
Here we are.
Dice: Undisputed…the first reality show that I will watch from start to finish. The White Rapper Show looked good on paper, right up my alley (cat), but interest sank. MC Serch was an insufferable moron (1), Prince Paul (2) was confusing and boring as a co-host, and the truly bizarre rappers were clipped early on. Also promising was Shooting Sizemore, yet clarification is needed as to why. I do not advocate or enjoy this style of reality show. The suffocating negativity peddled by addict/derelict/downfall reality series is uncalled for (in my life, at least), but I enjoy Tom Sizemore as a character actor, and his particular spiral appeared (in the previews) to reach insane depths (like homelessness). So, to approach personal hypocrisy, I just wanted to see how things would turn out. Otherwise, as a half-observed rule, exploitation of demolished lives is something that I find unsavory. Regardless, I’ve yet to see an episode.
Dice was never a drug addict. This was a career ruined by various forms of stupidity (3), lack of diversity and progress, the PC movement, and a bulldozing cruelty on the part of the entertainment business. Because of these things, hopefully, the Dice: Undisputed formula is different. I don’t pretend to know how rigged/scripted these shows are. Naturally, we start off with a broken man. Rather, the career is broken. Home life is comfortable, suburban, and primarily friendly. There’s a focus on how much he loves his kids. None of this should come as shocking if you’ve ever watched a reality TV show. Be it fake or genuine, the show has heart. The parade of disappointments, the Ford Taurus rental, the unfashionable dining choices, and especially his dad’s support….I am, so far, hooked like an idiot.
1. And deeply unlikeable as a host.
2. The purpose being what? That 7/8 of his audience is white anyway?
3. In my previous post re: this subject, a Bill Hicks reference was made. Let me clarify. Hicks’ material was, at the time, unquestionably cerebral compared to Dice Clay’s rube-ish, dumbshit posturing. Hicks’ material is also sorely overrated, and has aged like Candlebox. His post-mortem glorification is vexing…I just so very rarely find his bits laugh-out-loud funny. You may not like where Dice Clay took things, but that place, in a pure sense, was previously unconquered. Writer Mark Prindle has a better grasp of what makes the Dice Clay career fascinating/entertaining. Read that.
Mere Words
Dominic Priore
template story
Where you’ll find me tomorrow night, etc.
(Bullet Point) I’m not here to surprise. I’m excited. Hopefully, there will be some mention of the last two Def American albums, the indie albums, and what has been happening since 2000. I find this him fascinating. I’m confortable with the predictability of it all. Edgy? Offensive? Bill Hicks? Please. For better or worse, there was nothing like this man’s comedy. He looks terrible. The skin underneath his eyes looks as though it’s seeking an out-of-court settlement with the rest of his face. Round 8 for that one.
(Bullet Point) I have not seen Zodiac, but…..I’m excited. I’m half-confident that David Fincher has made his first movie that falls outside of the Clever Art for Stupid People category.
(Bullet Point) Is this still interesting to people? Is a mainstream 80’s aesthetic (that has nothing to do with the music, sonically) still entertaining herds of idiots?
(from Pitchfork)
“With his midriff-baring t-shirts and loose-limbed dance moves, !!!’s Nic Offer is a total goofball in the unselfconscious way that only really cool guys can get away with being. If you’ve ever attended a performance by !!! or Offer’s former band, Out Hud, then you’re familiar with his repertoire: the Christ-like wingspan, overhead clapping, shimmying hips, gangly duck-walking, dervish spins, scissor kicks, and humpy pelvic thrusts. It’s like the mutant spawn of step aerobics, Flashdance, and Electric Boogaloo in an arena-ready package: ridiculous, extravagant, and completely awesome. Offer’s stage presence isn’t just deeply entertaining; it’s an ice-breaker that gives us permission, by example, to forget ourselves and celebrate with abandon. You can tell he’s having a hell of a time, and his enthusiasm is infectious.â€Â
(Bullet Point) Ok, back to the excitement. These future reads make me smile:
Zodiac
The criteria one uses for determining whether or not a film is good, or by which one would recommend said film to someone else, is far from scientific (Siskel and Ebert’s thumbs up or thumbs down being on the low end of the scale and Paul Schrader’s canon somewhere out there in the ether); but today Deb and I happened upon a yardstick that seems as reliable as any. It being a fairly nice, hinting-at-spring kind of day, we decided to walk to the theater and back. Three miles to, three miles back. Six miles total. And, having done so, and having just taken the obligatory prophylactic Ibuprofen to assuage my already achy, exercise-deprived legs, I can honestly say that yes, I recommend Zodiac.
Though in my mind director David Fincher’s Se7en is a modern classic, two of his subsequent films, The Game and Panic Room (sorry to say, Fight Club has thus far eluded me), left something to be desired script-wise. No such trouble with James Vanderbilt’s screenplay (based on Robert Graysmith’s book) for Zodiac, a police procedural which, at 158 minutes, never bores. While it could be convincingly argued that this is just an $80 million version of a particularly compelling Law and Order episode, Fincher’s direction and the ensemble acting take it up several notches. Jake Gyllenhaal is fine as the cartoonist-turned-journalist Graysmith, Mark Ruffalo suitably dumpy as Inspector David Toschi, and Robert Downey Jr. splendid as Paul Avery, the doomed-by-his-own demons journalist. Among the several laudatory supporting performances, Elias Koteas, Dermot Mulroney, the always excellent Philip Baker Hall, and, coming out of nowhere, Candy Clark, all stand out. Chloë Sevigny, unfortunately, is wasted in the thankless role of Graysmith’s wife.
While I wouldn’t walk a mile for a Camel, I would walk six miles for Zodiac.
Successful Failures
Take three guys with a dozen songs or so of roughly three to four minutes apiece into a studio in Jersey with just a few instruments and not that many tracks to over-produce across for two weeks only and what do you get?
Well, in the case of Dipsomaniac Mick Chorba’s self-confessed “lo-fi side project with alt. counry overtonesâ€Â The Successful Failures, you more than ably get to recreate that fleeting Golden Age of the Paley Brothers, Greg Kihn and Rubinoos anew, that’s what!
And guess what else? Well, one can hear precisely the kind of potent musical potient Ryan Adams, for one, is in most dire need of right about now (“Sewer Waterâ€Â), one can savor again all the Farfisic paisley garage-pop of the classic circa-’86 Cheepskates (“What You Areâ€Â), one can imagine Poco hiring Pete Ham to write them a rightful middle-eight (“God Knowsâ€Â) or The Replacements threw some brand new ProTools even (“If That’s The Way That You Want Itâ€Â).
But no, that still ain’t all! Coz “Hick Barsâ€Â may as well be the world’s first-ever lovingly lowly mp3, “Letting The Terrorists Winâ€Â once and hopefully for all relegates John Ashcroft’s “Let The Eagle Soarâ€Â to the Axis of Evil Besides, and even the Bonus “I Am A Rockâ€Â Track is SO much more a pleasant Surprise than P. Simon’s latest ever will be, believe you me.
So, as recent all-American events more than repeatedly demonstrate, only the most successful fail upwards, and this CD certainly isn’t about to prove otherwise, God knows.
MIKE REP & THE QUOTAS : “MAMA WAS A SCHITZO, DADDY WAS A VEGETABLE MAN”

Crumbs From Behind The Wall
First, I would like to make extra sure that readers of this blog realize that it has nothing to do with the dining-out column by the same name in the wretched Ex-Berliner magazine. It’s really not even worth wasting electrons on those people and their amazingly myopic view of Berlin’s anglophone communities, but it probably is worth highlighting their astonishing lack of originality.
Those who are interested in my dining-out experiences here should a) wait until I can afford doing it again and then b) check over at Dishola, the Austin-based experiment in restaurant blogging or whatever it is. I’m the official Berlin Editor over there, and I’ve really got to get some stuff up about Toca Rouge and that ramen place on Neue Schönhauser and a couple of other places I’m thinking would appeal to their readership.
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As promised some time ago, a new work by Nike, this one on Brunnenstr. near the park. Is this an hommage to Gaugin, or…?
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I’m headed to Texas and California via Paris for a couple of weeks, starting in a week, and walked over to Hauptbahnhof recently to buy my ticket to Paris and see if I could get beaned by a piece of falling steel so I could sue Deutsche Bahn and get myself free tickets for life. I did manage to accomplish one of those goals, but it was the one that cost me money, not the one that cost them money. Whatever: I’m leaving this place for a while, and that always feels good unless I’m headed to someplace even worse like Frankfurt/Main.
At any rate, I was amused by a rather ambitious currywurst budde over there which calls itself Berliner-Curry.de. Around the name are listed cities: New York, Dubai, Paris, and so on. Interesting; an entrepreneur actually attempting to franchise Berlin currywurst around the world? That actually could be a winner (although not in Dubai unless the sausages were beef). Naturally, as soon as I got home I hit the URL, and was disappointed, as you no doubt will be. It is emblematically Berlinish, though, to hop on a trend without really understanding it. I remember years ago when a new office supply company opened here in Mitte calling itself Papyrus.com. Naturally, they hadn’t registered the URL, and didn’t even have a website. But that dot-com stuff was trendy, right?
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One thing you can always say about Berlin is it’s a really safe city. Violent crime here is almost unknown in most places, and I’ve only been burgled once, which was pretty much my landlord’s fault. But that’s not to say there isn’t an undercurrent of anger here which blossoms forth every now and again in unpleasant ways. Currently, the trend seems to be throwing paving stones (easily dug out of the sandy soil here with a pen knife) through windows. Just in the past couple of days, I’ve seen smashed windows at the hookah bar on Chausseestr. and Tieckstr. (although this is probably just the tip of a larger story involving the huge number of these places and shops to supply them which have sprung up virtually overnight: do people really enjoy sitting around sipping sweet tea and smoking perfumed tobacco if they’re not Arabs?), at the huge SAP software company building on the corner of Rosenthaler Str. and Gipsstr. (where you can see the place they dug the stones right in front of the building), and at the former Beate Uhse porn shop on Rosenthaler Str. This last suddenly sprouted some weird art-like installation in the windows almost within minutes of the Uhse folks pulling out, and it was apparently part of some viral marketing scheme by one of the game box companies — I’ve lost track of Playstations and Nintendos and so on, but one of them has put up fake street art, opened a fake art gallery on Torstr., and now this. Not only did the windows go, the bricks were still there when I walked past, and someone was filming it.
I have to admit, I understand how street artists can get irked by this sort of thing, because the paper art with the URL was just bad enough that it stood out as fake. It was as annoying as the ad campaign for the new Toyota auto which has — and I’m not exaggerating here — taken up about 95% of all advertising space in this city for most of this week, and which will, if there’s any justice, disappear tomorrow when the car is actually introduced. The Toyota campaign is yet another one which presupposes the utter stupidity of the consumer, the “Hey dumbass, buy this” attitude that’s at the basis of so much German advertising, as opposed to the “You’re clever enough to want this” approach the Brits pioneered and the Americans eventually figured out. Trouble is, there aren’t enough paving stones to take this one out.
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Yes, I know Berlin is changing, but… One night not very long ago, I was walking down Invalidenstr. and there was cheesy pink light streaming off a ginormous disco ball inside the staid walls of the old DDR post office. A couple of weeks later, I saw that Volkswagen was staging an event there. Now, when I first moved here, that was my local post office, and I’ve (naturally, because it’s what one does at the post office in Germany) stood in lines there many a day, admiring the strange metal sculpture on the polished marble walls. After Deutsche Post went private and the post office moved into a MacPaper outlet (I am not making this up, for those of you who don’t live here), the building was empty for a long, long time. But apparently it’s been rescued by a club which will give the lie to all those reports of hip! edgy! Berlin! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Bangaluu! (Warning: cheezy handbag house music when you click the link). Opening a branch of this — or even an imitation of it — would soon empty Friedrichshain of hipsters, and the flights back to Williamsburg would be packed. I kept clicking links on that site out of sick fascination. And to think it’s right next door to where, many many years ago in the Paleolithic Era, the Technics Club was…
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And finally, the pictures to explain the headline. Some months ago, I posted a picture of some graffiti “artists” spray-painting the wall of the building next to me, which I have to walk past on my way to my front door. I thought they were done — surely it couldn’t get any more hideous than that — but they kept working at it until there were all sorts of horrible details: a little green head of some depressed-looking guy, a woman-robot…who knows what they thought they were doing? But they signed it and left their phone numbers, in case anyone else wanted their house desecrated.
Then, as I guess artistic collaborations do on occasion, this one went south, and one of the “artists” came back and obliterated his former partner’s work and re-did it to his own liking. Not only that, he also went to work on the wall next door to it, so now we have a diptych with the theme of the Berlin Wall. Now, just why someone would want to spray-paint a new Wall, I cannot tell you. In fact, besides the eyesore factor, the depression this horrible set of murals sets off in me every time I have to see it (which is, of course, every day) is hard to even verbalize. What is the point of this? Who on earth would pay someone to do it? And just in case you think I’m making this up, here’s the wall closest to the street:
And here’s the wall on the rear building:
There’s only one solution I can think of. The original Berlin Wall attracted graffiti artists from around the world. Not just the collection who did the stretch known as the East Side Gallery (which was all post-Wall anyway), but Keith Haring over by the Gropius-Bau, and the French guy who did all those heads that wound up in Wings of Desire on that stretch in Kreuzberg. So maybe Nike can come and stick a nude or two up on this “Wall” and make it that much less depressing to look at.
I still liked our wall better when it had a big billboard on it featuring the Puhdys shilling for Berliner Pilsner.

