Sunday, 21 April 2019

„Das ist mein Leib für euch gegeben."

Wait a minute. Isn't grilling in the breeding facility forbidden?

Sunday, 31 March 2019

Waving Time

What do you call ye ole dine-&-dash, chew-&-screw, maneuvered in time to catch the waitstaff unawares while the hungover brunch crowd confuses its way into the joint?

As's been the case annually now for I'm not sure how consistently long, ye Yanks & Rebels 've just lost the hour gained for a fortnight on EU member states. For more than like clockwork, hereabout's had our hour short-sold for the emerging seasons' interest two weeks following yonder's 'aving been loaned out & pwnd.

But no more! Following some sort poll I wasn't a part of — which I guess's redundant in that my never having been called upon to play a part in any poll, it wouldn't be out of line, in my opinion, to extrapolate that polls are carried out without my participation.. .period. ..anyway (where was I) —, an amount out of the EU citizenry, apparently as well primarily from Germany (yielding yet greater irony to the EU's greatest "net contributor"), was axt whether-r-not they'd prefer scrapping the science altogether.

Short story short, at the behest of the Parliament, Commission Prez Juncker played all "Give 'em what they want, we're democratic, after all", deploying democracy to matters that don't matter, and therefore all member states have until April to decide whether winter or summer daze they enduringly be.

What this means is that those who wanna while in summer time are done with the annual 1revolution / 1counterrevolution routine with today's winding of the works. All others will fall one final fall back to receive the return of their ultimate hour on this 27th of October, two-thousand and nineteen.

What this means for ye ole on-again, off-again Breggsiteers is anyone's speculation.

Tuesday, 26 March 2019

Sunday, 10 March 2019

Adieu AB !

Imagine co-founding an autonomous cooperative of squatters and pooling your resourcefulness to buy the handful of squats you and your comrades are living in and then renovating them yourselves for no other reason than to preserve an otherwise speculator-friendly hipsterberg by sprinkling it with something of personal value without the remotest notion of making financial gain other than  by carving out a spot yourself & others free of the exorbitant rent that is soon to encircle & strangle the rest of your block.

Keep in mind that the only reason your city's functionaries agreed to facilitate any such purchases was because you made them. Power concedes nothing.

Whenever Kate Donovan & davidly needed a studio, AB was there to lend just such a space he'd created, along with his helpful hand to ensure things would air smoothly. Maybe he just didn't want us to destroy his equipment, though I think my misgivings about being a burden on his time so near his normal programme was more a projection of my impatience. He was always nonchalant where I was worried, a real pro where we were out of our element, and tolerant of any and all of it.

History is a love story twixt owners & workers. The Management has provisional party privileges the conditions of which they are aware, which is how they become managers. Otherwise the owners have their sycophants & wannabe sycophant suck-ups w/o party privileges convinced that they're being owned by the workers who refuse to work for the owners.

There is no such thing as a free thinking society without people like AB. He'll be missed on and off the air.

AB in Studio Ansage - Foto von Klara Niederbacher
(corner photo from back in the day)

Friday, 8 March 2019

Internationaler Frauentag

English translation
Warum hat Berlin als einziges Bundesland dieser Tag frei?

Mit dem Reformationstag hatte das ach-so evangelische Brandenburg einen gesetzlichen Feiertag mehr als das Land Berlin. Dit jeht nüscht! „Her mit dem Internationalen Frauentag!”, meinte die Linke Berlins.

Na gut. Ohnehin hatte Bayern ja 13 Feiertagen, gegen nur 9 für Berlin, weniger als alle Bundesländer. Wie peinlich. Nur neun, muss einen neuen bei. Also am 21. Januar 2019 machte der Innenausschuss den Weg frei und drei Tage später folgte das Berliner Abgeordnetenhaus mit dem Votum 87 dafür, 60 dagegen.

Auf die Frage der 13 Enthaltungen, Stadtratskorrespondentin Eva Galant sorgte für Klarheit: „Die Fraktion der Pappnasen schlug ja auch den Feiertag vor, wohingegen die Fraktion der Blassnasen sich der Stimme enthielt.”

Happy International Women's Day from Berlin!

Thursday, 7 March 2019

Pizzt at Belmont L

One thing I've learned serving time, serving slices of sausage — in the stuffed or on the thin,  "No we don't have any pepperoni slices,"  is that it only takes one asshole to ruin your day. One person who insists on being and behaving in a superior manner is actually all it takes to make one lose one's faith in human kind.

Okay, so American enterprise is built on the concept that the customer is always right and the customer is the boss and blah blah fucking blah...

I see stuffed shirts and professional looking types as well as street scum — and I mean that in the best possible way — and working class people. They're all too lazy to cook their own damn dinner. The working class on down could better spend their hard earned cash, but the suits throw it away and bitch about where it's going.

They're all just wanabees of the people who would never be seen in a place like this. Those who like to feel secure and being out and about with the general fucking public isn't what they went to school for. They went to school to learn how to make more money than all the people they try to avoid. That is the real security. And it gets more sophisticated all the time.

So you can imagine how these wanabees feel having to pull out their credit cards next to homeless people or others who might envy their position.

Anyway, the supreme elite who don't venture out of well-protected districts, stay home and use the telephone to have a little of the slums delivered to them. Not that the only people who order out are rich bastards. But most of them sound like it, and most of them live where the rich people do.

One bad apple shits all over the rest of us. Makes you feel unpleasant unless you're into that shit. Sorry. There are some people who come in and eat here who probably are into that literally. I digress — most of the time.

On this particular night a doctor who orders from us regularly calls to place his traditional mid-surgery pasta primavera. I tell him it will be about an hour and he says, as if he didn't know by now we always take about an hour, "An hour!" I tell him we're not fucking Dominoes and if he wants a pasta any quicker he can always call Dominoes and see what they can do. Or something like that.

So this guy starts demanding things we just don't deliver (sorry), so I tell him that we don't have to give him anything if we don't want to, and then ask him if he wants anything.

He gets hostile, I hang up, he calls back and blah blah fucking blah, I hang up again. A couple of minutes later I get a call from someone with phoney accent (oh, God, puns abound) never laughed so hard in my whole life. He hung up, in shame probably. I would have sent it to him, but I guess he was too proud to let me know he was that desperate.

Now whenever I'm not working, anyone else who happens to be taking phone orders at the time gets duped into sending huge orders to places that don't exist. I found out it was the congenial doctor when I did a ring-back on an order that was taken right before I started my shift.

Can you imagine a person of this stature behaving in such a petty way?  I couldn't.  But I know it made me want to get him back in a big way.

Tuesday, 26 February 2019

Talk Talk About Post Rock Music

Or rather, upon Mark Hollis' death, one of his three creations with the word 'life' in the title.  It's from his final work, the only self-named solo. It requires patience like the two final Talk Talk albums, what'd probably led to their switching labels and breaking up, respectively, but patience pays the patient:

Sunday, 17 February 2019

Rigging Stockholm to the End of the Shining Seas

For a future we can all relate to.
I returned home to a message on the answering machine, a digital recording locally stored just as in the days of analog cassette tape. The facsimile of the voice itself, too, was of a computer, as the original message was an apparently typewritten text message, which was then read by a robot larynx service so that advanced hominids can accommodate the endangered troglodyte. If time travel were possible, this'd be it.

The problem is, People Of The Future, I can't understand you. Maybe you could speak more slowly, mind your Ps & Qs (& Ts & Ks).

And I cannot identify your number because I lost my phone. I know this is the running bullshit excuse, but I have documented evidence here if you don't believe me.

Why am I getting so defensive? Okay, I admit it. And since I have it on goog' authority that state-of-the-art hominids don't click on complementary links, I'll excuse myself on the technicality that I have, of course, pencil'd each & every number into my analog address book (same one going on two decades). But you see, Dweller Beyond the Cave, as easy to read as those lead marks are, they are not cross-filed by number; for there are two things I refuse to do in this regard (three if you count not cross-filing) and that's get a smart device or search my entire address book for a number.

What good am I?  I'm using this computer, aren't I?  Why am I getting so goddamn defensive?!


Moron missing link
It occurs to me that the technological advances that achieve the dual duelling result of making life easy & queasy are so numerous as to make the human not just incomprehensible to ancients like myself but also to the smartest version of themselves. Whence the coining of 'cognitive dissonance'? This language they've created to describe the dilemma does nothing to counter their forever recalculating tipping point, not that the tipping point itself is doing the recalculating. A recapitulation of duelling denials in due time.

For sure. there are many fissures past that've held the rift 'til today. In respect to (& apparent lack of respect for) the state-of-the-art hominid-named Anthropocene, they have become gaps gaping back at virtually everyone who's ever adjusted their rearview. But this is a digression, for I mean to refer here to what reminded me of this, which is those technologies that at once enhance & diminish the quality (and quantity) of interpersonal communication, without which quality the collective cannot converse about anything but "the conversation", and then ineffectively.

Benevolent Billionaires: They plundered themselves!
The claim by hominids who were raised on two-car plots that they can't forgo the Fahrvergnügen of fossil fuel (gotta figuratively feed the family) forms a feed-loop of similar effect to what they could confess cannot be done without today: these always newly updated new-fangled talking toys that make what seems like yesterday's way of living inconceivable (yet I think I'm still talking the wheel and fire here).

The conversation is constant and the frustration frequent, but all bets are on the benefits of having a connection. Collective consent is plausible. Each extra application is optional to the individual, yet unimaginable to most. Beneath it all lurks the notion of compulsion. Deeper still lies a kind of coercion. The choice of terminology is what's not being denied by the chooser of the term. Who but the lexicographer can say for sure whether 'denialism' denotes a blatant refusal of accepted reality or a latent rejection of discomforting truth?

I've claimed the existence of two types of climate change denialist: 1) the dreaded disbeliever in human effect;  2) the critic of the former who spouts as if their own connotation of denialist is the only thing standing between present projections and the bringing of the Earth back from the brink of present projections. The former would say that they aren't buying the bullshit, which the latter either deems dishonest, especially as it relates to the position of industry, or ignorant. It's a different bullshit they're not buying.

What they're buying is somehow lesser and better. The only way to improve their own lesser & better consumption and to lessen & better the worse consumption of their lessers is by way of benevolent coercion by billionaires who run the putative pragmatists they prefer to vote for.

How many of the above have their own wheeled combustion, if not two, to haul their rotund rear-ends to places to reinforce what makes them so well-rounded? Where does the roundness begin and where is it shameful to even mention (or be posted to one's mentions)? When is the trip detrimental and when is it indispensable? Just how small does a contribution have to be to be negligible?

My abstinence above from the plural 1st person is so as not to identify you in "we".  I used "you" in the opening paragraphs where it equals whoever might have left that message on my machine. If you feel implicated in any of the subsequent theys, that's on you, but I do count me in both we & they when I tell you that I ask these questions of myself and, despite a belief that I burn an above average ratio of my own energy to live and a claim on my part of my part as only a part of the Pillage People, I nevertheless hasten to add that I deny the sensibility of believing in relatively harmless levels of rapaciousness amidst this enmeshed network of planet pillaging of ours and am convinced that a technological brainwashing of state-of-the-art hominids convinces them not only of that fallacy but compels them as prime contributor to the overall level of ravaging.

This horse is being flogged by individuals automated to increase their consumption, book it to the archives, and face one another delimited to a handful of choices of expression of preference (or simply set to 'ignore'), irrespective of the belief about- or level of awareness of the mask of light reflected across the ayes of each lone ranger.

I have proof of nothing but if I were called to testify, I'd say I suspect we're all full of shit and that a measure of each as compared to the whole is pointless. I'd also note an absence of evidence that there is a conversation expressing an authentic desire to do anything significant about it. 

It's not in the interest of the captors' court to issue subpoenas even where their subjects' love is in effect unconditional. The trial, if there was one, would go to the issue of how we're held hostage. The testimony would recount our apparent assumption that our addiction is worth our abduction and how each shot of serotonin makes the promise of depression all worthwhile. A scintilla earns a lifetime of devotion. </swipe>.