Friday, July 7, 2017

Day 25 -- "Good Morning Rimasteira, You are Old Crippled Man"

Well now!  A good morning to you, friend!  And thank you for only mentioning the missing camera charger a mere four times!

Because really what good is a camera charger in a place like Copenhagen where you can get all the pictures you want off the web?  It's not like we visited that open air Marijuana market in Christiania I heard so much about--besides, there was a closed record store that needed to be hunt down.

As such, this rimasteira old crippled man too American crippled dog boolshitter arounder decided to return to the hotel and delight in some hygiene and sleep--once it was determined the record store in question was closed, that is.

Being reimasteira and, as such, needing (and enjoying) more sleep than is polite by European standards, in light of the fact that the pesky bite on my chest wasn't becoming a less defined ring with a semi purulent centre, maybe a little soap and water followed by some regenerative sleep might slow the necrosis?

The performance was at a venue that I, as a know nothing never been anywhere rimasteira old crippled man, can not begin to understand, let alone explain.  However, if I were to try, I'd say it was originally an industrial park?  Small factories?  A few 2 story buildings?  All in their own "complex?"

If you told me it used to be a college campus, or former minimum security prision, I would believe that, too.

Anyhow, a bunch of buildings, covered in graffitti , inside an out (mind you, Graffitti, is a European invention, and owes nothing to the Americanino experience, least of all the Americanino experience in that 4th world shit hole that has contributed nothing to anyone or anything ever), lots of bicycles, enough cigarette butts on the floor to give one the impression of being in Rome...Are you getting the picture?

If you are a know nothing Americanino shitter arounder, you probably are not getting the picture.

Not only are too-American Americanino crippled dogs afraid of their own shadow, but they are also fascinated--(infatuated maybe?)--with money.  A stark difference from the good people of the EU who know money is just a contrivance and construct about which only boolshit americanino worry (except when it comes to getting their money back from the Greeks).

Even a shitter arounder like my self was able to come to grips with the Euro signature of opposites--namely, what ever and whenever I, Americanino loser, was inclined to say or ask anything I knew THAT was the time to keep my mouth shut, lest even more too-Americanino stupidities (in English, no less) come gushing out.  This is an old multiple choice test taking strategy taught to me in high school...if you think the answer is "c", then you can be assured the answer is most certainly not "c"--guess the answer from the remaining 3 choices....

As such, I didn't button-hole either the two delightful principals of the space into dialectic regarding finances and co-operation with the state (or city.)  If I had, I'd ask questions like
  1. does everyone in this complex pay rent?  If so, to whom is this rent paid?
  2. is rent stabilized?
  3. how does one get a space in this large complex of cigarette butt and broken bicycles?
  4. how did this property get into the hands of artists?
  5. is there a "one person" who "manages" the property, or is it a situation of independent buildings and proprietors
  6. is there any risk or notion that the city will take this property back, raze it, and turn it into a Lulu Lemon sweatshop?
  7. How well do you know your neighbours, and is there ever any events where all the buildings get involved?
  8. do you have to pay insurance for the events?
  9. what happens when the toilet gets clogged beyond civilian repair...who pays for the plumber? 
  10. How much money did you lose on this show?
You know, that sort of Americanino crippled dog nonsense about which no one cares except americanino shitter arounders .

To further out myself as a Savage Retard, I just have to say that in North America (4th world shit hole) buildings aren't often given over to artists, let alone entire building complexes.  And when they are, it often ends up in some kind of Ghost Ship nightmare.  Americanino's can't do anything right!

Perhaps Americanino savage retard shitter arounders aren't ready for such an embarrassment of riches in the form of affordable artist work spaces.  Back to your parents basements with ya, Americanino know-nothing boolshitters!

One thing about which this Americanino crippled dog could not help but ask multiple questions was the BASS SAXOPHONE owned by one of the principals of the space.  That makes the second owner of a BASS SAXOPHONE with whom I came in distant contact within the space of a week.  Both in the Nordic countries.  As if you needed more proof that they got it going on in the Nordic lands!

(Not only am I a too-american americanino crippled dog boolshitter arounder, I'm also an out, open, unashamed saxophone nerd geek who loves the saxophone.)

Of considerable interest was news from said BASS SAXOPHONE owner that many of the horn's tuning and intonation problems were solved by a metal mouthpiece made by the one and only, the super great, please sponsor me, Eppelsheim instrument makers.  Said BASS SAXOPHONE owner gestured that the mouthpiece--custom made from a chunk of metal--was almost as much as the damn horn!  And further more, worth every penny!

Unfortunately, said BASS SAXOPHONE owner was too busy putting on a great show and being a fantastic host to schlepp his BASS SAXOPHONE to the gig--another instance where "time is a beast bastard."  I would have loved to have made an Americanino Savage Retard nuisance of my self, asking even more questions about the horn, the mouthpiece.  It would also have been a mitzva to have heard the gentleman in question play said horn.

Perhaps said gentleman will endure a head injury, lose half of his I.Q., and as a result, find himself and his Bass Saxophone in Western Canada?  A girl can dream...

About the actual performance my notes merely say "Orchestra night" and that the totality of the post-performance dialect was from one, a quick and curt "strange" and from the other, "did you like?" (as if one shit was given about what I do and don't like).

Because I have no discernment, I like all of the music making.  This performance included.  This is because the opportunity to make music is a precious gift from the Most High, not to be squandered or debased with the temporary, petty concerns of "culture"--we are all well aware, other options include months of inpatient chemotherapy, huffing piss in a fourth world shit hole like New York City and/or countless other indignities in pursuit of horrendous wages.

Let us never forget the horrors of life are infinite and never ending

I liked (well, didn't mind) the other two performances.  Both were heavily dependent upon the lap top.  The first lap top situation attracted a hand full of well put together professional white ladies with blond hair wearing foundation, blouses and slacks and such.  Surprisingly, they didn't stick around to get sprayed with my out-of-pot piss from my tiny flappy crippled little americanino horn hose.  I don't blame them.  Hard to get that out-of-pot-piss (especially that frustrating, americanino relentless boolshit flavour) out of one's blouse, blond hair, etc...

The second lap top centric performance included vocals.  Italian vocals.  Italian Catholic Mass vocals.  As vocalised by someone from Brussels.  Ooooh Italy!  So hotttttt right now!

I believe their set was distinguished by some not-drunk young people* looking for "the party."  Apparently ours was not the party they were looking for, and so they left quickly.

Once the music died and the four or five people remaining got bored with clapping, pleasantries and packing followed.  Tak for de gode tider, Kobenhavn.

In bed at 1:30 am.

(* as you know Europeans, especially Italian men, don't get drunk...only no class having, know nothing Americanino rubbish booolshitters)


  1. in the words of the great Polybius, illegitimus non carborundum. I'm up to date on your general bloggery of this thing now, and I have to say, how do the green rooms stack up to the ol' PG hospitality? is there a bastard Steve with terrible free wine? overlarge fire? snipers seeking a clear shot of the stage? a stage? why do I want to go to Europe again? If you were not such a nice guy, you would have fucking destroyed them with your erudition. curse your sweet colonial manners! you may have to kick their asses a little.

  2. Hey now, easy with the savage retard talk! And watch your errant piddle spray! In art, the highest good is making sissy exactly into the toidy hole--but you don't know that because you are a know nothing savage retard Canadianino shitter arounder. You will learn that in Europe, provided you (Savage retard) are able to learn anything, though you probably won't be able to learn anything--least of all from women because aside from being a know nothing savage retard, you are likely also a misogynist pig.

    You want to go to Europe because everything and everyone in Europe is infinitely better than anything and anyone anywhere in the entirety of North American and it's collective x-hundred year HIS-story, which has produced nothing of interest, let alone quality worty of export (we are both prime examples).

    Let's show a little gratitude for the old world and all it's many lasting cultural gifts and perspectives.

    Let's also show a little humility because our minimal life experience is of zero interest as we (I, anyway) are new world know nothings never been anywheres who say over and over the same things which are easy to understand and as such, are boring.

  3. I confess, I had not thought about it that way (for obvious reasons!). I am every kind of pig that should watch its step in Spain (for obvious reasons!). I know nothing except that now, and with all due philosophy, to aim to aim the weenis as per the old world diagram (for obvious reasons!). I thank the rabbi with a little head-pat.