Germans on Parade



Saturday March 8, 2003

Greetings sports fans. Blaine here, writing from cologne where I am engaged in a longish residency in the theatuh, dahlings. If you were unaware of this because you have neglected to memorize my last site bulletin, you will be in for some harsh penalties, but that is a task for my minions and not subject to discussion here. Even now, I am tabling a UN resolution to this effect, but I will give inbox inspections time to take hold.

You will all be relieved to know that carnival is over and it is once again safe to walk the streets. If you were uncertain, cologne-ians take carnival very seriously and life itself ceases for a week while the citizens assert their right to wear day-glo orange afro wigs and cow suits not only in their places of employment, but also while riding the tram or sleeping, in short, everywhere. Millions of germans have voted with their mouths and urinary tracts to retain beer as the national beverage and the right to festoon public places with decorative vomit has once again been upheld. I myself was privileged to watch as a candle-light procession burned the um…german word…scapegoat in effigy, sang a few songs and then buggered off home because they had to work in the morning. And that was the end of that.

If I have neglected to keep you all informed about the other petty details of my life, it is only because I have had the devil’s own time connecting to the internet from my friendly little Sudstadt pad. I spent long hours trying a George Bush style frontal assault on the system in order to download my latest spam to no avail. It seems that the German telephone system is incompatible on several levels with my (regrettably) American hardware and I have been forced to do a survey of available hardware in order to rectify this. Unfortunately, the survey was conducted by buying several boxes of circuit boards from consumer outlets and handing over largish amounts of my hard-earned Eurodollars in return. I was then free to try the objects out in various configurations until one worked. I have at last found a winning combination, no thanks to the advice of anyone working for the newly-privatized deutsche telecom or any of its fellow mammon worshipers.
Regrettably, it also seems that prerequisites to working in a German consumer electronics store are:
a. a deep and abiding hatred and suspicion of anyone who would dare to enter any shop seeking to purchase any item (thus disturbing the catatonic trance of the employee) and
b. a profound ignorance verging upon clinical death of anything regarding the behavior of electrons in a circuit of any sort.

If you throw a nasty case of acne into the bargain you may begin to understand the landscape which presents itself to would-be clients of german ‘service’ enterprises

There you go. Wa wa wa. Poor me. I’m okay now, though. If you ever want to know the difference between the German dialing protocols and those of the rest of the world, I am your man. As is often the case whenever a gnarly system problem presents itself on my Microsoft-equipped computing device, I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the subject. The truth is out there, folks, in the immortal words of fox mulder, a fictional character who will soon no longer exist outside of the memories of ancient and ignored people.

Oh, old blaine, he do go on, don’t he?

I will tell you, before you attempt suicide from boredom, that the play in which I strut and fret will soon premiere on the stage here in cologne. “The 10 greatest rock songs in world history” will premiere on March 28 at the Halle Kalk, Cologne. The estimable director, Albrecht Hirche has once again brought forth a triumph of post-narrative media saturated divertissement which will keep you talking for literally minutes after seeing it performed. This is no mean feat in our attention-deficient culture. So, be there or be square.

And, “what about that george bush and his happy little war?” What indeed, friends? Would I be far off the mark to call George Bush a vile trumped-up little nazi buffoon? An arrogant little prick of a frat boy who just wants to…like blow up some arab dudes and say “whoa…awesome” when the brains splatter his nintendo screen? I don’t think so. For more salient comment, I suggest you go to and see what the likes of Kurt Vonnegut and Gore Vidal have to say about the antics of Bozo the Clone, our de loved pres.

Now, I bask in the radiance of a day off from travail and I plan to use this day in the manner in which god intended. I shall sleep.

Great sizzling gobbets and knobs of love

Your working boy,


Author: Blaine L. Reininger

Blaine L. Reininger was born July 10, 1953 in Pueblo, Colorado. Then he lived a life. By and by, he founded Tuxedomoon with Steven Brown in 1977. He traipsed around America, tuxedomooning until 1980, when he began to traipse around Europe. As a direct result of all of this traipsing, many musical compositions were composed, most of which found their way to some sort of mechanical device capable of reproducing musical compositions. This was mostly for the good. He now lives in Athens, Greece, where he is content.

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