed a good spring airing. As if a look at his tanned smooth calves isn’t refreshing enough! So he got us two tickets to a Yankee game. We spent the afternoon in Manhattan, eating pizza in the Village and handing out Bruschettas to homeless people. You should have seen them press their scabby fingers to their eyes when he flashed his blinding grin! Then we made our way over to the stadium. Steele was engrossed in the game- I was eyeballing the hot dog boy while the infielders plucked at their gonads and the afternoon went lazily by. The Yankees won of course, to some other team that did not have those charming pinstriped uniforms.

lamby and Steele at the ballgame

smooch

Oh Baby, just you shut your mouth…


lambchop

Starboy (me!) was asked to come out and DJ at the Subversiv, a punk dive bar, on saturday. Last time this meant an assault upon my person, but this time it went swimmingly. The party was lovely as an umbrella drink! That dress came with a fortune cookie, which i have just cracked open now, and it reads.

“Rely on your Intuition.”

My intuition. Right. Well, I am concentrating very hard, getting in touch with myself. I will let you all know when my intuition divines something other than- “My, what a tasty cookie!” and “wouldn’t it be great to wash that down with another drink?”

Cunning linguist, eh? Shove some of that over this way, pronto!

smooch

You Shriek

lambchop

These guys are really brilliant. And no human should be without their new album, site Unreal Cities. I am listening this very minute to their snazzy cover of Burning Skies. Also a killer version of Flock of Seagulls “Wishing”.

I had a soggy weekend that bled into this week. Two acquaintances of mine have turned into a regular Stella and Stanley show, ask complete with bottles being thrown out of windows and throat searing shrieking. People like this should not really exist outside of film. But if they must, I am of the opinion I should not know them. I know no woes- I have really large sunglasses and am trip-trapping gaily along shoving pieces of chocolate caffeinated gum into my mouth.

smooch