splendid night. oldschool.

"I don't want to go home, how about one beer?" was what she said - an elderly Chinese roommate just off of her DJ gig, spinning to people far too hip and far too young to appreciate 60s soul music. I staggered a little bit, already full of a wide variety of booze, steadied only by my Döner with the spicy sauce in hand. It was 1am and my only response could have been "sure". We headed to literally the closest bar to our flat, and one none of us were too crazy to try - a nondescript Jägermeister-themed bar in the bottom of a gigantic communist-era living complex that usually had a few shaved thug-types sitting outside.

Turns out this is the sceniest of the punk venues I've visited in this city. Squatter punk bars tend to be shambly and genuinely tough with a hint of piss, this one was trying way too hard and succeeding - tattoos everywhere, rockabilly hair mayhem, and the smell of brand new leather jackets.

Turns out the thin-mustached bartender with the goggle glasses took a liking to us. When I mocked the baby-sized shot glasses he immediately summoned two mint-flavored green death shots to show me how it was done. The expected behavior after shooting such a beverage is to shatter the rigid plastic cup in one swipe with the palm of your hand, brushing the embedded jagged bits out of your flesh. But that wasn't enough - I made the mistake of asking him what the burn on his hand was - he smiled and said "ready for battery?". He probably didn't say the word battery but it sounded exactly like battery.

The wiry guy threw a few matchbooks onto the bar, and asked me to pick one. Suspecting something terrible would happen I picked the smallest of the lot, and he said "that one huh" and looked at me and my selection and paused as if giving respect to a newly-chosen life partner. He pulls out a match and holds it against the striking strip. He then places the two into the palm of my hand, and folds my fingers over the box - with only the wooden end of the matchstick visible. "You do it", he said, "pull". So here I am in Berlin, surrounded by tough fashionistas, and this guy just asked me to light a match in my own tightly-clenched hand so I could have the same scar he did, after he just gave us a round on the house. My roommate was no help at all ("do it! just do it!") but ultimately there was no way I was going to burn myself to prove myself. "I'll be back and I'll do it before I leave Berlin" is what I told him, and I'm still not sure if I'm a liar or not.

If only it ended there. I ordered a small Jägermeister shot and the same mustached maniac exclaimed "No no no, you don't get that. You will try the special." Fine, let's go with the special. The other demon behind the bar rose before me, one hand holding a Finlandia Vodka bottle full of something red, the other of viscous brown fluid. He poured them both in a shot glass and smirked as he pushed it in my direction as I exclaimed "yay, strawberries!".

The drink was pure fire, a booze potion if there ever was one. Chili peppers are far beyond the culinary capacity of most Germans, and while I was drinking liquid sadism it was nowhere near my Thai-spicy threshold. But make no mistake - this burned like hell, and the napalm stuck to me for a good 10 minutes. He almost looked disappointed at my lack of screaming as he reminded me that he made it himself. I simply had to inflict this on my roommate, who is still complaining about that chunky death of a drink 12 hours later.

Of course all of these terrible drinks had to be washed down with even more beer, ending in a -8 dexterity penalty. A few remaining rockers were dancing to the music, and I joined them once Billy Idol's White Wedding began. The eight of us pogo-ed around the place, pausing only to scream START AGAIN because these Germans really, really liked that refrain.

Eventually things emptied out and it was time to go. I yelled a final danke schön!!! at the top of my lungs and get an equally loud response by the staff. Filled with fuel and fire the two of us fell out of smoke-filled darkness and into the morning. My roommate spies the man she failed to seduce and yells insult after insult, completely in Spanish, the entire length of the block or two it takes to get out of sight. Fantastic.

Dear god these are my new favorite bartenders in all of the world and I can't wait to recover enough to go back. Last call? Remind me what last call is, again?

leaving austria.

The last night of the festival was the big one – Glenn Branca’s latest ensemble and Atari Teenage Riot formed the two reasons I was excited.  I ran across my two young Austrian chums as we were separately in search of a common love: the Döner Kebab.

Americans are quite used to the Greek-influenced gyro and the shavings of meat from the giant rotating spit.  The Turkish gift to Berlin was the Döner – thinly-sliced rotating lamb, beef, or chicken stuffed into a fluffy pita, garnished with lettuce, raw onions, and tomato, further seasoned by your choice of sauces.  At just under 3 Euros a pop these things will not only serve as auxiliary mittens during cold nights but provide incredible protection against hangovers.  My favorite joint is just down the road – the moist, fatty chicken in the garlic sauce surrounded by that warm pillow-bread beats the hell of the competition, namely the shoulder-mounted (!!!) Bratwurst stands.

This isn’t about Berlin.  I’m in Austria.  With a Döner in my hand, the first one I’ve had in 3 solid days of hunting an open stand down.  In fact the ONLY German joke I’ve been able to pull off is a play on the word Thursday.  Heute ist Dönerstag, ja?  I’ll certainly take the chuckles and confusion it caused when I was asking random people why all of the stands were closed on a Thursday.  Hint: everything in small town Europe closes by 4pm.

ALRIGHT, ENOUGH ABOUT THE STUPID SANDWICH.  At this point I’ve emptied the water bottle whiskey flask and have shared a Slovenian spliff, standing front and center waiting for the Glenn Branca ensemble to start.  If you aren’t familiar with this ancient guitar legend he’s a founding father of the anti-noodle movement - minimalism and intent and loud-ass guitars.  I hoped he would be playing himself, but he was instead the conductor in front of four guitars and a drum kit.  The music was wonderful, serene, and slow – but what I couldn’t take my eyes off of was one of the strumming performers.  He was mouthing the one-two-three-four in addition to tapping his foot, and I sat there the entire time watching his lips flap wondering if he knew (in spite of his actual experience) how n00b this looked.  This guy threw everything off but the drummer had FOUR metronomes going and man that’s bad-ass.

The Ex were a surprisingly energetic batch of old no-wave punk rockers, and more than a few of us found ourselves pogo-ing in place.  Why we were doing it individually was beyond confounding so I started pushing people low with my legs thrown high, like any self-respecting American would.  The crowd gave us room – a little too much room.  On top of that the participants weren’t really reciprocating, they would turn around and bump me with their butt.  I’ve got to say that was pretty damn odd, though I was glad to have at least something here that pushed back.

It wasn’t until Alec Empire took the stage that everything started to make sense.  This guy poured everything into this performance beyond his trademark fancy kicks – he kept trying to get us to scream and freak out and demand some sort of revolution, but he was met with a grand total of two of us dancing our asses off and the rest kind of nodding in place.  At one point he was on the floor in the middle of all of us, writhing around in exhaustion.  DO YOU WANT A REVOLUTION?! he screamed, head bent low, expecting some sort of response.  A young girl sat beside him, held her camera out, threw her arm around his wet sunken body, smiled a little too brightly, and got her MySpace shot.  It took a significant amount of restraint because I really wanted to skank over there and kick the camera out of her hand.  Alas, it was clear the Kremsians weren’t at all going to give him anything close to what he wanted.  Having such the reserved masses at a festival dubbed Failed Revolutions was a bit of delightful irony.

Back in Vienna I was still determined to find The One Schnitzel while waiting for my late night train back to Berlin.  As my cooked-in-clarified-butter candidate was naturally closed on Sunday (…) I caught a truck advertising delicious custom cakes and HEY THE BAKERY IS RIGHT BEHIND THE TRUCK!!  This cafe was packed tightly with old people, which I took as either a very good sign or that they give seniors weekly discounts on stale cake.  I sat with the only other soloist - a dressed-up elderly lady with arm braces and no food in front of her, staring at the street.  She jumped into a few conversations around me but I could feel the emptiness radiating from her.  The weight of her presence disappeared completely once my chocolate torte arrived.  That slice of heaven blew my mouth away, dense and creamy and thick with flavor.

During my follow-up performance of lying on a bench in a park under the sun, a rough-looking older man in a dirty suit started asking questions at me - pointing at the bench behind me.  Turns out this homeless Hungarian has lived in this park for 3 years now, sleeps in the nearby public bathroom, has befriended many nearby residents (as indicated by the passers by), and can even rely on the kindness of regular benefactors.  His English was quite good as we chatted and joked about just about everything under the sun for a good two hours. He pulled out his wallet to show me his old chess medals and pictures of his daughter back in Budapest, pausing only to kick the ball back to the kids who were using it as a social humiliation tool.  I could tell he didn’t want me to go but I had some battered veal to hunt down.

Eventually I found a place open that looked decent – old Austrian hunting lodge decor.  A pounded piece of fried baby animal it was, tender and tasty with crispy fries all washed down with an Austrian Egger.  The waitress looked quite disappointed when I tipped like a European but HA HA HA I’M ONE OF YOU NOW BIZZZNAZZZZ!!!!

Exhausted from the long weekend I made it back to the train station in anticipation of solid unconsciousness.  Ear plugs and sleep mask were in my pocket, at the ready.  I couldn’t wait for when the seats were turned into beds and I could get more than 4 hours of sleep.  As I boarded my car I noticed that these 6-ers were tiny – there’s no way these are beds!  I continued onward looking for my reserved seat, making eye contact with a series of cabins containing oversized children all staring back at me.  The volume got louder the further I went, and the moment I found my number was the exact same moment five guys no older than 20 whipped their heads in my direction. Each stank of spill and smoke, and they were all holding either a large beer or a cup filled with Jäger.  Oh fuck, I thought, I’ve stumbled into the cool kids cabin during a school chum getaway.  It was nearly 11pm and I winced sharply, knowing I wouldn’t get any real sleep.

The night continued on exactly how I thought it would – guys and gals running from compartment to compartment, alternating between screams and laughter, all the while keeping the single sober one (which happened to be 5 years old) entertained.  I kept my headphones on to avoid being a part of any of it, staring at anything that wasn’t them.  I had an hour of sleep total during that 12 hour ride, and I awoke from one of the 15 minute drift-offs to the sound of a body being slammed against the glass separating my seat from the corridor.  It was 7am and not only was everyone piss drunk, they were pissed off.  The banter surrounding a missing camera stopped the moment the punches started flying.  These orangutans went right at it, a drunken brawl with a screaming girl in the middle of it, behind the viewing area, inches away from me.  Eventually they were separated by their friends but I couldn’t help but wonder how often this happens in Germany.  I’m guessing every 10th train.

globalization is temporarily radical.

OH MY GOD YOU CAN NOW GET PEET’S COFFEE DELIVERED REASONABLY TO GERMANY!!!! !!!! !!!   !!!!  Decent bags of coffee here are rather expensive, and I kind of feel bad for Germany but Peet’s and Vivace kick all of ‘em to the curb.  If I can find a Rogue or Deschutes importer I swear to god I’ll do a dance.  I’m so weary of pilsner that it’s gotten to the point I might soon switch to wine-primary (!!!) just to have more options out on the town.  Hard liquor isn’t worth it unless you flask it – watching an exact pour for your $7.80 US serves to drive you crazy. The Pacific NW sure can spoil a man.

Against my own wishes I acquired an older iPod Touch, to use for mobile-type development.  I already had an MP3 player and didn’t expect to use the Touch much, but it’s been beyond awesome as my primary mapping tool (sans GPS, even!).  This is no pitch or sales opportunity, the combination of these two apps has made running through cities a breeeeeeze:

1) CityMaps2Go has a ton of locations and downloads the full maps to your device to use offline, something I think is critical (even if you have an iPhone).  Very simple app, good map detail, has a basic street lookup, does what it does very well.

2) AllSubway is nothing more than a collection of large image files of subway systems.  As simple as that sounds, anything more would be a pain to deal with.  This loads a bit slower than I’d like when I’m nearing the station, but my device is also a first-generation slowpoke and this might not be a problem with the newer ones.

IF YOU HAVE AN iDEVICE AND YOU ARE TRAVELLING AT ALL YOU SHOULD BUY THESE APPS 4 SERIOUS.

Stupid Apple, making things easy to use.

Now I can’t stop dreaming of a far-away land where I have all books / video / music on a tasty 128GB iPad v2 or Android slate-like device alongside a mega-sweet Alienware M11x 11” v2 gaming (!!!) laptop and my personal mobile tech world is complete in every way, coming in at a total of 6 lbs.

THE FUTURE OF CAPITALISM IS RADICA!L!!!! (JUST BEFORE IT OWNS THE AIR)

austria.

As the train pulled into Vienna on Wednesday‘s early morning I realized just how little sleep I had gotten on the overnight trip.  Whacked-out on deprivation and caffeine I threw my bag in a storage locker and fell out of the station in search of breakfast proper.  The lack of time in Vienna made my goals quite simple: a fantastic Melange and a fantastic Schnitzel.

The first sight I came across while walking down the more “alternative” Gumpendorfer Straße was oddly enough either an ex- or current skinhead squat.  Small bursts of paint were scattered across the front of the building, accompanied by spray-painted warnings of the contents within.

I continued on past a myriad of closed shops, eventually landing in a working man’s cafe.  The politely surly waitress was feeding liquor to the early bird alcoholic, which tipped me off this would be a no-frills affair.  The basic Austrian breakfast of Melange (read: chocolate-dusted latte), butter-covered bread, and soft-boiled egg was great on the wallet but left me rather unsatisfied.  As I continued onwards I was struck by the older man holding an umbrella underneath a construction site.  It was only as I approached him that I realized he was one of the construction workers, personally walking people down the length of the leaky overhang.  I laughed the entire time he kept me dry – it could have been my lack of sleep but I found it incredibly kind.

As I reached the museum quarter I emerged out of side streets right into a city center that took my breath away.  Berlin is that tough older girl in high school – rough around the edges, not very easy on the eyes, but it’s easy to fall for the complex young growth and endless tolerance breaking through the concrete.  Vienna is that airbrushed model from the high-fashion magazine – femininity made impossible.  I hopped on one of the ring-trams for a good hour, hoping the city would notice me too.  I have to admit being dazzled by the number of women wearing impossible footwear, strutting through the city with giant cellos strapped to their backs.  Sorry New York City, girl got nothing on this.

A guidebook’s recommendation for the perfect Schnitzel turned into a quite-tasty-if-a-bit-undercooked Chicken Cordon Bleu and a very kind pouring of wine from Figlmüller.  In hindsight I should have stuck by my craving guns, but you should know I’m powerless in the presence of any dish featuring three animals in one.

The wine only added to the sheer surreality and I knew I would soon pass out in the warm Vienna sun, so I jumped on the train to make my way 70km further to Krems for the festival.  The moment I arrived I went to the nearby grocery store to stock up on basic foodstuffs.  As I made my way through Spar I came across a rather thick-necked and nondescript woman with a terrible haircut – making eye contact and smiling like I usually do.

There are several times in Europe I‘ve wanted cameras behind my corneas, for those moments that in no way tolerate fumbling for equipment.  The look this woman gave me was of utter disgust, as if I had taken my trousers down and rubbed myself against the produce in my hands.  I laughed in response but it gave away my discomforted thoughts… Just fucking great.  Four days of intolerance in small-town Austria.

I’m happy to report my time here has been anything but!  Besides the token old lady I shared a table with who scolded me for putting pepper on my pizza, the Austrians I’ve met have been beyond friendly and fun.  Especially my new favorite cab driver – complete with silver hair, blue-tinted sunglasses, and pop electronica blaring on the radio.  I call him and plead Kommen Sie hier bitte! and this old rad dude just shows up.

My favorite two Austrians have got to be the two fellas I met at the very beginning – the three of us showing up to the first venue WAY… TOO… EARLY.  While their combined ages equal mine it has been this splendid series of hanging-out conversations.  I keep trying to feed them Red Label whisky while answering questions about America, they roll their eyes when I keep bringing up Michael Haneke.  It could very well be that Buffalo ‘66 is the most universal of languages.

Of all the new faces I’ve come across, the most unexpected would have to be Lil’ Rusty.  Thanks to both Xiu Xiu’s faithful rendition of the entire Joy Division album Unknown Pleasures but moreso the Fuck Buttons (!!!) I emerged from the night completely exhausted and deaf.  Mostly sober and lamenting my hotel being a good 3km away I began the long walk down the Danube.  As I passed the main train station I noticed all of the bicycles brightly lit and tightly chained… save one.  Lil’ Rusty was bent and rusted through, her purple frame enhanced only by her oversized metal basket.  But more to the point: Lil’ Rusty had no lock, no chain, nothing but a sad lil’ kickstand.

I walked another 100 feet and I couldn’t take another step.  I giggled like a maniac and leapt upon her uncomfortable seat, riding as fast as I could through the rest of the town and straight into the pitch darkness covering the bike path.  My jacket billowed behind me like a super villain – my heart racing as I rode parallel to the river, all of the way to my hotel.

While I returned Lil’ Rusty to her rightful place she was once again waiting for me last night.  It’s become a love affair of pure thrill - getting away with nothing, pedaling as fast as I possibly can, trusting the path continues on and on and on.

I won’t post this entry until I’m en route to put Lil’ Rusty back where I found her, this time for good.  You busted purple beast, these nights have been wonderful.