beer purity, beer mutants
Expat German-stereotype legend has it that Germans like laws and bureaucracy almost as much as they like beer. And they like beer a lot.
So what do you get when you add a love for rules and stark efficiency with a love for a substance known for breaking down inhibitions, order, and law? You get the Reinheitsgebot, or the German Beer Purity Laws.
Read the rest of this post on Young Germany.
new york, new york
Lo weary readers! I apologize for my extended absence. Lately I’ve been trading in the click clacks for travels and music and improbable coincidences. I spent five weeks in America, another week in Holland, and somehow just survived organizing a weekend-long festival to celebrate Haus Mainusch’s 20th birthday. But the winter is a’coming and so are more writings. I’ve decided to make my America travel stories into a paper and ink zine, which will (hopefully fingers and eyes crossed) be finished in the next month. The following is an excerpt. I realize it’s bleak. I realize there are probably some nice things in New York City. I like a lot a of people who live there. But this is how I felt when I was there. Let me know if you’d like a copy of the zine when it’s finished.
New York City is a monster. A filthy, soulless monster, stretching its tentacles further and further each year, out through Queens, Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx.
Once a Dutch settlement, once the country’s capital, home to tenements and concrete palaces, industrial and financial meccas, those two pesky towers…a set for beggars, losers, artists, dreamers, and scammers to act out their own search for The American Dream, for Opportunity, Fortune, Fame, Inspiration, Excitement, Good Drugs and A Good Lay.
New York City is a corpse drawing people into its rotting folds like so many maggots and flies, parasites hoping to extract the last drops of blood from it’s cracking concrete flesh, people, unaware that the hype, the lights, the heaving pulsing draw are noxious, unaware that in the end, it will be the city that draws their blood and leaves them empty and wilting, tired and tense, and grinding their teeth through waking nightmares.
But artificial as its prosthetic pulse, New York City is alive. Alive the way that zombies are alive. Its skin splayed with concrete, pocked with glass boils and soaring steel sores. Its hot, piss-sprayed bowels rattle with ancient, moody trains. The trains themselves filled with empty-eyed creatures, already zombies themselves, plugged into iPods and iPhones and iFriends and iLives, all anxious to avoid the unpleasant present and arrive in a hypothetical future, always just out of view.
The people still come—rubber neckers—fascinated by the obscenity: something to do every single night, a different bar or club or restaurant or shop for every day of the millennium. The spectacle of overindulgence, the illusion of endless potential, fascinating and poisonous like a spider you admire through glass but would rather not have to touch.
This is what I see when I step off the train. This is what I see, more and more acutely, each day I spend here. It‘s getting to me already; I‘m grinding my teeth. I have to get the fuck out of here, I think every morning, I have to get the fuck out as soon as fucking possible.
I swear to myself I’ll never come here again.
The monsters we create will come for us. I don’t want to be around when New York comes for you.