7th September. I suggest to das Pill that we wear penises on our faces so that she feels less old during the gig. Yeah, a schlock tactic, obsolete since 1977 - I mean, is there any respectable bourgeois offended by S&M gear these days? Not even me mom, I suppose... bourgeois sophistication means edgy experimentation and a sore arse. Of course, I am hiding this facile gimmick behind a popoststructuralist explanation: “It’s a mockery of the phallus, you know, rock stars trying to convince themselves they have it by screaming and posturing and shaking and flaunting and dangling, obvious as a dick in the middle of one’s face”. Of course, das Pill sees right through it and snarls at my intellectual laziness without lifting her eyes from the “Dos & Don’ts” page on the Glamour website.
So, tonight I’m on, solo and ‘unmasked’, in a pub in Schoneburg. Around, as far as the eye can see, fit moms coo over their offspring, compete in buying expensive German arts materials for their exceptionally gifted children and drink fair-trade macchiato with organic rhubarb cake (as part of their daily toil to save the impoverished farmers of the third world and the planet). Sometimes, the keen glances bourgeois moms send passers-by seem to say: “Hey, did you see my offspring, what a marvel, huh? Oh yes, I know, I’m so blessed, it is miraculous really, I’m deliriously happy...” you get the picture... But here in gritty Berlin, these beaming moms, gulping down their social justice-flavoured cakes and rotating their lighthouse eyes, seem to say: “An expert mom, activist and international philanthropist, all in a day’s work. Who can argue now that a housewife is a talented butler with a keen uterus?”
Anywayz, this is a sort of neighbourhood pub, away from the activist moms, and through Florian’s connections with the landlady I am advertised as: “Tonight: La Mordue (The Diagonikals) - Electropop”. Last night they had two ageing long-haired geezers self-defined as “The String Wizards” and tomorrow it’s “Bands from Latin America” night. It’s a laid back corner pub, people with cute fat old dogs; youngsters with crew cuts, golden earrings, and trousers half jeans-half camouflage; and a very friendly young waitress dressed like Nena circa 1983. So I reckon das Pill was right, the penis masks would’ve been a bit inappropriate.
One of the landlady’s mates shares a spliff with me in the back, and I’m downing these mate and vodka drinks they love over here – vodka on top of a sort of Red Bull thing, hyper-caffeinated, hyper-carbonated, hyper-sugary, the strong artificial flavour suggesting it was hard to hide the burned rubber taste ... It’s VERY Berlin though, I’m told, so it’s cool. Soon I’m babbling like an overexcited bunny.
Later I’m trying to stand up but I’m unable to, the world is rippled tunnels, slips from my grip left, right and round-and-round. I seem to be stuck between a car’s front and the wall against which it is parked and there’s a pinkish puddle very near... I lean on both car and wall, like a climber in a crevasse, and get half up, enough to hear Florian calling my name, I even see him, blurry, wavering, and cannot respond. The fear of seeing myself in the frigid light of the act pushed me to obnubilation again. Cold sweats of terrorized self-doubt around 5 a.m. in my bed...
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