The boring way between two points is a straight line.

Berlin faces (I)

The right jacket pocket is after, the thin beige fabric, the skirt is too weak for the grain bottle, into which he has. Now he strumpelt by the slippery snow Schivelbeiner the road. Schrumpelnasig, warzenwangig. On shockingly old. Lonely curls hanging slack rough under his woolen cap. Geglänzt have probably been a long time. He clasps his hands with rotgefrorenen cardboard cup, the coffee steams. The only heat for him on that icy penultimate evening of the year. The soles of his shoes dissolve. His facial skin is dry and zerkerbt as Landschollen after months of drought. "Down, down, down with the government!" , Muhammad said. "Down, down, down with the capital!"

About him flickers the broken neon sign of Windelservices. "Workshops, accessories. Everything around the winding, "is blurry letters to be read. His left foot remains in a black Eisma Czechoslovakia hang lumps. He plunges. The coffee cup flies in the snow. A cozy puddle melts the hole. "Damn hoe. Snow shit! "He curses as he can hardly sit up. Again and again he slips. I durchwühle my wallet. Finally succeed him but to stand firm. I am committed to him, consider him a coin. "Here. For a new coffee. " Surprise twinkles in his eyes. One moment he looks only. Then follows the most marvelous, zahnarme smile of the year. "Thank you," he growls disconcerts. Again, "Thank you! What did I deserve this? " "Only in this way." "Enter at eight. The snow here is scheißglatt. " About me on the steel tracks the stop Schönhauser Allee, which rushes the subway, I wanted to catch. Who's cares? Another will come. Soon.

Somewhere between crack toothpick yellowed teeth. And then there was this green face, from which a schauderndes, sour smile herunterfloss like vinegar.

Wash and dry

"It's strange," said Luci, curved her chin with his thumb and wrapped a two curls on her finger. "In the past, my boots were also in the deepest snow waterproof and snug warm. Kilometers wide, I could so through ice cold poles, nothing had my feet feel chilly. But apparently I have a small hole in the sole cut, as I two weeks ago at the cathedral at night in broken glass underfoot bin. Now I can already look for a quarter-hour hike through snow wring my socks, and after 10 minutes my boots from the inside hair. "

"You föhnst your boots from the inside?" Ada curled the forehead and searching her handbag for a cigarette lighter.

"What else can I do? My boots to get moldy? Moisture is in the long term for leather fatal. It is not long ago, because I have the wardrobe tidy my grandmother and my old leather backpack found again, and I years ago when it had forgotten. Under the wardrobe is the cold, damp cellar. He stands at the poorly insulated outer wall, and the room itself was rarely well heated. It may be only a good year location, but he was completely gets moldy, grauweißhaarigen excessive lint like a schmuddeliger invented. "

"No tasty idea," mumbled Ada, which is just a cigarette between his lips had pushed, with the newly found Lighter promptly inflamed. Their lips kerbten in, silvery smoke danced to the ceiling.

"Quite the opposite of his."

"But mold is generally not very tasty idea. Especially me alone already thinking about the weißfaulige creep back to Steven recalls. "Adas pressed her lips together. Their turned pale skin, the mouth angle downward arc. They drew fierce in their cigarette. A few flakes of ash landed on her black velvet pants, were swept aside nimble.

"Steven?"

"The Feinrippunterbuxeninformatiker, with whom I Kandinsky in the street for."

"You have times in a WG usual?"

"For years, before Steven me and for all times by the desire to residential communities cured."

"I remember only vaguely."

"You Happy. There was no more vivid than half his refrigerator, all too often populated and the same angegessene yogurt a three-quarter of the rear corner before the long fibers soon enough that he would have by itself herausklettern, once the door is opened. "

"Ürgs."

Suddenly up at Adas facial features before schmunzelndem pleasure, laughter and angular escaped between their teeth shining through.

"The old rascal has also constantly on my expensive Washes Out and shower gels. Whenever I have the luxury of giving my body with something really good to maintain, Dior, Chanel, it was - poof! - Empty. Although faults - just emptied all my shower gel bottles alarmingly fast. I have always wondered how much soap he rightly came. All care products, flushing, shower gel forth all belonged to me, not him. If just shower gel shortage at the man, I am the last, the bleats, if you look briefly served elsewhere. But I have no desire that the cleanliness of others at my expense. Have not at the expense of my dearly acquired care products. Eventually, I pointed him once. "

"I would also."

"He looked at me just as stoic cold cardboard and filled with indignation at what me because cloud him to insinuate something. He was not a thief, and certainly not Duschgelschuft. "

"But the rapid consumption of my deliriously Waschemulsionen, shampoos and shower gels continued."

"And what have you done?"

"Eventually, as my Chanel-shower was empty, I have it with Remoulade refilled. Two days later, suddenly, a bottle of shampoo for oily hair on Duschbeckenrand. "

Ada laughed again, small Rauchwölkchen raced from her nose, she drew one last time at her cigarette, and crushed them in the ashtray.

A posteriori

And he still said: "No, but I have enough beer. No Bacardi. Have nothing to do with Fanta. The evil ends. " And then he was invited but punchy. And hardly Fanta in almost pure rum. Could you with a magnifying glass looking for partners who Limoanteile. Harter substance, which I tell Dir And not just a glass, at least three. And Sect And then still beer. And not just one. Because the part is so, and is also New Year's Eve. No Pardon. And his self-squatting precaution in a rescue capsule, moved to a higher Warft back, fled before the flood and looked at it from slightly elevated body from outside. Even he was only half Zerschlürftes awareness. A good humored Dämmer, liquid ignorance watered him, and his awareness of liquefied be triggered on in clear water. He still knows everything, but he was not quite there. Dozens nice faces, the potential enormous nice conversations and everything but a little schalou, because you know, you see in the fog rarely clear. The next morning, when the fog has been cleared, he says, the only right. And what all of it probably might have thought. So, have never met, and then, but even such a thing. Donnerknispel. And do not properly noticed, was midnight. More than strange. And then sometime the night went. And thought, "Hey, you be grandiose sense of orientation, but go instead of the familiar roadside dadrüben long time, it should also work." And has that worked, but until more than an hour later. In between Dean shuffling between überschneiten glistening lakes in the Tiergarten, selbstverlorenes eggs on the streets of 17th June. And in between the snow but more like peanut butter ice-cold. Bräunliches Gematsche. Angetaut. And, as with almost Karnickelködeln inside, the Streusplitt so you do not slip. The shoes gnash at every step. Odyssey. Almost winkelscher general sense. Huch, very empty in the victory column. And the S-Bahn station Bellevue. But only pure and out again. Now S-Bahn-Fahren not just because you never know. In sonem condition. Dogged Weiterstapfen. Without a plan, but with fervor. And then, but completely and without a city plan in the unfamiliar city back. Eventually hooked awareness again climbed from its encapsulation, the flood pulled back. A crowd had fun, a little sore muscles in the thighs and kinsternde idea that an illustrious mountain enormously sympathsicher people it would have to be sober to know. The opportunity will come. Does he, as he blushed slightly butter on the multi-grain bread slice smears. Almost a touch of Selbstfremdeln durchschwummert him. Then he stirs klackernd with the spoon through the steaming coffee in Steingutbecher and thinks: "After all had fun."

Mooi Fiert!

Snow whistles. But he is soaked masses on the roofs of the city. Where else to sit sparrows. And the whistle again. Currently whistles also virtually nothing from the rooftops, but the condensed rumors that the year will soon take his hat and dashes in the past. Hit all fun and sturzfrei into next year! Let champagne corks pop, spared from Kapuzenpullikapuzen D-Böllern and let you go good!

Lying hope

The flame of snow in Teekerze glanzlackierten porcelain angel flickered briefly. Then a thin soot quoll flag from the soul air holes in the back of the angel doll, which until just flickering flame was extinguished.

Still stollenvoll sat on the eve Wiebrand and Helga on Christmas breakfast table. Wiebrand tried with fire and zeal dull knife to the hard egg heads, Helga climbed from the chair behind the massive oak desk out to other aufzubrühen coffee.

To date breakfast in a little sag to be stretched Helga. My sweater slipped slightly and gave up for a few seconds to look at their rosy belly. Suddenly a joyful grin curved Wiebrands comfortably curved mouth.

"Well? Grad Have you considered how chic it looks when a small brilliant in my navel sparkle would treasure? "Helga ask coquettishly.

"Not quite. I have a look at your pocket and dared about why because a garbage bag herausbaumelt band. "

Second fragmented hopeful romance in a flash as the egg shell, the Wiebrands blunt knife had finally penetrated.

Trojan Horses teeth.

A few stragglers squeezing still in crowded shops, to the last but still handles the appropriate gift to buy, as the boxer's fist on blue eye adapts. Many are packed travel bags, backpacks and packages stowed laced to settle in overloaded trains in the direction of home idyllic Christmas tree with fresh apples natural trading session. In a few days already balls at the lush bellies before lunch. Gift paper and clear film rustle among the pine needles, tension crackles, shivers of anticipation. Dad tried Dicki with the miniature nuclear power plant-kit, is the stuff neutron accelerator in the combustion chamber and cute astonished, as it "Puff" and makes the cow falls. Opa crows' earlier was more tinsel! " , Climbs through the mountains of paper and seeks an outlet for his new record player, while mom is on the hot Heinzelmann Saugblaser happy.

Also I will be soon on the way home, in ostfriesischen climes with the Christ child to drink a Christmas, the love relationship again in the eyes to look under flickering candles and chocolate to feed the feet up and gained dear old friends meet (and the obligatory Christmas Parties also a lot of people whose existence me since the last Christmas party again almost eliminated and no matter was comparatively).

I wish you all now, before I's empty no more timely basis, potential and give highly enjoyable Christmas day, whatever the individual plans, aspirations and traditions look. As I myself have graphically documented, is the Santa Claus on the way to recovery. Cold baths with spruce oil show surprising salutary effect. Perhaps it is up to Christmas Eve but was back up to the dam. The hope green.

Mole clusters are often heaped on.

I Aistear dtreo Atha Clíath-memories of experiences in the capital of the island green (III)

Kracht on stone gravel and mud. The loading area of the Frontkippers ever steeper slopes. Ratsch. A hoarse thunder. The cluster is located. Small dust clouds dance around. With shovels kohleschwarzen push him apart. Steel on stone metallic clanks. Bagger scratching the soil. Krrk. His diesel köttelt and smokes. The gasifier's not doing more long. Pneumatic drill fragmenting the rocky earth, tar and squawking is milled apart concrete, pipes disintegrated under the force of intersecting Flex into their individual parts. Srrrrrrrrrk. Ting Ting.

Pneumatic Hammer wuppern the ground level. Welding on into old dirty forehead, smeared with the dirt. Blaubehoste hub wipe the dust from their eyes, move their helmet correctly and drain new concrete slabs. Rast Lose steam engines, spray sparks, press and roll, rumble, beat grubbern and clatter. Trucks set back. The backhoe turns. The excavator leader drops the cigarette between the pedals. Accidentally. And here will soon scorching hot new skin on the main artery of the city stuck together. The city lives, the city quivers.

The boulevard in upheaval. On photographs were lush trees here. Currently there are construction site lattice and fences. In the narrow escapes squeeze between the fences to double the gelbblauen double-decker buses. Motors resent, to the howl If the gas pedal. Small cars are clamped in between. No one honks. The sidewalks in front of people burst. All are waiting for their buses. None grumbles. A maze of shopping bags is the way to the slalom track.

Since hardly trams travel and there is no subway, everything goes here and every bus, seems's. The überfülltesten bus stops in the world, there is probably in Dublin. O'Connell Street has a very special sound these days. Unablässiges, lively stuff in many languages and volumes durchschwirrt the gray afternoon air on both road sides.

Many wait at the traffic lights (which perhaps only lights in the world with a digital countdown second, which shows how many seconds or red), to hinüberzusausen. The construction noise. Countless small charity groups crow Christmas Carols and clatter with slotted cans. Schmalztriefende Panflötenweihnachtslieder zähfließend dripping from the speakers before Clery's department store and glued the pavement. A blonde woman with grellhellblauer jacket leans on the shop window and smokes. They snips the dump on the klangklebrigen stones. An itinerant preacher whiskeytrunkener keeps his small mountain sermon. His head resembles one in the sunlight become limp broccoli Rose, rotbärtiges his face is oily. He huddles both arms into the sky and jangles curses on those who are wronged. The city is alive. The city quivers.

Hundertfünfundneunzig to-one

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Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird
Avian bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird bird

When the foot is the curse

Wulnikowski is on a rusty nail taken of the shoe sole drilled directly into the meat. Precisely in the foot, eh where already a toe missing. With feet he will now forever by you. In a black dress and with zerlaufender potato nose he comes Urs, the Swiss funeral entrepreneurs from the Horn Street. Three years ago, they were briefly neighbors. Urs looks Wulnikowski and says:

"My uncle has times on the hand pissed, as a dragon fish it has bitten. Piss disinfected. "
"I only know of dragon fruit."
"No, dragon fish. There's also fruit. But not bite. "
"And what should I look at the shoe sole pee, you idiot? I have enormous amount of snakes, but I am not a snake person. "
"I am monitoring this, if you want."
"Does foreign Piss disinfecting ever since? I have my doubts. "
"Piss Piss is. We will surely all the same Piss? ! "
"Okay, then piss me."

Urs tried him on the walk to pee, but the effort is too great. He never made it. Even more, they can still laugh. What made the walk is perhaps the vulture knows, the sky or anyone. Otherwise it will be the future.

I Aistear dtreo Atha Clíath-memories of experiences in the capital of the island green (II)

At the northern end of O'Connell Street, from Buskolonnen and small cars roaring, is set in stone, the Parnell monument. It spreads the Gate Theater-his round belly, to absorb the statue, it should fall. Left hand is the Rotunda Hospital, Europe's first official maternity clinic. The grandeur of this magnificent boulevards crumbled abruptly, and now, we turn right into the side street.

Verwaschnes as in a children's apron, Nichtmehrgetragnes, despite everything, something happens. Two cottages, whose brick walls of the dreckiggrauen, greedy tongues of rain forever niederklatschenden sore and dull licked were opposed to different high and shoulder-to-shoulder together as a national player in the drive to the camera anthem. Top tiny homes, down schäbbige pubs, decaying Internet cafes, African barbershops, Off-Licence liquor stores. Neon signs überflackern hogs garbage bags. The drängelnde O'Connell-Street surges of traffic here, the metal spray sweeps over the Tar blankets eastward. A pair trainingsbehostes devours each other. A small, dunkeläugiges girl turns with the left hand on his golden Kringelohrring and sucks on the right thumb. The palate is marmeladeverschmiert. Grease stains on the pink shine Quilting. Before the pubs are chewed sausage pieces and other morsel in galligfeuchten puddles. Parnell Street.

We turn left into the Northern St. Georges Street. Only one more corner, and the atmosphere turns again. Also still splendor Boulevard, then comes schlumpig-herunter, wuselige trifles Street, now bourgeois living quarters. Zig Bakery dozen Georgian citizens' houses. Braunrot brick front, hoisted upright, clear off the horizontal gable. Freud Lose uniformity. The basement stairs and entrance gates of schulterhohen includes black Gusseisenzäunen. The variation is only in the size of the window and the momentum and the opulence of the sandstone pillar portals with their artfully übewölbten with glass, colorfully painted entrance doors. Colorful inviting inputs contrast with tristem, uniform walls.

Art full curved, arabesk decorated street lights bow to the roadway. Right hand, at the beginning, is completely inconspicuously in one of these houses the James Joyce Center. It has until January. The hostel relic of the Master is renovated. Several hundred yards uphill, as unobtrusively, is Mount Eccles Court, our hostel. With Slavic accent welcomes us the reception Dame. We live under Croatian rule house and learn that we are at the next day the room will exchange must get key cards and breakfast pieces of paper and disappear through the whitewashed light blue, slightly distorted wooden door to the stairwell. The stocky, steep staircase moans and injustice under our feet like a singing dog, as we up to the third floor to climb. Short breathers. C. is still not better. Sticht abgestandener sweet smell of chlorine in our noses.

Card in the slot put it klackt. Curious enter our home for the coming night. Klein is the Bude. Two newly purchased beds crouch in the narrowness of the sides. Bräunlicher mold hornhautfarbenen climbs through the walls. A single table is left in the corner. His former friends, the trash cans and he chairs were removed before the dawn of time. Cold wind shreds sweep by the cracking of the wood window. Between the weathered rungs give schlierige slices the view of a courtyard. A nested maze of walls, partially covered with barbed wire. The white paint is chipped widespread. The bathroom is deleted in the same color as bad teeth cleaned, the Klorollenhalter dented buckles under the load of emotions layered rust. During the mirror kleinstgewachsene only for a glance into the human face possible (I see myself up to the chest), appears to be the basket of shower gel in the shower for basketball players, and is designed two meters high. C. sweats and goes immediately into the bathroom. His stomach is not better, the head still hurts. I let the heavy baggage, ask worried him if I can do something good and make me on the first urban exploration, while he initially in the small chamber remains to sleep and again forces to rest in the hope that the nervous stomach and a migraine mörsernden-beat them.

And then she asked: "How was it? Is it true that Richard Clayderman then some pieces for Mozart composed? "

Sir, if the Vikings proud enemies wear helmets

We stuck in a dilemma, then, seven years ago. Jan and me. Both were we in the central pillar of Bass Ubbo-Emmius-Chores Leer. Well, in the Advent season, there were two great performances by J.S. Bach's "Christmas Oratorio." One of them in the Great kerzenerleuchteten Reformed Church in Leer, the other in the community, where the conductor of the orchestra of the Folkwang Essen University as organist worked in Gelsenkirchen. Actually, we have a duty. Bach prove the honor, loyalty testify to the choir, even if we as a singer, but we gave the audience something, or 15 DM should pay for the round-trip transportation. Mürbelnd light on these crooked, we fell into a dilemma. Because on the same evening of Gelsenkirchen-concert was also the "Hard Bagaluten leg" of peat Rock in Aurich. Wikingischer nonsense from peat bog or Holm hocherwürdiges cultural heritage from Leipzig?

Heimlich we decided to brook the honor, but only the voice and Leeraner concert on the eve on eisglatte streets after Aurich to slither, where pneumatic hammer B-B-B-Bernhard "hello" to say with peat Stecher Adula Zech with the road roller by peat bog Holm to rattle, full Granaade Renaade Rollo with the Vikings on board, Methumpen to raise and the High Baroque art genius pranks and counterpoint a festive evening in the background would make sense. The audience burst of buschbärtigen Zauselbärten, Viking helmets, the most common head covering. Everything bawled, many laughed, beer cups were thrown, the mood cooked, the massive body sweated under their Lederkutten.

***

In winter coats wrapped felt rushed the audience about the icy cobblestones in the festively lit church. Neat young people in formal suits scurried into the community house. The evening performance of the large Christmas in Leer. Shortly before the concert begins, I met Mr. E., the teacher of my music performance course. In the belief that I was in the church at Gelsenkirchen Advent Christmas Oratorio performance been ignorant about my torfrockenden Geheim-Exkurs, he asked me:

"What is wrong because the concert, yesterday? If everything went well? "

"Oh, it was great. The ruler of heaven had heard the phase. In the audience were almost all Viking helmets, were thrown Bierbechern, mitgegrölt and sung, Methumpen lifted. It has unbelievably after schalem sweat and alcohol haze stunk, but it was otherwise great. "

He turned pale, scented betrayal of baroque grand, maybe durchgeisterten riots Schalke fans in a Christmas church decorated his head cinemas, Rabauken the actual choir with kehligem override rowdiness and desecrate the holy work.

"They have now even before nix more respect these Asis!"

"Well ..." I could still rise, then plunged I continued to my laughing fit in front of his face to hide. Clarified I changed it to him until today.

Santa Claus has flu

Buried deep under the snow,
So it's hard to see them,
Even a thick freezes bepelztes deer
Living the love Santa Claus.

But this year, who shall 'is suspect
It does not fit into the stuff,
A disease pulled their orbits
, And "Father Christmas" lame.

Instead of "Hohoho" There's aspirin,
Instead Echinacine sleigh ride.
Nothing will be in jumping on the slide
And the world presents.

Blanket over,'s up on blankets,
The red cap remains on the hook,
The whole year was nothing wrong,
But now that's serious, the Schnief.

The Puppenwichtel are confused,
Nothing is more coordinated.
Even on the ceiling of dough sticks
Now in the Christmas Bakery

The Imp make pure chaos,
Rigor is not a trace,
Everyone does what he wants
And the factory is still present.

"Hey, Captain Bluebear, you turn?
Hello, this is Santa Claus.
Did you do on Christmas Eve free?
Otherwise, send me but Hein owns over.

Because I lie sick in bed, burned out,
And if that worked, plural 'I's nice,
If you swinging from the railing
And for me to bring gifts. "

"Yes" says Käptn "is the clear.
Kelly Hein is because you tomorrow.
Then flies, who would have thought?
, Ne rat by the holy night. "

Fröhöliche Christmas on the market

The sweet bell never slip in snow, still rigid and is Santa Claus, with his gifts. On Christmas tree lights burn, it sounds through the air, good sound. Only the Angels Hallelujah, holder boy in curly hair. Christmas.

Mulled wine haze durchfuselt kaltklare the inner city from the late morning, drinking fraternity with dripping clouds, cinnamon scent, a hint of candied apples, honey, waxed wood, deer tallow albums, crispy pizza cheese, burnt almonds, green cabbage and sausage. In verknoteten swell the hordes sanguine Christmas carol singers with murky light chain view through the inner city, in front of the wooden balls huts, where they are in order and colorful significant quantities Rumkakao became premiere Prime Minster of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Hirsch cocoa, hot apple juice with Amaretto or tasteless canister mulled wine to pour down the throat .

It is important in large groups, the Christmas market winding streets to flood and any flow interruption, even if those who watch what wants to use for drinking. This is also recognizes again (at a later hour twice), it carries red hats or Plüschgeweihe Zipfel (reindeer antennas), in the case Optimal flashing, and soon recognize that others also thought it would be a lot easier to recover when you have no Mützenblinkgezipfel worn on the head would. Unknown fellow come near them, are with their bulky shopping bags to catch. Irmgard sneaks secretly by the Punschbude away. In their turns everything grad in the stomach. When they return to their group encountered a Stückchenpfütze sparkles in the form of the star of Bethlehem in the small alley. Nearly they would still have a braided basket stumbled. But while dodging collided with the cell phone. Even standing in the way of rum.

Wham! , Chris Rea, Bing Crosby and Roxette from various boxing verschwurbeln to numbers Bastard Pop. The cone Club "Goss's free" bawls punschbefeuert rich "Jingle bells." Hiltraud drips from the Reibekuchenschale applesauce on the suede shoes. "Verflixte ax!" , Brawls Rainer. With mittens let the mulled wine jars Henkel worse record than planned. Now shards lie at his feet. "Mifft. Haste times but who fagen kömm, daff daf for heif ifft. Iff got me the Ffunge verbrammp "mürbelt Ilse. She has her husband a red and white plush Tanga purchased. The Christmas Eve is to be inaugurated.

Gold ears

Christmas day shuffles closer. And slung behind, in the back, we also roams the New Year period. Each year, a pleasant occasion, the neck muscles to train the head to rotate and look back a little too daring. I am in the mountain all newly confiscated plates this year Submerged have music, and the throbbing of research and at the end of 1915 albums and songs with back to the surface taken in order to the best of the year to explain. Not a few albums and songs have plucked at the hem pants, dragged, cunning, bitten and insulted out of the lower lip, because they just as good and deserve to land on the list. But it is not entirely wrong, even at some times provisional final decision. Curtain up for the musical pieces cream 2005:

My current mood of a herausdestillierten 15 albums of the year:

First ... And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead-Worlds apart
Second The decemberists - Picaresque
Third Bright Eyes - I'm wide awake, it's morning
Fourth Ben Folds - Songs for Silverman
Fifth Kaizers Orchestra - Maestro
Sixth Okkervil River-Black sheep boy
Seventh Sigur Rós - Takk ...
Eighth The Fall Of Troy-Doubles
Ninth Dredg-catch without arms
10th Sufjan Stevens-Illinois
Eleventh DEUS-Pocket revolution
Twelfth Ryan Adams-Cold roses
Thirteenth Pelican - The fire in our throats will beckon the thaw
14th The Mars Volta-Frances the mute
15th The Stereotypes - dto


Ten of the songs really fine running calendar year:

First ... And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead-Will you smile again?
Second The decemberists - The engine driver
Third Kaizers Orchestra-Dieter Meyers Inst
Fourth DEUS-Bad timing
Fifth Sufjan Stevens-John Wayne Gacy Jr.
Sixth Okkervil River-For real
Seventh Bloc Party-Banquet
Eighth Amusement Parks On Fire-Venus in cancer
Ninth The Killers - Mr. Bright Side
10th Franz Ferdinand - The fall
Eleventh The Fall Of Troy-F.C.P.R.E.M.I.X.
Twelfth Kettcar - dikes
Thirteenth Sun Kil Moon-Ocean breathes salty
14th Jose Gonzalez-Crosses
15th The Stereotypes-Almost lost

Haard-Trapper

"We take our small child in the stroller with hiking."

With this commitment, Hildegard and Aribert dates in an avalanche triggered.

I Aistear dtreo Atha Clíath (I)

The night itself is still in lichtleerem deep sleep, as the humorless Quäken of Funkweckers me from gently rolling inexorably hurls dreams. Schlafkörnchen crumble from the corner of your eye when the eye reluctant to point Erna display crawls: 4:30 h. Much too soon, but at the right time. I Traumtrunken schlurfe coffee machine. Twice wake-up force is now needed. Müdigkeitsexorzismus accelerated in the bathroom of frischkaltem water. Ice fog dormant in the street canyons. Still dawning nothing. No breeze, hardly a sound. The city is frozen. The otherwise lively, well perfused traffic arteries reality empty, nearly orphaned.

Cheese sails into fine strips on the black bread slices than ride lunch. Mint tea steams from the thermos jug. The view wobbly around fritters are tired and planless beyond a goal. Gedankenverlorenes sip on coffee cups. The hot brew kleckert the sleepy throat down. The alarm beeps again. 5:30 h. Time, packed things to shoulder and through the sleeping town to the station to shuffle. A little more awake, the streets now. Club tents cars treideln yawning through the lanes. Your headlights stare pale, as if they Lider also like another two hours.

On the stairs to the platform stands C. and waiting. Barely awake than I, we shuffle them in the train. After some fares, we are still at the airport on time, learn that no 4U departure terminal but the indicator of German Wings is to learn that very few German service employees at the airport in Greek and speak up shortly before ten on board the Airbus A319 to Dublin. Quiet durchprickelt me the thrill of the unfamiliar with the start, but I fly only the third time in my life somewhere. Have to see it during the flight. A nearly tearing clouds carpet is among us. The Sehenswert Este seated in the row in front of us. A dignified old Mr. graying, with a wide Sensational Haargestrüpp, from the auricle hochwuchert lobule.

And so it is like a miracle in a grip bag, as a half hours later the plane into the ceiling feuchtweiße digs before the curtain opens and below us the Bay of Dublin. To see it from above so that the city of meandering walks Leopold Blooms, home of my great heroes like Joyce, O'Brien, Wilde and Beckett. Seeing and experiencing what you like to read and expansive. The deep blue sea curls. On Landarm of Howth crouches victories on the cold foaming surf to the coast. The green island, there is gray. The first tiny houses still grow per second, the fields and fields outside the town are of deep water-based mud überpfützt. Short breaks from the sun. The livestock on pastures casts shadow magnets. C.'s flight from his sleep and wakes up a little bit taken away.

The luggage flutscht heil to the rubber belt, we grab us a Aircoach in the city. C. is becoming paler, dopes, a small pack headache drugs in the small remainder of his water bottle. His face gleams like nurmehr diluted, shallow Kilkenny, the nose a touch of Cashel Blue cheese, the facial features fall into flabby collapses. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead suddenly, breathing is difficult. Hurrying from concerned glances from my eyes to him. Only after a few minutes lost in my brain: Huch, agrees yes, yes, we go now left. Among the clouds grauknittrigen towers to bolt the typical semi-detached houses gone, green Mailbox columns, colorful whitewashed wooden panels, the first floors of shops and pubs hug. But it is a rather zerrupfter charm, with us the Suburban landing.

In O'Connell-Street sets us from the bus and is on almost together to further our luggage nozzles. Fortunately, our veto successful. Dublin, here we are. And while I map the best way to browse Hostel, remains C. unfortunately no other choice than to quickly towards the sanitation of a large fast-food chain to hurry. The stomach worried. In calm pace, with considerate breaks, we stroll to our hostel. Already clear: The first part of the Dublin-Explorations I will be on a fist.

Alkohöllischer haze hound by the bull Kopp, as a volltrunkener Bollo suddenly gröhlte: "Boah nee, Shakira, which stinks but after Pommes ausse nose!"

Happy Birthday, Mr. W!

The bartstoppeligste champions, the grand hiphophipste, charming Wit, the uncruisigste King of Cool, Holsten sympathy makers of the No. 1 network is just confused on the paper over, but today. Congratulations, MC. Get not sell, even if you could each sell everything.

Ar chúl

The gravity bends my eyelids. Sufficient sleep is a bit ago. The aircraft has landed safely. The train has to Münster his goal after a little more than two hours also found. Daheim. And still a little tired. On the night, then, the same.

The next draft will be mine

"I made myself at a dinner in October on the way home, after I gallons halbverdautes Porter on the floor of an economy in the Parnell Street had left behind, and I put myself under considerable difficulties to bed, where I, under the pretext of a cold three days remained. I was forced to my suit under the mattress to hide, because at least two of the five senses to kick, and he took a statement barg my illness, which has already put forward in opposition. " (Source: Flann O'Brien-Swimming-Two-Birds)

To 6:00 pm, the train, at ten o'clock, the pilot, around noon, I am in Dublin. My first time on the green island. Only for two days, but two days. I am looking forward, I am curious. On a short trip exciting! Green Island, I come.

From ocean giants, flaky phones and former Schiffshebewerken

J. calls me. My phone has orange shed in the back-light glisten and a red Santa Claus hat. With Plüschbommel. It does not ring, it barks. Some surprised me. J's voice sounds like always.

"Can you come to the port and help me?"
"Clearly, what is going on?"
"I can not get the ocean steamer auszuparken. It is so close here and I want none of the other ships ram. "
"But I have also never been an ocean steamer out."
"Do nothing. The do you already. "
"Mnnhääähhhhmnjoa ... well now."

I schwinge me on my bike and race towards the quay. Like a verknotetes jumble of arms and crane ship's masts me the harbor skyline. In which city I am, nobody knows, I do not. I Abgehetzt curve between Container round towers, close to the dark schwabbernden floods. J. is here, but where is her giant ocean?

"Den but I prefer at home. But we desperately need these trucks drive to Bielefeld, there is bright green, fermented milk in it, and all truck drivers refuse to transport the stuff. One company will then buy the stuff. "
"We, I think, right?"
"We said Du."
"And why again? I am not MacGyver, no nuclear warheads from Nussnougatriegeln and tissues handicrafts and I have no truck driving license. "
"You already do."
"Hach."
"Comm"
"Well."

I climbed into the driver's cabin. Everything goes like clockwork. Huh, I can drive trucks. I easily control the ultratief droning Vierzigtonner by strudelaufwärtsführende roads, the guidelines in the middle goldglänzend shine. An electric guitar falls from the sky. I drive accidentally drüber. A long bomb laying at the roadside shrieks curses me behind. We happen to a former ship, which now serves as Bratwursthebewerk. And it beeps. Unentwegt. Lots. Faster. Bratwursthebe ... Bratwu ... Brat ... "Are you now totally?" , I asked, still half in a dream. Then, shortly after the curtain scans. I am awake. A strange night. A much seltsamerer dream. As someone once said, you need strange trip for drugs. You need sleep.

To note

I am amazed. The following important information reached me just completely unsolicited email:

Media Information

+ + + German Championship on the Hirschrufer HUNTING & HUND + + +

+ + + Professionals from across Germany röhren to bet + + +

+ + + Deer röhren in dialect + + +

The breeding of deer is over. If you do in the near future
A tube supposed deer heard, it could be because
Again eagerly for the HUNTING & DOG (31 January to 5 February 2006) trained
.

(The detailed press information can be found here:
Http://www.westfalenhallen.de/presse4871.php)

Is there a semantic context of black birds, with the Blackbird, Fink and Star in children's songs emerge, and the Kraftherunterregelung, for example Mofa-Motoren?

Trister storm in blue

Is your faith a bird in darkness? Zerplittertes glass. Note one moment. Hustle strobe light scans an eternity. When the end lie? The windows burst. We are destroyed by you. Blue storms roll up. Schwing you out. Sanft küssender rain. Tastes like blue and gold. Lichtspritzer send you through the air. Rauskrachen, implied. Tears drop eyes watering the sidewalk. Let it fall, let it fall. Charcoal Blue floats in city petals. All believe that none of them is warned. Let it fall. Landslide. Genea.

(Available for: Elliott-Blue Storm)

Mr. Geist (time)

Among white rabbits Mr. spirit of his life a tense relationship. Blame it bore the Lewis Carroll's Wonderland. More specifically: The white rabbit that breathtaking and timeless prior to the time verronnenen them and the remaining time hinterherrannte. Not infrequently, it happened that in the mind of Mr. Geist everything turned. In his pupils, on his nose and on his chin focused cheerfully silver watch on small numbers leaves. His few remaining hairs kräuselten at times and time way clockwise. Where were these oddities, nobody knew. In the belly mother had Mr. Geist doctors with ticking sounds strangely confused. And when he came to the world, astonished everyone. A small baby, not screamed, but rang with metallic shimmering slices and marches tickendem body. When his mother her child in the arm wanted to take, she fell into impotence. It was strange that all the numbers in and leaves him at various times indicated. He was the time, but the time was never the same and at all different places at the same time different. He was the co-prematurity and the posteriority, past, present and future. The time it trickled away, bubbled out of him, he arose and deflagrated to him, and renewed zerronn himself, turned with him and he with her. Even as a child, he was by all as "zeitgeist" teased. If he was drunk, he came even before, when he was a crazy hat with butter, jam and tea kaputtreparierte pocket. In contrast to the white rabbit, he always had too much time. At the same. "Make a journey with us," quipped his cronies happy in the school. Or: "Come already rung 'for us. Then is now pause. Or anxious that the clock go faster. " That was already the little Mr. Geist. And he would never learn. Recently, the temporal blessed him. Sad and lonely, he is the life and jumped from a window of the third floor.

The Rockers corner

The view running the length and breadth of the wuselige turmoil, the brain buzzes under high voltage. Search, find, identify. What a huge fan but I used to the "Wimmelbildern." And how excited I was when I discovered here. Volume 74 names in a picture. Enjoy your search!

It seems to me today, I have too much sleep cream eaten.

Kölle, we come (Part II)

Somewhere behind Remscheid relax our faces. With the snow, it has largely ausgeflockt. The transport schliddert again faster progress, and in the vicinity of Leverkusen through us hoped, but still in time for the festival to start Palladium to come.

Clearly, we have calculated in the length of the queue in front of the entrance. Our snuggle jackets in the car trunk together, we have our quiet überplapperten cold, let us eisbetautem benieseln rain and remember once again how little cool but Pils helps itself up internally. But our place in the snake sausage approaching the front end. The Gods of rock already los lightning, it rumbles through the old stone walls, but at shortly after four and a half songs later, we, in the holy, warm lobby.

Gods of lightning

After a short stop at the merch swish we in the dark steel makers pillar belly of the concert hall. Surprisingly way it is not so much the music as the design of the Kopfbewuchses of us to start discussions:

With halbaufgeknöpftem shirt buzzes the singer and bass player with his hairstyle strubbeligen catalog on the stage and shows what he Volkshochschulkurs "Posing" has learned. The drummer shakes his hair for us and enters the evidence indicates that metal mesh but is not yet in danger of extinction, while his Guitarrero frisurell his old hero of Pantera appears to be shrill. The four Berliner schrubbeln solid down its program, including their small underground hits "Greetings from flashbackville" and "The rising." Full swing between Angel Franz Ferdinand, Hard-Fi, Mando Diao, Beatsteaks and just what else is applicable at the moment. Does a little like Reißgebretter, the whole thing. Visually and aurally. Are, but is not enthusiastic. The Koelsch, bar plörrt more than it into old, but I was thirsty and embark fix it down. Oh, concert already over? No matter. Holste still beer?

An unexpected but very friendly meeting during the renovation break with a hitherto unknown. The scent of Bock sausage, dumplings and potato salad schwabbert through the doors to the foyer. The tipsiness has now fuseligen its claws into the consciousness of the surprisingly solid represented Turbojugend gekrallt. Munter will lurched, stumbled to be thrashed, glasses zerdeppert, bawled, puking, however, still in steigerbarem degree.

Dredg

The light falls again. Dredg make their waiting. In anticipation me feel tall and curiosity - I was by their lax performance to the best coffee and cake time on the "Rhine culture" in the summer but rather disappointed. But how much better this band does in the dark! Verhalltes chirps the guitar, caught at square motif in shreds, bulges on. The bass pulses, soft swish their fingers on the fingerboard. The drummer, a gifted Poser before the Lord plays with rhythm and meter as Ronaldinho with the leather ball, and it also creates yet, simultaneously with the piano to play left and right weiterzugrooven. Through the interim muttering fusseligen guitarist in his beard, grimly shrugs. His guitar or the cables are eaten only infrequently and do what they should. And yet. Just the chorus is the loose addressed and the pathos volcano can be ignited and breaks soon. Melody lines of weltentrückter überglitzern beauty of the massive, hot bubbling lava reef-the rhythm section. A heißkaltes alternating between dreamy and lyrical bretternder Rockkelle sphere. Again and again equally funny how fascinating at the end: Dino, the drummer, grooving in ecstasy continues, while two roadies piece by piece dismantle his drums until nothing is left of them. Gran Dios, rousing, candidate for the best concert of the year.

The Soundtrack Of Our Lives

The first Scandinavians to grab the baton. Eingesprungen for the grandiose Billy Talent, schwummern The Soundtrack Of Our Lives their schrammeligen, melodieseligen Sechzigerjahrerock. The buschbärtige singer Ebbot Lundberg has another familienzeltgroßen caftan over his body thrown crowned and preaches with a long white scarf, and well balanced as einladenenden gestures as a priest of the increasingly numerous influx of Rock community. The guitar roasts, which Schlagzeugscheppert, the organ schwurbelt. A set of great fun and Sweden.

Life Of Agony

The hamburger is still hard in the stomach, because the delicate Brachialisten come to the stage. The breakthrough is riveted, they are back: Life Of Agony. With orkanischer brunt of the blow earwax from the ear passages and doubt from the awareness, whether it is still a chanterelle they should set after its reunification. Keith Caputo is still the flitzeflinke, small globalization with the large throat, which Haifischfrisur like an elastic rubber truncheon on the stage rushes. Ultratieftönende Grummelriffs with explosive crash, razor rhythms together. The handle bass, the guitar thunder, the inverted baseball cap trembles in the crash thunderstorms. A few phrases Keith has also memorized. We are the best audience of the tour, or even of all time. He loves us. In between, there's side for all skeptics, and the Runterladefetischisten Unkenden the guys nothing but greed for the merger nerneuten assistant. There's also hits. Actually all. The rattle and ears whistle, as Keith us with warm, adopted exhortation: "Stay positive!" We will.

Turbonegro

Every step now sticks. The cloakroom is closed because of overcrowding. At snack, there's the sausage only without bread. Schaler beer haze billowing through the foyer. Zertrampelte napkins, beer, brandy, cola, tilting überbappen the entire floor. Now, the big moment of uniformed. Several hundred denim jacket winners of the "FDTJ", the free Turbojugend have achieved their goal. Draw your heroes. The sailor caps are waved, the lipstick is warped and quickly followed up, the neighbors will be quick beer on the mat tilted, and together will bawled and rock that crackles rind. Turbonegro are in the house! With schwabbelnder Bierplautze, sweaty adhesive fatal black hair and make up around the eyes tells Henk in broken German Sweden in the breaks laden stories of Fotzen, tails, beer, Rock'n'Roll and St. Pauli. The mass bawls and fetch more beer. The fact that no one falls down, despite sturmflutendem alcohol level and roaring heat, is only the dense crowd. Together, rocked and gejohlt. Uououououooooooh! All the Hits Northern Lights in luggage and blare their prollig-selbstironischen reef rock of the community around the ears, at the end still persevered and weitergrölt minutes before they get, which is why they are here: "I got erection! Nothing for zartbesaitete minds. But major sports on the last Sunday of the weekend.

Mando Diao

For sweeping Hitreigen end to ensure the monsterhippen, gehypten kilometers Tommy Hilfiger-makers and advertising Schmockrocker of Mando Diao. Even at the sight of Bjorn sag Gustaf and the first girls screaming along too well oiled as folding the sponsor. The eardrum trembles before the frantic cheering. A few small spots twitch in the face at the sight of some of Gustaf hyperarroganter Posen, but the sweeping, and with melodieselige forward grooving Rock makes enormously good mood. Not quite as exciting as in track 22 next two years, but now, despite its enormous size, the band, at least not today enthusiasm missing. Scheppert and schwurbelt through verses and refrains, builds an unfamiliar phrases, a catchy chases the next. A stunning conclusion of a grand concert tags, we just before the encore. Finally, we have on the outward journey in accumulating enough already confessed. On the return trip we Gehügel kicking around Wuppertal extensive flee before us überfrierender moisture and ice bergaufbergab by comfortable and stress on Wuppertal home purr. Visions festival? Gladly!

There are few hairbrushes, Mechthild hot. Again, this is not one of them. Not even in the vicinity.

Kölle, we come (Part I)

And indeed!
Geglaubt we have not.
But we are prepared.
Even if we have forgotten just four times, the Mixtape time for the jam showcase of the shaft to bounce.

Abandoned electricity pylons, hundreds of thousands of jitter in the nighttime darkness of Munster country without electricity, heating and hot water. We had only itself from the news of them. It was also Muenster in over 30 centimeters eisigweißer Glitzerpracht rapt, the heating system is down, but only in the student dormitory evil camp road. The cars sneaked slither at a snail's pace on the slippery roads, the regional trains raised the white flag, and the buses were on Friday evening to the spirit. Wild stranger pfefferten people are snickering lockerflockige balls around the ears. In the middle of the night suddenly bappten edelweiss S (chn) eepferdchen to lantern poles, a großbusige, globular Snow Queen mice was enthroned in the castle garden. A rabbits nibbled, shivering from cold, on the carrot dropped a rotting snowman.

Almost a madness in such weather to the "Visions Anniversary Festival" to go to Cologne, right? The question drills, but the musical passion prevail. Finally, we have tickets. The money can be forfeited, the concerts miss? Nix there. Especially: Well, on Sunday, it seems half the wild. Call in Cologne: "Noo, everything here is free." Look out the window: excellent roads passable. So we drive. A small, Turquoise Polo without Wumms under the hood but with winter tires makes on the way.

And indeed!
Geglaubt we have not.
But we are prepared.
Even if we have forgotten just four times, the Mixtape time for the jam showcase of the shaft to bounce.

On the radio Dumplings freezing Munster countries Ochtrup moppern and opportunistic on the prime minister the power not to turn back, but suddenly with big gestures in their Winzstadt emerges, in which he otherwise would never driven. No electricity, nothing warm, clattering generators, pea soup in gyms, tuckernde THW-Diesel with Megafonen on the roof, in order to inform the public. But now all move closer together. Now at last the dam show. Several kilometers Schneegestöberstau thanks chaotic weather in Wuppertal, which we are slowly approaching. Corbin nonsense! This is nothing! And only then, as far as it is not more!

And indeed!
Geglaubt we have not.
But we are prepared.
Even if we have forgotten just four times, the Mixtape time for the jam showcase of the shaft to bounce.

Suddenly flockt it. Always wild. Ice storm gusts hurl smooth, icy masses down. The resting place for the rights sinks in white Aufgetürm. We überschlittern the next hill. As is already the dam. Rien ne va plus. Disembarking, snowball battle. If we are stuck, we have double socks, gloves, be the second sweater, woolen, charcoal, ne box wine, hot mint tea and sugar caramels. What can happen to us?

It matscht when changing lanes. The Tin wobbly snow avalanche in slow motion through the curve. We happen "Schloss castle." Again and again a Schmunzler worth. Jochen tickles Britta. Lieber is not too long. Finally she. Steffis Hanuta crumbs. Nervous glances at the clock. Yet 20 kilometers. Another hour until the concert begins. What are we here in the snow at Remscheid? Thus, the nix. Regardless, already. We take what comes. The crow, decemberists Mixtape. Then the armored Korso again faster. We will ride on, we come Koelle, and apparently is not even too late.

(Part II follows)

That there's still no!

How exactly is astonished blocks, is still not sufficiently researched. But yesterday, I just came from the Kopfkratzen difficult. So far, one of the seemingly irreversible for me wisdom like "The earth is not a target", "Man has only two ears," or "cars in England on the right track, are ghost rider" the zuckersüße conviction "to make caramels from brown sugar, it makes Sahnekaramellbonbons from brown sugar and cream. " As I take my mini-pack "Werther", which is now no longer "real" but "original", from the pocket brings, I found I had when purchasing stock and the impossible purchased sugar-free caramels. There are things that it really does not exist. This is not new, but always surprising. A little bit is my world collapsed yesterday. But only a little.

Press thumb. The chaos in my adopted country has largely laid. And soon we want to go. After Cologne. The Vision-Anniversary Festival watch. Dredg, Mando Diao, Life of Agony, The Soundtrack of Our Lives, Turbonegro and Gods of lightning and watch live mitrocken properly. We can only hope that we quickly and safely through. Precaution is now cheerfully steaming, hot mint tea in cans filled thermos, a second pair of socks and a thick woolen packed. Do not give in bed. No shivering in snowy jam columns. Frustriertes swearing, because nothing more. Be and we remain strained. I hope everything goes well.

Napoleon solo

Cut and paste. Hattet you verperlten established on the impotence of New Orleans? And a touch of tension, when the phone rings. This is forever. A touch of walking distance between the Satzbaufehler from yellow paved road in Austin. This is forever. From this ausgehauchten Texas-breathing, not a sign of relief, because you know this: This is forever!

The twenty third March shooed in the wind, the music out. When you first get the best out of us can: it is that it's forever! Power no difference. In your letter alphabet missing. Seventeen, embalmed, and coffins are lowered into the weather, a penetrating, friskier rain.

Zupf busted harp on this, we were taken by the chords, set their hearts. Yes, this is forever.

(At freely after the drive: Napoleon solo)

Equality will snowball slaughtered.

The grandeur lazier towers

Million. Who they were and where they were, no one knows. But they have voted. Over three million votes, as the Internet has been called the most beautiful in Europe Kläranlagen-Faulturm küren. And probably no other country in Europe is so beautiful in the tower gefault as in Germany.

Europe's finest tanks are in Halle (Saale) fares, Göttingen and Bottrop. Schlichter silvergray gloss hauled from the lazy tower hall on the throne, Göttingen thrilled with the jury Senkrecht-Streifen colorful. In the over 50-meter-high "Blue eggs" in Bottrop it was the impressive nightly illumination, when the Faulturm-Fans and experts for shiny eyes happily provided. In times timid and insecure vacillation break the German Kläranlagen-Faultürme Fanal a shining for the entire country, that Germany is still high in Europe and can be.

(Photo via hotmail.com)

Schlupp

Some stuffed dogs emulate in amazingly perfect way lively dogs. Adas dog "Schlupp" amazingly pantomimed in a perfect manner stuffed dog. A fluffy fringe troddelte before his forehead, cleverly hid the fact that the dog probably also two eyes, and revealed the Darwinian superfluousness of seeing the habit of a foreign will and a leash to be led. Streichelte it, we had to fear that his hair schlammbraunen Fells one in the finger pricked. He was a small, almost in the bag to plug, delightful stupid and had the necessary movements a Germknödels. Bequemte seltenenfalls he actually heard of his eternal Lying on the tail corduroy sofa for food, in spite of everything they had, even in these cases, the feeling that he may not even have to move. With attentive investigation could even identify which side of the head and on which side of the tail.

The dandelion withers

The beauty must die, the people and gods atque. (Friedrich Schiller, Bunge) Already pile up the sales pile, the throbbing begrabbelt, piece by piece away. The opinion-after Harry Rowohlt "best bookstore in the world," the Taraxacum in Leer, takes his farewell, closed the doors at year-end.

Amid the old town nestles at the old building between the picturesque gables. Majestic wooden pillars share and support the sales room, solid, ancient wooden shelves on the walls provide the host read-worthy works maintenance. Sometimes up almost to the edge of caricature, yet immensely lovable embodies the Taraxacum refuge for the small südostfriesischen Bohčme.

Here one could not only buy the special book. Carafes elegance and dignity aged in barrels with a variety of fine wines there too. And in a cozy cafe could existenzialistisch assist students and adults with beret and black wool felt like Sartre in "Les deux magots" or to selbstgedrehter cigarette and delude dunkelpigmentiertem red wine, the group of 47 swimmers. The Arts and Literature interested in the region, and also the small and medium-sized artists and writers had their little nest here.

Here they were among their own kind, here they were human, she's had here, and is also celebrated a little. Be it in the lunch break, be it at a dinner yarn.

Gern also in the cultural evenings with readings outstanding writer who, thanks to the rotational lively of the two brothers buschbärtigen booksellers and the cozy ambience always pleased to return to the East Frisian province lost. Arno Schmidt, Harry Rowohlt, Urs Widmer, Elfriede Jelinek, Friederike Mayröcker and many more.

In homey atmosphere in the bookstore wuselten also like jazz musicians on buttons and fingerboards, plinkerten rotlockige Harfenistinnen from Scotland in green silk wrapped railways, grölten stoutfahnige full-bart blut-Iren Celtic ways.

But the target group is too small, much remained idealistic subsidy business, the arts, the profit pressure is not resisted. At the end of the year closes the Taraxacum the gates. Enormous pity. Do it well, it was nice to Dir

Wurm, soup, rain

Wulnikowski scuffled along the mall, and thought: "Why? Why not taste the soup more if you hineinkippt sand? " The rain strähnte the hair over his collar and formed a small puddle in the space between his boots. The hard Pappköfferchen in his left hand steeped slowly. His toe hurt at the lack of appearance. But no longer remember. He wrinkle his gray eyes together to get better by the walls of water can be seen. Last acorns ploppten plucked from the tree canopy over him.

On the sidewalk in front of him, he saw a girl sitting worn with a worm in her hand held and cried. Their champagne curls seemed among the flood water to melt.

"Why are you crying?" Asked Wulnikowski the girl.

"I am not crying, I sing," gluckerte the girl.

"But why so you singing?" Wulnikowski crumpled perplexed his forehead.

"Thus the worm can laugh! My name is incidentally Milla. "

"Oh?" , Exclaimed Wulnikowski.

"Yes, exactly," smirked Milla, "Goodbye."

Milla jumped on, sat down on her bicycle and rode under the ongoing Regenplätschern them.

"So small, and can even ride a bicycle," Wulnikowski thought.

Anyone who rests on his laurels, contributing to the wrong body position.

What actually .... Today: BAP

It should be verdammp long ago that an idea or about BAP into my brain has lost. Has the chapel around the krüssellockigen largest Dylan admirer north of Bonn to me but to date very rarely inspires moist eyes and ears caused tingling.

And before I even could ask, "what do BAP really so today?" , Said meterbreite me a poster series in the rail underpass: BAP go on a greatest hits tour. So far, so very surprising. Stirnrunzelschmunzelnde moves into the face conjured amazed me the realization that the tour of the wolfstatzigen Überlebenskunst-Ausstattern of "Jack Wolf Skin" is presented. My presumption that the concerts during such a sponsor then maybe between Birkenhainen in muddy bog, menschenverlassenen, mückenübersurrten lakes or in secluded Bergklüften-at least under the open sky would take place, the wagon seems my imagination but in a very muddy path directed to .

Mr. Wulnikowski makes career. He was a great honor, now in its third edition of the magazine of great Any preserved the broken toe of a cat vermaledeiten shoplift to leave.

Umgeschnitzt he flew back to the floor. Once here in June on the spot something very similar, only with the book version, made the rounds, I mean, Morgenstern's ongoing now with a slightly modified Stöckchen beschmissen, with a sheet wrapped was asked of me: 'Take 5 23rd sentence from your blog entry. " The dashing Please come now, I want to have hard from the rear to the front and counted myself have wondered what I had not been reported and were astonished that my 23rd Even contribution (style), 23 Released in July, then:

"Naked men Adonis body with hats and hunting wild bommelndem Freiluftschniedeln in Robin-Hood- or Amor-Posen were still immensely far less wistful dream for me-not to say that the bean (beans)."

I put the stick here otherwise simple. Who likes, it may like to carry, and thus make that the mood precisely.

No night for no one.

Jörgen

"Jörgen!" . The name exfoliate on her tongue like a verwelkte tea rose. Two weeks ago, they groan, shrieked and anger trembled as the narrow wooden bridge in front of her house when the milk truck bollernd it goes.

"Hau simply," she whooped. After only one of the dried mett taken from the hook behind him hergeschmissen and following the kitchen chair against the wall cracked, in its fragmented parts. He went easy. With kaltfeuchten eyes. Shaking, shrugged, dumb. Behind him, she hollered her. The chair was later repaired, but something they had done wrong; It is something different now than before. Jörgen is not returned. Weggeblieben. She had him not even to speak. Maybe they had indeed made a mistake? Maybe he did not ...? Not to if.

All new

Börp. Chrrrrrrwk. Ppah. Bittergallisch crackles of the throat. Body mass with mustache claps against the traffic light at my window, in this difficult dustbin of the plate and can be again the previous evening by the head. Rewind. Stückchenpfütze on the Waschbetontrottoir. Bratwurst likely. And little coward. And beer. Ne crowd. Maybe Cola Korn.

"Boah Willi, mach hinne times," mumbles his pal.

"Hatred even in well. But was cool, or age? Was really cool! "

Willi spits again. Börp. Chrrrrrrrrwk. Ppah.

"Joah. Unnnnächsses year. "

Then rotate both of Schalalalalalala "to" We wolln seeehn the pugs, we wolln the Möpse seeeehn "and schlangenliniiert lurch in the direction of Bremen. Still a while and blow schlager- schnapstrunkene slogans by early Sunday morning. Willi and his pals were not alone. Micky Krause has since demolished the hut. It is five o'clock in the morning. It is over, "the largest cone Party Europe" in the Münsterland hall, a stone's throw from my apartment. The party's seems to have liked. They were probably there, too.