Welcome To Gutterpunk Journalism

Random candid naked pic to keep you interested:



A Day In The Life:

We thought the smartest thing to to, strategically, was get all of us and our bikes over to Inge's place to get up early and shoo the dogs through the park before we both go to work.

Lest the dogs bark.

Because they do that when they're alone and not tired enough to fall into a coma.

Read on, this gets more interesting than it sounds.

My bike had had a mystery flat in front, which I fixed a couple days earlier, only to find that someone had apparently tampered with the valve on my back tire.
The minute I pumped up my newly changed tire, the other one went flat.

So there we where, friday night with nothing better to do than to wrestle my flat bicycle, Inge's bicycle and two hectic dogs to his place in order to get up early and shoo the dogs.

Since it's the weekend of Berlin's Christopher Street Day, a number of festivals and a ton of events, this means that Inge and I both need to work at bars on saturday.
And I had a clothing appointment with a customer before my shift.

We both overslept on saturday morning due to the gruesome heat at night that made sleep impossible, and got up grumpy and coffee~deprived and way too late for any bike shops to be open.
We dragged my bicycle to one closed door after the other, until I was able to persuade the fifth shop woman to pleeeeease sell me a tube for a 26 bike with a french valve already.
It was 3³°.

She wouldn't give us any tools, so there was no fixing the tire right there. We had to walk to my place again, with two hectic dogs, two bicycles, still no coffee and no time. I felt beat up already.

I had called my customer repeatedly and to no avail. He's the last person on earth to still refuse to own a cel phone. I don't know where I meet these people, it strikes me as incomparably freakish.

We arrive at my place just on time, grimy and sweaty as hell and pick my bike apart to replace the faulty tire~tube. My customer doesn't show up, by the way.

At least not on time. By 4³°, just as we're walking out the door again, he rings and I whip out my sewing kit while Inge inflates the tire.

Or tries. He's unsuccessful since it got punctured by my hurried workings on it and thus, it remains, flat.

I just can't deal with shit like that.

I scream in exasperation, we flee the scene and I kick it on my way out. I remember my sister left her own bicycle at my mother's café nearby, so we run to there.
Remember I need to be at work looking hot and queen~of~the~night~ish by 7°°, and we still need to exercise the dogs.
On our way, I yell at four neighbours we pass if they "have a bicycle! A tire! Patches! A unicicle! ANYTHING!" and they all say:

So we run to the café with two hectic dogs and Inge's bike and arrive just in time for them to open. I totally regress into old habits and scan every bike we pass on the way to see if it's locked, and how it's locked.
I check if there's any one with a quick clamp that enables me to simply "borrow" the tire I need.
No luck.

But my sister's bicycle is there. It's bulky and heinuous looking, but it's there. And unlocked. And guess what?

Joy! Rapture! Ecstacy!

I kick that one for good measure and we leave again, quarreling loudly.

The only doable thing, really, is to go to the park and chase the dogs on one bike, the embarrassing mock and ridicule of the action only being clear once you know his bike is a BMX.

It looks stooooopid.

But hey, whatever, animals teach you not to be vain. And on the way, we even pass this super modern and highly technical and efficient bike shop I forgot all about, and I obtain the glue and patches.

So we get to the park in one piece, and just as we swerve into the main dog~bike racing area and are totally ready to go, there's a *bump* and *pffft....* and guess what?

I'm not even surprised anymore, are you? To add insult to injury, we could've even fixed it right there on the spot, since I had just bought the material, right? Awesome!
Except that that day, of all days, was the only one where Inge did not have his little portable bicycle pump with him.

So we push the bike, carry the little fixing kit, and lamely begin to play with sticks for the dogs.
Which is futile, what they need is laps and laps of running pell mell, not half assed jogging after some stupid lame ass stick.
That's enough to just get them really active. It's like a snack when you're hungry, or masturbation when you want to fuck. Better not try, it'll just wet your appetite.

But it's already 6°°, so we do our best, it also starts raining since the day wasn't shitty enough as it is, and we go home.

I do a Katzenwäsche, restaurate my face and run off to what would be the busiest shift in months.

So busy that you run in circles, sweat and cry and yell, you don't pee or smoke for hours since you can't even think about leaving the counter unattended, you are alone and running the entire bar, there are over two hundred people rearranging your furniture, demanding drinks and doing drugs, your storage room is half empty so you keep taking replacement orders, little fires occur because you can't be bothered to change the burnt candles and people are too stupid to just blow the last bit out before the skulls they are perched on catch on fire, and your regular that promised to be there and always has some coke to keep your head level doesn't show up!

Yeah, I died.

I suffered and pouted and felt sorry for myself, I thought this had to be the most utterly frustrating day in recent history of Temperland.

Until Inge called and said: "The cops are at my door. The cops are at my door because of the dogs. They're barking."

And I just flipped. There was no way I could go there and prevent them from confiscating the puppies, just the time I'd need to close down the bar in the middle of orgiastic turmoil it was in was outrageous. The thought of being able to close the bar in such a state was outrageous. There was no time to call my boss and have him substitute, I was there alone and there just wasn't any time!

Inge called back just in time to keep my head from exploding, he was on his way there. This was his first real shift in the club he just began working at, he desperately needs this job and it's filled to maximum capacity by partying gay boys.
He can use this call from the cops like a hole in the head.

However, he excuses himself, leaves his part of the bar unattended, makes a terrible impression and angers his boss, and runs home.

Literally, he runs.

Because, and it goes without saying at this point ~ the bike he had fixed after the park incident plopped flat again halfway home. Of course.

He arrives home to a complete anticlimax. The cops are gone, and the dogs are quiet. So quiet that he was sure they had taken them away, he was sure they had been peeled out of the place with these slings on long poles they use, he was absolutely certain they were on their way to the shelter to be seperated and locked into cages with the fright of their lives in their bones and Horace perhaps taken away permanently since he's on the banned list.

Exaggerated thoughts, but very real at that moment.

Once he opened the door to their little excitement squeals he was simultaneously so relieved and so enraged.
Some asshole neighbour had called the cops about a year ago because of a goddamn alarm clock ringing in his absence. He had paid 200euro for the cops breaking into his apartment because the neighbour had implied he was a rotting corpse in there.
One of his neighbours is a drama~mongering trigger happy fuckface, and certainly the same one who had called the police this time as well.

He screamed out of his window and cursed them all to hell for about ten minutes.

Then he sat down to fix his bicycle yet again, since he planned on bringing the babies to my place and returning to work.

Which is when the tire exploded.

Indoors. No one called the cops this time though, even though it sounded as if he had shot himself.

He packed the dogs into a cab, came over to my bar, borrowed the money for it, and sped off to work again.

All was quiet the rest of the night. The chaos at work died down, the dogs where silent at my place, Inge was admitted to another bar in the same location, I even got home earlyish and took the babies outside for a long walk and breakfast.

But for about an hour that night, I was out of my mind. I guess that's what it's like being a mom.

By the way, since I'm strict about Horace's training and he learns insanely quick, I let him run leashless. I have, however, realized how practical it is to have something to grab him by, so nowadays, he wears a tie.

I tried to capture it, but photographing Horace is like choreographing the spastic gymnastics, so here's the best pic:



Squinty Horace looking blurry with demon~Luna in the background.
(His nose is mottled there since he fought poison ivy, btw.)

He also does "perturbed" quite well in pictures, "here's my penis", and "I'll look away", but I'll spare you.


I tattooed Inge for the first time last night. He got the same bottled fetus that I have on my lower belly, invisible in my sets since it's only about a year old, but in this picture:

Here's his:



Sorry for the shine and general grittiness of fresh~tattoo~photo.

It ultimately won't look a lot like mine because he needs to add his biomechanic stuff, but regardless, or because of that, I find matching fetus tattoos to be the most romantic thing imaginable.

Or a back alley emergency tracheotomy by your lover. Also pretty romantic if you ask me.

Please give me other examples of true romance, will you?


Next journal entry ~ the comparison of two interviews I did for european punkrock magazines, hopefully one of the Thank You's for the recent print selling, the amazing story of Simon And The Really Dead Jawbone, and I'm really needing to add FAQ's to my journal as well.

Till then.

Ok, really quickly so it doesn't look as if I was using the situation to scam more money off anyone than needed.

The entire amount of 1,500 euro was collected within like 4 or 5 days.

I wanted to adequately update my journal with two special Thank You Things, but alas, it will take a little longer due to technical deficiencies.

I heart you.

And in the meantime, here are some images I just got from Katja Ehrhardt, who is an absolutely incredible woman and by the way, also shot a set for me which is pending staff review.











IMPORTANT: I have sent out each and every print.

I believe.

I have received over 15 pages of messages within less than a week, not including emails, phone calls, visits to the mule genital sucking ass that is my bank, the post office and keeping organized who wants what, how many and in what size, who is Gary and who isn't and so on, so.

In case you do not receive your print by the middle of next week ~ please message me.

In case I have inexplicably stopped talking to you mid~email~comversation ~ please message me.

I hope I have everything wrapped up, but please let me know if anything is still lacking. It wasn't intentionally cancelling our collaboration without leting you know or being a bitch.

UPDATE:

First of all, THANK YOU SO MUCH! Response has been absolutely incredible, even if you only offered some words of encouragement. I'm truly amazed at how helpful people are, and insanely grateful.

I have just received another image by Jo Schwab, the photographer who created the b&w portrait already available.
I have permission to also sell this one as print, so I am offering it in addition to what is up already. (Pricing and conditions as the other picture by him.)



Btw, I'm eating a sandwich as we speak.

AND, please observe and adhere to this Thread of Awesome that the girls have come up with!

On to the Original Post from June 11th:

Ok, I truly apologize for this journal entry of pathetic beggary. But I received mail today which put me in a quite precarious situation.

The following:

Long story short, scroll to the end of this foolish story and you have the root of my troubles.

I was convicted to 55 Tagessätze due to bodily harm, amounting to 1,540euro or alternatively, 55 days incarcerated. I got the letter today "requesting" my appearance within two weeks to be locked up. The only way to avoid it is to pay immediately.

This happened almost two years ago, before I had my puppy. If Horace didn't exist, I'd be like "Pfft, fuck it." and let them do whatever. But things have changed and I can't leave baby alone for 1 1/2 months.

Obviously there's no way I can shake that amount of money out of my sleeve, so what I need to earn as much money as possible immediately in order to somehow organize this. Every tiny bit will help.

So amongst other things like borrowing (*cringe*) and scraping together the 12 or so euro that I have, what I'm offering is the following:

Prints Of Any Picture Of Any Set.

1. Subfuture Junkie

Examples:

2. Whisky And Cigars

Examples:

3. Engine Room

Examples:

4. Tempered By Heat

Examples:

I also have permission to sell the following image as prints:



Which is the most recent, and I love it since I've never looked so... chiseled.

All set images can be printed in any requested size (within the boundaries of their format, of course) up to approximately 30cm x 21cm or 12" x 8".
Some set images may be printed as large as 60cm x 42 cm or 24 x 16, depending on the resolution. Please ask if you are interested in a certain picture that size.

The last offered image in black&white is printable in huuuuuuge, so whichever size you want is probably doable.

You are also welcome to check this folder and this one for older images, or all albums in case you like random pictures of me drinking.
(Some of those have already been sold as prints previously with the promise of exclusiveness, and I keep my promises. Please ask.)

Set Print Prices:

Sizes 0 x 0 ~ 15cm x 10,5 cm = 10 euro / 15,40 USD / 8,00 GBP
Sizes 15cm x 10,5 ~ 30cm x 21cm = 20 euro / 30,90 USD / 15,80 GBP
Sizes 30cm x 21cm ~ 60cm x 42 cm = 40 euro / 61,80 USD / 31,60 GBP

Chiseled Image Price: Will be a little higher since it's pretty awesome.

Sizes 0 x 0 ~ 15cm x 10,5 cm = 15 euro / 23,20 USD / 11,80 GBP
Sizes 15cm x 10,5 ~ 30cm x 21cm = 30 euro / 46,40 USD / 23,70 GBP
Sizes 30cm x 21cm ~ 60cm x 42 cm = 60 euro / 92,80 USD / 47,50 GBP

Shipping Prices will vary, of course, depending on size and location.

A 30 x 21 cm print will cost:

Throughout germany ~ 1,54 euro
Throughout europe ~ 2,00 euro
Internationally ~ 4,00 euro

For alternate sizes please adjust size x 2 or / 2, I think you can do the math.

Thank you.

EDIT: Jeez... ok.

Due to subtle prompting nudges by ladies like Myra, Sheena, Stellaris, Elaine, Vi and Doherty, I'll say that yes, fine, I'll also be selling my panties, peepee, pubic hair and used sex toys.

Go thank them for this once in a lifetime offer.

Ok, I truly apologize for this journal entry of pathetic beggary. But I received mail today which put me in a quite precarious situation.

The following:

Long story short, scroll to the end of this foolish story and you have the root of my troubles.

I was convicted to 55 Tagessätze due to bodily harm, amounting to 1,540euro or alternatively, 55 days incarcerated. I got the letter today "requesting" my appearance within two weeks to be locked up. The only way to avoid it is to pay immediately.

This happened almost two years ago, before I had my puppy. If Horace didn't exist, I'd be like "Pfft, fuck it." and let them do whatever. But things have changed and I can't leave baby alone for 1 1/2 months.

Obviously there's no way I can shake that amount of money out of my sleeve, so what I need to earn as much money as possible immediately in order to somehow organize this. Every tiny bit will help.

So amongst other things like borrowing (*cringe*) and scraping together the 12 or so euro that I have, what I'm offering is the following:

Prints Of Any Picture Of Any Set.

1. Subfuture Junkie

Examples:

2. Whisky And Cigars

Examples:

3. Engine Room

Examples:

4. Tempered By Heat

Examples:

I also have permission to sell the following image as prints:



Which is the most recent, and I love it since I've never looked so... chiseled.

All set images can be printed in any requested size (within the boundaries of their format, of course) up to approximately 30cm x 21cm or 12" x 8".
Some set images may be printed as large as 60cm x 42 cm or 24 x 16, depending on the resolution. Please ask if you are interested in a certain picture that size.

The last offered image in black&white is printable in huuuuuuge, so whichever size you want is probably doable.

You are also welcome to check this folder and this one for older images, or all albums in case you like random pictures of me drinking.
(Some of those have already been sold as prints previously with the promise of exclusiveness, and I keep my promises. Please ask.)

Set Print Prices:

Sizes 0 x 0 ~ 15cm x 10,5 cm = 10 euro / 15,40 USD / 8,00 GBP
Sizes 15cm x 10,5 ~ 30cm x 21cm = 20 euro / 30,90 USD / 15,80 GBP
Sizes 30cm x 21cm ~ 60cm x 42 cm = 40 euro / 61,80 USD / 31,60 GBP

Chiseled Image Price: Will be a little higher since it's pretty awesome.

Sizes 0 x 0 ~ 15cm x 10,5 cm = 15 euro / 23,20 USD / 11,80 GBP
Sizes 15cm x 10,5 ~ 30cm x 21cm = 30 euro / 46,40 USD / 23,70 GBP
Sizes 30cm x 21cm ~ 60cm x 42 cm = 60 euro / 92,80 USD / 47,50 GBP

Shipping Prices will vary, of course, depending on size and location.

A 30 x 21 cm print will cost:

Throughout germany ~ 1,54 euro
Throughout europe ~ 2,00 euro
Internationally ~ 4,00 euro

For alternate sizes please adjust size x 2 or / 2, I think you can do the math.

Thank you.

EDIT: Jeez... ok.

Due to subtle prompting nudges by ladies like Myra, Sheena, Stellaris, Elaine, Vi and Doherty, I'll say that yes, fine, I'll also be selling my panties, peepee, pubic hair and used sex toys.

Go thank them for this once in a lifetime offer.

Welcome To Gutterpunk Journalism.

So my mother married a douchebag on saturday and I didn't go.

Not as a form of protest, if she wants to marry a douchebag then more power to her. At least he's not a drug addict or violent, so an improvement is an improvement.
Nevertheless, he's a total douchebag and I didn't go.

Since my bar boss has gone to Austria I had to romp around the place the entire weekend with 10~12 hour shifts and honestly, if I'm doing that, and I have a boy and a puppy that need tending, I'm not wasting the few hours I'd have to sleep on standing in some department watching my mother cry tears of joy while her oily haired beau goes: "Hughn hughn I do."

Because that's what he does, go around laughing like "Hughn hughn" at any given moment.
He's from some place I forgot in eastern southern something europe and hasn't bothered to learn either german or english. His whole batch of brothers has planted itself into my mothers café to work, which is fine since every single one of them is brighter than the one she chose, but they still all communicate via grunting noises.

I swear to god.

He's a total douche.

Yesterday, I was sitting in the café with the dogs and the freshly married pack of mother and husband and brothers sat eating leftovers, and this idiot takes a piece of cevapcici and waves it in front of Luna's nose.

"Hughn hughn hughn" *wave wave*

Luna follows it with interest and I say: "Please don't do that."

I fucking hate that. Not only is it such a primitive and shallow behavior to derive pleasure from waving meat before a animal's face, it's mortifying to watch because you know he needs to do that just to feel superior to the dog.
He needs to do things to feel superior to a dog.

I don't like feeling mortified on someone else's behalf, it makes me want to kill them.

Instead of killing, I say: "Please don't do that." and he looks at me, goes "hughn hughn hughn!" and continues waving.

I draw in a breath to urgently repeat, and he gives her the fucking meat.

He's is such a fucking stupid asshole pighead douchebag.

So I jump up, wrestle the meat out of Luna's mouth, who hasn't done anything wrong and doesn't know what's happening, and yell at him:
"Why have you done that? I told you not to and this isn't some fucking joke ~ that's spiced meat and probably pig for all I know and it gives her diarrhea all over the place and I don't think you'll be around to clean it up! So could you please summon some common sense and respect and not behave this way?"

And my mother, who's been sitting next to him and pretends to not have a clue about animal nutrition just to baby him, goes: "Really? Oh dear, Tony, maybe you rather not do that in the future."

"Hughn hughn."

Fucking hell.
Significantly, Tony shares a name with the donkey that lives where my pony does. Tony the donkey and my pony are not friends.

By the way, this is my pony:

But you see why I didn't go to the wedding, right?
I mean, I had work to do, and my phone doesn't work so if anything, I was waiting for their calls to be informed, and then actually the dog had a bad eye and we needed to go to the vet, which was closed when we got there, and you see where this is going ~ this wedding was just the last on my list of priorities.

And then my mother, god bless her, tells us about how it went and says things like:
"Well, there weren't as many people there as we expected, it's like that with Tony's family. Where they come from, appointments just aren't as binding ~ either you're there or you aren't, maybe you cancel last minute..."
And I'm thinking, you know, this doesn't sound like a cultural phenomenon, it just sounds like the entire family constist of huge fucking disrespectful douchebags.

But whatever floats her boat. I just don't see why you'd voluntarily play warden for the mentally challenged if you're not even paid for it.

My boat was floated by not going to the wedding and instead turning my work shifts into something fun.
This weekend, I lived off my almost~forgotten diet of a gramm and a half of cocain (the high quality kind, with pieces of glass in it to scrape away your nasal septum and increase the crappy impact ), alcohol, four packs of cigarettes, some tilidin and paracetamol.
There's no way I'm gaining any weight like that, as I had planned to look luscious this summer and not bony, but hey.
I had fun.
And depending on who you're dealing with at work, drugs are sometimes pretty essential lest you club someone to death with a beer crate.
Astera witnessed him, there's this guy who's completely lost all his marbles and he comes there with his girlfriend, who is a rather poised and competent looking woman, and I have no idea why she puts up with him.

They're both in their early forties, she should know better. He's the... Wait. I was going to say "He's the sort of guy that..." but he isn't. There is no "sort of guy" like him.

He is skinny and his shirt is unbottoned halfway. He has pointy shoes and brown hair that defies any cut or do.
He screams at you in an astoundingly high~pitched voice immediately upon arrival, no matter how busy you are.
A Flanders scream.

But he screams: ""HEY! YOU! YOU! YOU!"

And you ignore him.

And he screams: ""YOUUUUUU"

Until finally, you inform him that if he can't keep it down you're going to ask him to leave, and he screams right in your ear: "RED WINE! AND SHE'S THIRSTY! THE WOMAN IS THIRSTY! GIVE ~ HEY! YOU! THIRSTY!"
Then he turns to her and screams: "DRINK! RED WINE WHAT ARE YOU DRINKING!"
Then he turns to me, who has gone away from the scene, and screams: "YOU! HEY! SHE'S THIRSTY!"

Then he tears open his shirt, rolls his eyes, bares his teeth, forgets his mission and dives over the counter to kiss her grotesquely.

I'm not exaggerating. He's very primal.

I had to get all that off my chest. I'll answer your questions next time, promise.

Ask me a question, throw me some bait, fuel and form my next journal entry.

I feel the ability to grasp ideas and evolve them into concepts have evaporated from my mind since curiously, nothing seems quite important enough to remember.

So give me some substance.

Welcome To Gutterpunk Journalism.

There is nothing quite like internet love...

So guess who finally has her internet access back?

Exactly.

Finally, I can return to frolicking in cyberspace, give and receive valuable entertainment and stop wasting my time with living an actual life.

* Horace of course is brilliant. As per request, I deliver the following pictures, in chronological order of growth:

I don't think I've shown you the babybabybaby pictures, have I?

These where shot by P_Mod back in... december? when Myra got her wtbq set.

He was so tiny!

And we know, it looks like a family portrait. We planned on getting married just to justify those pictures but then though nah.

This one is mini because I'm not supposed to make any of that shoot public yet, so you need to keep this secret with me. The clothes I'm wearing are made by me.



And these are the newest, from about two weeks ago. He's now 7 months old.

He's 19,3 inches tall and weighs 48 pounds, in case anyone's interested.
He'd also be really well behaved if he wasn't a teenager these days... he gets his impertinent 15 minutes every few days when he drives me crazy.
Oh, the wonders of hormones and children discovering their sexuality.

But he constantly invents his own games. The other day while I was brushing my teeth he first sat down in the shower cubicle, and then stuck his nose down the drain until it was completely sealed. The drain, that is.
Following this, he delighted himself in blowing dog~breath down the pipes until it resurfaced through the other drain in the bathroom floor, creating a myriad of surprisingly noisy bubbles.

Like blowing air through a straw into your glass.

It smelled like dead ass, but he thought it was the greatest thing on earth.

Enough on Horace, I feel too mommy~ish already.

* Here I am by BrianHortonArt, with Ronja.



* Going out has proved utterly worthless this winter.

No good shows, no money to spend, and friends developing unreliability.
On one hand, I suffered from severe novelty fatigue while out, on the other I was bored out of my mind at home.
But every single time I summoned the energy to make myself glamorous, it ended with GHB in my drink, worthless fights not even good enough to brag about, unexciting people, unenergetic music, uninspiring everything, no drugs, or worse ~ drugs of terrible quality.

Everything was mediocre.

You go out, you drink, and all around you amounts to utter blandness. I can't even recall anything that happend, which shows how bland it was.
The most dispicable event occurable while going out is not "having a horrible night where a thousand horrible horrors happened", but discribing it afterwards as: "Uh... I don't know. Nothing, really."

So fuck that.

I stayed at home and made clothes.

* I vaguely remember being in London, it was a blur.

I hated it.

I hated it for spending, in four days, the same amount of money I could have lived off a month in Berlin and unable to account for where it went, simply because it went for food and a roof. The boy and I bummed everything else, and I wasn't even pleased with the fact, since mostly we bummed from Zak.
But one day Inge will be rich, and then he can take care of Zak and me, and then I'll be rich and take care of Zak and Inge, and I want to include Adria in this list, when we all meet in Nowosibirsk or Sao Paulo or Algier.

It was just all scrambling around with nothing working the way it should and fading from one clump of drunk people screeching in high pitched voices into another. And art people.

I did, however, cut this ugly guys hair in the middle of the club after Zak's show. I was desperately necessary and I had nothing else to do.

Observe:









He looks so happy! That was probably the closest he got to a woman in years. During the process, he kept worrying what his mother would think.

Charley said she saw him a few weeks later and he looked exactly the same, he had done nothing to minimize the damage I had done. Pretty funny.
I don't know whether they where all scared, since I was still there, with scissors, but everyone agreed it was such an improvement.

Now that I type this, I remember I was so convinced by my altruistic motive that I made the effort to march back through half London to "borrow" the scissors from a pub we'd passed earlier. I was really drunk.

But the only really pleasant thing was visiting Manko and just drinking and smoking all her strawberry cigarettes from Tokio.

Seriously, thanks for that, it was the only episode which was stress free and enjoyable.

This sums up the entire journey:





* This one time my relatives in the US brought me two starfish they had scraped from the bottom of the sea while collecting lobster and such, and in a joyous frenzy i dumped about a pound of salt into their bucket.

I mean, they came from the ocean. And stuff.

I was eight.

Myra and a friend, borderline sociopathic, used to build the "bumblebee park" with little trees and grass and pools and tiny cardboard houses.
To prevent them from flying away they cut off their wings.

When Inge was a kid, he built this slingshot and fooled around with it in the yard, randomly shooting pebbles in every direction.
At some point, he heard a thump and a little bird dropped dead out of a tree.

He hadn't aimed at it, he hadn't even known it was there. He started crying.

Please tell me your tragic unintentional child animal slaying stories.

* Besides all that, I went to Barcelona to do porn without fucking. It was porn because other people fucked.
It was a fucked up, draining, bizarre, somewhat noteworthy and sometimes funny out of desperation experience, which I honestly mostly recall as a blurr of substances and intellectualizing of the matter.
I don't even know if I was there.

Or what really happened, exactly.

Or if I want to see the result.

EDIT: Nevermind, I saw it. It's hilarious. And I look like an annoying bitch with a pubescent attitude. Which is probably very close to the truth.

I shouldn't even have mentioned that, Albertine will snicker, DeeDee and Ira will go "Oh jesus..." and ZakSmith will get mad at me.

* Hey, naked pictures!

My friend Cat took these picture for a school project. They are the most stripped down naked and bare pictures of me that exist. I have no make~up, no clothes, no done hair, no jewellery, no poses, no photoshop.

Enjoy.









And while working.











And my favorite:



* And here you go, because sharing is caring. Especially with awesome music, beautiful people and radically avant~garde set designs.

Thanks everyone. I didn't respond to any comments since there's really nothing smart to say, but I appreciate them.

We buried her at my grandmother's pet cemetary, and Admiral's daddy (my ex) was so overcome with grief (seriously) that he couldn't do a thing but cry. It was one of those typical gender~bending moments that occur regularly in my family ~ the boys at funerals stand and cry while the girls shovel the grave.

Anyhow, she was rolled up in a carton like ferrets do when they sleep, the stiffness was already loosening and I would give her a last kiss on her little snout. Her color had changed, she seemed... lighter, a little more orange, altered from her usual deep~brown alive coat. Slimmer and shinier.

The other one, Ronja, will be ten years old next april, and even though we always securely assumed Admiral would outlive her, she's still skinny and sweet~tempered and undeniable alive. She's a Friedhofsdeserteur.

So now I'm staring at the screen with the newest addition of peculiarness of the Temper Household on my lap, my 14 week old bullterrier baby. His name is Horace Burton Delila Le Rübennase, and I hereby officially introduce you to him.
Horace, meet SG members. Members, Horace.





I can't believe how puppy~ish he looks on those pictures. It's been a month, and even though he's still small, he seems all grown up to me in direct comparison.
He can already run after older dogs instead of rowing after them and giving up after three feet. He can sit at streets, he's all housebroken, he knows all about busses, trains, construction sites and photoshoots, he's very proficient at cleaning up after me while I work and consequently shitting out pieces of fabric.
He's three and a half months old and weighs 24 pounds.

I got a fucking bulldozer.

Temper, what's up with that obscure name, are you nuts? I have been asked by Oxy.

I'm not sure, I answered.
The origin of "Horace" is forgotten, I think it was born in a moment of drunken absurdity. But a reference to an ancient roman poet can't be bad. It lets you be impressed by the one person a year that will recognize it.
"Burton" is the cheapest (and thus favorite) brand of cigarettes at the shop up my street, and "Delila" was added to create a balance to the almost brutal~sounding first two names. My dog defies the binary gender system! But no immediate reference to Delila, even though she's really nice.
"Le" is only there since my real last name is french with that prefix (or whatever you call that regarding names) and "Rübennase" translates to turnip~ or beetroot~nose. And they say it in The Life Of Brian.

The first three actually existed way before I even thought of getting him, I joked like half a year ago about how I was going to get a king~sized poodle and name her Horace Burton, just because it would be funny to call a dog like that a name like that in public.

Then he arrived in my life and made the name come to life, or something less cheesy, but you get the idea.

A bunch od special dog~kisses go to BrightRedScream and Dexterthedog, they know why.

So I sit here with him not on my lap anymore, since his assistance while typing is rather retarding, but I continue to sift and sort through my recent memories, attempting to filter anything of entertainment~value.

I have worked, I have mostly been a mom, I have assisted Myra's latest shoot with I assume is awesome, and really unlike anything she's ever done for SG.
I've had a drink too much at our last SGgermany~meet, and am conserved forever into infinity in this embarrassing music video.
I'm disclosing it because I know no shame.



If you watch it, consider yourself warned and don't try claiming your four minutes back, the fault lies elsewhere.
I did it not even for the money, but for free drugs and alcohol, and because a friend asked me to.
A former friend... (no, I kid. Still friend.)

Man, baby dogs are really loud. I have a hard time concentraiting since he's amusing himself with my 1~meter~metal~ruler and creating quite a ruckus while dragging it around the apartment and scolding it's impudent behaviour with barks and growls. Mean ruler.

So the fault lies with whoever cut and edited it, apparently Toni Froschhammer (Toni Froghammer. Awesome.) since naturally the dozen or so friends of mine, including Noraly have impertinently been disappeared in favor of the annoying schoolgirl thing. The entire creation is ridiculous, and a fine example of how beautiful raw material (us, not those visible) can be ruined by inept handling.

Plus, the band sucks.

I'm just glad that a) if you blink twice while viewing, you'll miss me, and b) we only invested about two hours and then went off to party in those outfits. Saved the night.


I will continue with random anecdote (If Horace lets me. He's crawling all over my arms).

* The other day, I was rudely awakened by the... Gerichtsvollzieher. Those people that come and take your things if you owe someone money and they sued you for it.
I don't have anything so they don't scare me.

In the incoherent moment of opening the door clad only in my Huey, Lewy and Dewey blanket I mistook her for a well known german comic artist due to her name and my lack of eyesight. Needless to say, I was baffled.

But apparently, so was she. I called back the jumping ball of Horace (whom I'll have to teach the difference between a normal human and such a hazard of society...), told her to come in, and a moment of absolute silence before she entered, a single empty wine bottle rolled meaningfully through the hallway, center stage.

Brilliant.

If people want your money, coincidences like these are worth their abstract weight in gold. Good morning, I am the alcoholic, the total bum, the last secretion of sleaze and vermin.

So I relished the moment, sat down on my bed, put on my glasses and appeared respectable right away. My nakedness inadequately concealed by a kid's blanket, we spoke about serious things and she never even looked around to do her job. I suppose it was difficult for her to keep on track.

So she left, I closed the door, turned and smiled at Horace and realized that the entire time I was speaking to her, she had my arsenal of penis~substitutes in full view on the back half of my bed.
That morning, it was two enormous double dildos, buttplugs of various sizes and my well loved strap~on.

I think she wants me.

* Ok, no more time for stories, that black and white bundle of joy is tearing apart my place and I have to shoo him across town. Also, there's a cheese~fondue at Cookie's i will be attending.

Cheese....

Der eine kommt, die anderen gehen.

R.I.P Admiral Pfui.








April 4th 2000 ~ November 24th 2007.


I miss her more than I thought I would.