There are those times when something rears up inside one and sort of screams and gibbers at the world. Something that protests at the craziness and futility of it all. It’s the insane little mouse in you giving the swooping eagle of life the finger right before the end. And who knows… maybe he’ll get away with it. This time.

Mushrooms, non-magic

Pfifferlinge. Butter. Salt. Pepper. The four necessary ingredients for Happiness. Butter in the pan, middle heat, cut the large pfifferlinge in half, the middle sized and small ones you leave in piece (haha little word play there, pff). Butter melted in the pan, pfifferlinge cut? Well, don’t stand there like a damned fool, toss the pfifferlinge in the pan! And when they’re in the pan, continue tossing them: I mean, with the pan. Don’t you dare take a fucking spatula in your hand, you son-of-a-bitch. Toss them in the pan, take the pan in your hand and toss those little fuckers. Oh dear, you’ve burnt your hand. That was a misunderstanding, my God, are you that drunk? You are, of course, supposed to take the pan by the HANDLE. Jesus. So anyway, now you put some salt on the pfifferlinge, and you grind some pepper on to them. I particularly enjoy a mix of white, red and black pepper. Freshly ground it must be, though, otherwise it was all for nought. If you have, at this juncture, established that you have no pepper grinder and no pepper corns to grind, you can toss the whole in the garbage (but not the pan, perhaps you will have occasion to use it in the future). If you have, however, fortunately, pepper to grind, then you’re well on your way to Happiness. If all has gone well, apart from your burnt hand, those little pfifferlinge are already done! All that remains is to eat them.
I, personally, am eating them to the tune of Money, as rendered by the The Flying Lizards, accompanied by a glass of wine.

Inverse Civilization

I have a question for you: Do you, if you should be one of those terribly unhealthy people who populate this world by the millions and eat that kind of shit like me, put your potato chips in a bowl or just eat them out of the plastic bag? And, no matter which way you answered that question, what does that say about your degree of civilization? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you eat them out of the bag. Well and good. That could be taken as a sign of inverse civilization. If you do put them in a bowl, this blog is not about you, so shut up.
You ever heard the word “uncouth”? It’s out of fashion nowadays, but it is a really cool word. It means uncivilized in the sense of having no fucking manners and no bloody sense of propriety.
Just as an in-between: listening to Guns of Brixton from the Clash.
And apropos the civilizing influence of religion: What an Old Codger I Am from the Stranglers.
So, whether you had heard of uncouth before or not, you know now what it means. And eating potato chips out of the bag is, yeah, you guessed it, uncouth. Sorry, it is. And that is inverse civilization: the more civilized we get the less civilized we are; civilized in the sense of “couth”. Civilization led to potato chips, “just like marijuana leads to heroine”, as William Burroughs said. But the fact that we get potato chips in a plastic bag, only possible through civilization, allows us to eat them out of said bag, which is, like, totally uncivilized.
Oh wow, random selection, right after old codger I get God’s Great Dust Storm from Katzenjammer. Just goes to show that religion is good for something after all, on occasion: inspiration.

About Genres

I’m sick of them. I’ve always hated them. Is it rock, metal, or indie? Is it science-fiction, „literature“ (what in hell is that, by the way?), or mystery? Is it deconstructivism, surrealism, or impressionism?
Why must human beings always categorize things to death?
I say that’s all bullshit. For me, a good book is literature, and I don’t give a damn which category you’d put it in. All good books have common elements in them which have nothing to do with their particular genre. The point being that the genre is unimportant.
Yes, I like science-fiction, but not exclusively, and I don’t like a book just because it is science-fiction. In fact, there is not a whole lot of science-fiction I can read, because most of it is trash. The genre seems to attract lousy writers, perhaps because they think it’s a sort of free-for-all. Fantasy writers are even worse. No real-world rules, yoo-hoo! But, for Christ’s sake, that doesn’t mean the rules of good story-telling don’t apply. It doesn’t mean you can ignore logic and common sense. It doesn’t mean you can disregard style and syntax. Bad author, BAD, heel! They’ll never learn, those bloody fucking authors. Don’t trust ’em.

Wiping the Salsa From Your Shirt…

is not that easy. If you wear black shirts, mostly, like I do, more power to you. I feel sorry for the rest of you poor fuckers. She never woulda noticed if she hadn’t surreptitiously sniffed on my shirt. Actually, she sniffed on my throat, and said „mmhhh“ deliciously, because I „wear“ an irresistible Eau de Toilette, but then, something distracted her… and she sniffed further, and, like a god damned blood hound, she tracked it down to my breast, where the salsa had, well, dripped on me. Of course, being the honest, bluff fellow that I am (ahem), I explained what she was smelling there, but the moment was, to put it simply, destroyed.
Well, I had to laugh at that, and she laughed with me: lovely.


I do not exist. You are not reading this. How do I know? Because the Deutsche Post told me so. I am a nonentity, because I have no papers to prove that I exist.
Deutsche Post tried to deliver a package, and I wasn’t home. So I had to pick the package up, at the nearest post office. To do that I had to identify myself… and, lo and behold, my fucking passport is no longer valid. No, sorry, they said, you are not you. As far as we are concerned, you’re not anybody at all. I said, my God, it’s me, you even know my face, though you may not know my name, we live in a fucking village here; you know me, dammit. No. I drew my drivers license, my health-insurance card, which even has my bloody picture on it, hey, it’s me, I said, c’mon, give me the frickin’ package, it’s a present for my son, I need it, his birthday is tomorrow…! No.
I thought: this is insane. I explained: If a purple ogre had opened the door when you rang at my apartment, when you delivered the package, you would have given it to him without asking for any identification, and you wouldn’t have given a flat damn if he had disappeared over hill and dale with it… and yet now you demand that I identify myself, though I have the stupid little docket you tossed in my mail-box…? No dice.
At this point they actually were sort of apologetic; they were almost human. They said they were terribly sorry, but the rules stated unequivocally that… and so on.
So, dear reader, I too am sorry, but, since I do not exist, you do not either. After all, no reader exists when there is nothing to read, and since you are reading nothing from a non-existent author you can’t possibly be an existent reader… you follow me. Unless, perhaps, you can identify yourself beyond the pale shadow of a bureaucratic doubt? In triplicate, if you please; then I will consider acknowledging you as a reader. Perhaps that will also help me establish my own identity. I’m feeling sort of uncertain, since my encounter with the Deutsche Post. Feeling more nebulous from minute to minute…
Listening to Borrowed Time, from Jaya The Cat.