All Hands on Deck… I said Deck
Thursday, September 28, 2006

Simple things are said to be the key to finding happiness. One of my favorite things is not warm woolen mittens or brown paper packages tied up with string, but to reside for hours in a hot shower spring. I have been known to purr like a shaved Tasmanian devil if the temperature is…just…right…purrrrrrrrrrr.

I wonder how I could of gone so long here without this simple pleasure. Only a couple days and I can be done with CheckPoint Bratwurst’s U-boat showers. From the beginning the damnable thing has had it in for us. The showerhead never stays stationary, spinning and dipping at its whim like some new summer toy from Whammo®. Only remedied with super high tech devices and tools, plastic cups wedged around the nozzle.

There was even the time when Turtle and I showered together, following the lead of our German hosts and be environmentally conscious. We were extolled by the Germans and then laughed at by the Dutch as we tried to bathe in our 2x2 foot tiled torture device. Forced to play Water Twister, by Hasbro® whist getting our health and beauty products. Here is an except from the transcript:
Can you get me my shampoo?
Where is it?
By my left foot.
Okay? [grunting and expletives] Here you go.
That’s my conditioner
Can’t you use that?
[vocal uh-uhs]
Fine. [unidentifiable crashing, more expletives]
Are you okay?
Yup, toilet broke my fall. Can you help me get my hand out of the can?

Being the malevolent sentient being that it is, the shower knows that we are leaving and decided to give us the full spa treatment for the final week. On top all else it has done, it has come up with the brilliant plan of stopping the drain. Now I truly can enjoy the experience of life on the U-boat, and relive my favorite scenes from Das Boot. Splashing around in a foot of water, having Germans panic while I’m soaking wet, all whilst trying to fix the problem. How does that saying go, “You don’t find a leak, you put leeks on your salad.” Or was it “You find a leak, a flood is caused by long haired women.”

Simply said I will find pleasure departing this sinking ship.

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posted by Don Taylor @ 3:27 PM, ,


As She's Walking Out the Door
Wednesday, September 27, 2006

When confronted with the question, “When I say the word German, what do you associate with it?” Most will say organized, BMW, beer, lederhosen, engineering phenoms, blondes, and perhaps something about the 1930s-1940s, but rarely will you hear the word happy. I am here to tell you that the Germans can be happy, joyous, and yes without the use of libations. And they are never happier then when they bid you farewell. A parting, is in some cases, the best part of the conversation and usually leaves you feeling happier than a monkey with a full bags of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups. Is it Reese’s or Rhesus? Bad monkey! Headlines read Cannibal Monkey Plan to Conquer the Planet. Damned drrrty apes!

Textbooks and the greatest teacher of all time, television, informs us the proper way to say goodbye is Auf Wiedersehen. True, but no one uses it over here. The way to say good-bye is tschüs pronounced “chews” and when you say it you have to say it as cheerfully as possible raising your voice an octave or so.

Picture if you will a 240lb German man, sporting a traditional Bavarian beard, approximately in his mid-forties. He is wearing an ill-fitting suit, but a perfectly matching pink and purple tie, sweating in the 80-degree heat with no AC to be found. For his lunch break, he has been standing in a queue at the local telecommunications outfit waiting to discuss the finer points of his outrageously expensive cell phone bill. He begins to argue with the customer service rep with a voice that is smooth and low, reminiscent of James Earl Jones. They go on for ten minutes, the usual calm German demeanor fading into ire and annoyance as voices get voluble causing other patrons to turn to see what the hell is going on. Just as it seems that the seventh seal is about to pop and all Hell is going to break loose, both combatants nod, shake hands, say tschüs raising their voices to the level of Tinkie-Winkie and go their own way with smiles on their reddened faces.

Now imagine the same scenario in the States, replace the large German guy with a lifelong Bronx boy arguing with a MBTA attendant and have them end their argument with a genuine, falsetto “kiss, kiss, bye-bye”. Yeah, I can’t picture that either.

So for now fuck off you bastards. Get back to work and do something other than waste time looking for porn. Tschüs.

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posted by Don Taylor @ 11:52 AM, ,


Loose Ends
Monday, September 25, 2006

Just a few random things, much more lifelike than a cohesive single thought entry, but then again… first my death has been greatly exaggerated. I as you can read I was neither on the high-speed German train that derailed or turned into a meal of the undead.

As for last week’s diversion from the norm, I would love to know what you, my faithful readers thought. It all stemmed from me having an atrocious; unable to swallow sore throat and never leaving CheckPoint Bratwurst for most of the week, ah now its all coming together isn’t it? I ask for there are many other tales I can tell, which are brimming in my brain. An ongoing series where Turtle and I play a sort of Thin Man of the supernatural.

And if you have never seen The Thin Man movies, I suggest you do. Great comic timing and dialogue.

Other point of note, this blog, IMs and emails from me will in all likelihood be coming to a pause for approximately a month. Hopefully less. With the move to our new home we have to establish landline phone and DSL, and from what we have heard it takes somewhere between a week to a month. The Germans are exacting on all things except utility hook-ups and queuing. And queuing is point of another entry. How exciting, hmm?

Get your letters in now, I know you all miss me. And if you want to drop a line I can let you all know when I am back and make more snide comments about the Old Worlde. And to make your lives all the more convenient, aren’t I swell, the address is right here . Clicky, clicky people.

That’s all for today, more sophomoric humor and snide annotations tomorrow.

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posted by Don Taylor @ 1:47 PM, ,


Scarves - PART IV
Friday, September 22, 2006

Tattered Edges

Turtle slept soundly through that night, but then again she does sleep like the dead. I woke her twenty minutes premature, partly because I wanted to talk, but mostly because I was afraid the alarm would not want to go back to its former life after it establishing itself as a blunt weapon.

The sheets are covered in dried blood. I panicked and began to search Turtle’s neck for new wounds. Sweeping her hair aside I looked at one side, nothing, pushing hair across her neck, nothing. Yet now where there was no blood there is a crimson streak across her back. Terror overwhelmed me before rationale thought came through, informing me the dressing on my hand had become overly saturated. I laughed, and told Turtle that perhaps she should go take a shower, for it might not be a good idea to be wearing a vampire’s favorite perfume. She looked back at me confused, I held up my left hand, causing her to react with the yuck face. Walking to the bathroom Turtle reached for the scarf hanging on the mirror. She cocked her head and began to murmur.

“What is it?” I asked
“It seemed to move away from me. And now that I’m looking at...” She picked it up, looking closely at the scarf. “It feels wet.”
“Wet? Like a cake being left out in the rain, wet?”
“No silly, more like a moist towelette wet. And this stitching, It’s really complex, a tight lace, done with, I’m guessing a triple-zero needle.” I titled my head like a dog when someone says ball, “Someone really knows what they are doing. Hmm.” She opened the curtain a bit to let in some natural light to get a better look. The scarf shivered back away. Turtle open the curtain more, once again the same reaction. Finally, frustrated she flung the curtain open letting the morning sun pour into the room. There was a squeal as the scarf met the morning sun, then like one of those firework snakes the black scarf became darker, turning first to ash then carried away on an unfelt breeze.
“Well you don’t see that everyday.”
“ I think I’m calling into work today. You said you’ve seen those scarves?”
“Everywhere. But they never did that.”

The first place we stopped was at Mia’s restaurant, knowing that we could scrutinize her scarf. We were told that the she was supposed to have a shift that day, but had not showed up nor called in. We went back every day after, but I have yet to see her. I wonder if I ever will again.

I pointed out the scarves to Turtle: the pink and orange, the teal and brown, the blue and green, and the rare greyscale variety. For the most part the Wearer carried on with their lives as normal. Banking, eating, drinking, socializing, carrying on errands, living a normal life, but they all tended to stay away from deep shadows or unlit passageways. Turtle walked up to these people, engaged them by raving about how beautiful their scarves were. Asking where they purchased it, they would answer that it was a family heirloom or a gift. She would then inquire if she might be able touch it and attempt to figure out its texture and pattern. The usual reaction was one of fear. The Wearer’s eyes would begin to focus on the middle ground, as if they were trying to perceive something that was not quite there. Then they recoiled from Turtle’s hand and hastily departed our presence.

Since this technique wasn’t getting us anywhere, we decided that the best way to analyze a scarf was for us to enjoy a meal. We walked around looking for an available seat next to a Wearer. After a few missed opportunities we found one. I ordered food while Turtle sat observing the scarf the way a scientist would a new organism. Jotting down copious notes about the length, the width, the pattern, and discretely firing off her camera-phone to record the color. The next step was to touch it.

The slightest touch caused no feedback, but when Turtle elongated the scarf to see its stitches in detail, it coiled back, wrapping itself tighter around its Wearer’s throat. The Wearer, a teenage girl, reeled back grabbing at her throat as the scarf intensified its grasp, and looked vulnerably at Turtle. The Wearer sprinted to the bathroom, I presume, wrenching and pulling at her scarf, struggling to let oxygen into her lungs. Her friends sat dumbfounded, when finally one of them went to check on her, I motioned to Turtle that it would be in our best interest to leave.

I wanted to head back to CheckPoint Bratwurst and try to piece together what we had seen, but Turtle had other intentions. She bee-lined for the knitting store, picked up 4 skeins each of brown and teal alpaca yarn, and a pair of in-the-round triple-0 needles. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Make baby booties. What do think?”

The idea was if we wore a counterfeit scarf then perhaps we could blend in. Remove us from being prey to one of them. When I had mentioned that wearing the scarves would make us property to someone, Turtle responded by saying, I know, but they won’t know whose property, because no one ever claimed us. Therefore, an anomaly in the food pyramid. Somehow this all made sense to me at the time.

Every free moment she had Turtle would work on a scarf. I let her sleep at night, as I would lie awake watching as the curtains blew in the breeze, waiting for them to return. There would be nights I would shoot out of bed as I heard a woman voice cry out only to realize that her and her lover were enraptured in a moment of orgasmic bliss. Our suite faced a major thoroughfare never allowing silence, making it difficult to sleep during the day. I did my best to get a couple of hours when I could, the rest of the time; I would down pots of coffee.

I watch her sleep now, breathing slowly and peacefully dreaming. She wears the scarf, since the vampire made its intention for her. Another week and I will have mine, and then perhaps I can sleep serenely in her arms again. I put my arm on her back, getting lost in her rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.

In.

Out.

In the morning I found myself splayed across the bed. I glance at the clock, 5:45, Two hours have passed. I bolt up to scrutinize Turtle for the mark of teeth, but I cannot move from my prone position. Being half-asleep I thought my arm was pinned under Turtle. If I could have only been that lucky. Around the post of the bed and around my wrist is a scarf.

I twist and turn, moan and call, “Turtle! Turtle! Tortuga! Turn on the light!”

She goes from dreams to full consciousness in seconds as the lamp flickers on. She spins around to face me, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breathe. “Well, at least it will go with everything. Black is in this season.”

End?

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:16 PM, ,


Scarves - PART III
Thursday, September 21, 2006

Starting the Row

I looked carefully at every scarf I saw and there were many, but only a few colors. There was the blue-green scarves, the orange-pink ones like Mia, the brown-teal, the greyscale ones and the red-black ones. But the fans for the Frankfurt football team wore that scarf, so they don’t really count.

I pinballed off those walking in the platz, recreating a tried but true clichéd movie scenario. Apology, bounce. Apology, bounce. I twisted and turned the wrong way to find myself swept up in the current of protestors moving towards the center of town. Too many voices to comprehend, too many people to move in any direction but one. Out of the corner of my eye I saw colors blue and green, orange and pink, brown and teal, and of course the khaki and green of the authorities. 2000 students marching into a small sealed off corridor. We were cattle being herded together to receive the bolt-gun between the eyes either by the authorities.

I started to shove and push my way through the crowd, not caring about the repercussions. My only concern was getting the hell out of there. The idea of causing a stampede, trampling over some innocents never came to mind. I hope that no one but myself got hurt. Falling twice, I scraped up my chin, chipping a tooth and slashed most of the skin off my left hand as I landed on an empty green bottle that should have been placed in the proper recycling bin. To avoid any questions I took my zip-up off, wrapped my hand tightly. That would be my one smart move of the day.

Turtle returning from work was greeted with small pools of blood throughout the suite, “Don?”
“I’ll clean that up in a minute.” I said from the bathroom, trying to downplay the scene. My hand was under the cold water, picking out small shards of glass, when Turtle rounded the corner. “What happened?” she asks, pulling at my hand to survey the damage.
“Nothing. I fell down.”
“And your chin?”
“Doesn’t matter. We have to talk.”
“No, we have to get you to the hospital.”
“Absolutely not.” I was afraid of the questions they would ask plus I hated the idea of needles in my hands. With no bandages and pink bathroom towels, I took one of Turtle’s clean white T-shirts and started to dress my hand. There was no way I was going to wear a pink mitten.
“Are you going to tell me what the hell happened?”
“You’re not going to believe me, but…” I told her everything and as foretold not a word did she believe. And who could blame her. It was a preposterous story of vampires and scarves; no sane person would even spend a second thinking about it. Fortunately for me, Turtle is not a sane person. She proved that by taking me with her to Europe, so for the rest of the night she pondered and vexed about what was. Never truly believing, but never dismissing it as the rambling of an eccentric lover.

When my head touched the pillow that night, I introduced myself to dreams like an overzealous salesman. The excitement of the day, along with the loss of blood had rendered me useless. The last thing I recall was Turtle kissing my forehead and reassuring me that all would be all right. The windows were left open permitting the cool breeze of the night to lessen the humidity of this sticky September evening. The Europeans have neither use nor consideration for screens or air conditioning, thus an open window truly is an open window.

At exactly 3:47 in the morning a truck slammed its brakes passing CheckPoint Bratwurst waking me from my deep slumber. Pushing my pillow down I went to put my arm around Turtle and crawl back to sleep when the glow of the streetlight revealed a figure sitting on the bed. The light captured the edges of his form as he sat perfectly still except his finger that was tracing Turtle’s figure pulling the sheets down along as he went. He spoke sotto voce, “Erkläre mir, sie schmecke so zart, wie sie fühlt?”

I did not move only watched his hand run from Turtle’s shoulder down to her hip revealing naked flesh. As his hand crept back up along her body, his head began to lower towards her sleeping neck. Needles began to prick along my spine as the room filled with a miasma of lust and fear. The sodium lights glinted against his pallid skin, his lips parted baring long ivory teeth. His breath cooled Turtle’s flesh instigating goose bumps to rise and fall across her flesh. Pausing only for a moment to lock eyes with me, discerning if I was repulsed or stimulated, he exposed his tongue to lick the salt off my love’s skin. In that instant a resounding thump resonated through the room as Turtle cracked the monster’s head with the clock radio. The radio roared to life with a Wings song as the vampire lunged for the window. “Ich erfreue mich in ihr für Jahrhunderte. Und Sie…”

Aroused from my fascination, I sprung from the bed after the fiend, only able to seize his scarf. Even in the radiance of a streetlight I could tell the scarf was black on black.

Turtle sat in bed with the covers tightly wrapped around her torso, pointing towards the window, “Was that…?”
“I think so. But how did you know it wasn’t me?”
“He, it, smelled of hard boiled eggs. You hate eggs.”
“Nasty little things,” I peered out into the courtyard looking for any sign of him. A six-story drop, on a secured facility, and he was nowhere to be seen.
“Don?” I continued to look out the open window holding the scarf in my hand. “I think you should come away from the window,”
I spun around expecting to see another devil in the bed with Turtle, but fortunately the only devil was her, “What? What is it?”
“I don’t think the entire city of Wiesbaden needs to be able to describe your manhood.”

As the adrenaline subsided, I realized I was indeed without boxers. Playing it off, I waved to the after-hours people, closed the windows, shut the curtain, threw the scarf over the mirror, placed the radio back on the veneer nightstand and stayed up till morning holding Turtle tightly as Paul McCartney sang, “Someone’s knockin’ at the door, Somebody’s ringin’ the bell, Do me a favour, Open the door and let ’em in.”

To be concluded...

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:00 PM, ,


Scarves - PART II
Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Casting On

A few days later, I went to eat lunch at one of my favorite haunts. Taking my seat, I waited for my waitress, Mia, to bring me a menu and engage me in a bit of idle chatter. Mia had become one of the locals I talked to on a regular basis. Helping me to learn the customs, the language, and in short gaining a different point of view than the one I had grown up with. She was well versed, smart, and spoke English perhaps better than I did, and yet due to Germany’s unemployment rate, she had to take a job as a waitress in Italian Alley.

She greeted me by running her nails across my neck, startling me to no end. Usually I can tell when someone is near but today Mia slipped beside me as easily as one slips between satin sheets on a cold winter evening. Her fingers were frigid though the sun was beating upon the cobbled sidewalks ferociously.

“Mein Gott Mia, your hands are like ice.”
“I’m feeling a little under the weather.”
Noticing the orange and pink scarf she was wearing I asked, “Sore throat?”
“Ja. Sore throat,” she said tightening the scarf as she glanced into the darkness of the alley.
“My Mom always made us drink tea with honey. That might help.”
“I’m German and work in Italian Alley, tea really isn’t my preferred beverage.”
“Well then, gargle with lukewarm water and salt. That’ll work too.”
Attempting to change the subject matter she smiled and inquired, “What can I get you today?”

I gave her my order and once again she ran her nails across the back of my neck. Her touch unsettled me. As any man would, I appreciate the affections of an attractive woman, but the relationship I had with Mia had never had any hint of temptation. Mia returned with a large glass of Chianti, placing a white napkin on the table, then the goblet of wine, she walked away looking back, eyes cast suggestively towards the red alcohol.

I picked up the wine, took a deep pull, reveled in its flavor, and went back to my keyboard to write more blather about Germany. After two paragraphs of getting directions to the local bakery, Mia returned with my pizza. Placing the meal in front of me, her scarf loosened allowing it to dangle, revealing two, almost unperceivable, wounds on her neck. Once again I did not think anything of it and instead went to work on my pizza. Taking the first bite, my gag reflex kicked in. The pie was swimming in garlic. Spitting my bite into the cotton napkin, I beckoned Mia over to ask for another pie. She shook her head and told – no -- begged me to eat it. Telling me it would keep me healthy, that there was a flu going around and she would hate for me to be unable to write.

I have eaten plenty that has been unsavory (two that come to mind are Mom’s Hamburger Helper and Turtle’s beer soup) so I choked down the pizza, drinking gulps of wine after every slice. Swallowing the third slice, I picked up the Chianti; the napkin clung to the bottom. Plucking it off I noticed there was a note upon it. Please take care of yourself. They’re watching you now.

My brow furrowed trying to grasp what this meant. I believed the handwriting to be Mia’s but she was nowhere to be seen. Did she mean they were the Polizei? They were out in full force that day attempting to keep a protest march civil. I had already had my bag searched three times, fitting the profile of the many students making their march on the Rathaus rallying against tuition charges. But what more could they want of me? Three officers walked down the alley towards me and I began to sweat. Fear overwhelming me, scenarios of them interrogating me and my German failing, flinging me into a German prison where I become the rag doll to a man sporting a traditional Bavarian moustache named Jurgen. The fight or flight impulses struck, throw down some Euro and run for anywhere but here, when again the glacial caress of Mia was felt. I was calm yet terrified as her fingers traced my jaw line.

I watched the khaki and green garbed officers walk by enjoying their 89 Euro cent scoops of gelato, as I listened to the shallow breaths of the woman whose head was perched upon my shoulder.

“Listen. I like you.”
“I like you too Mia, but…”
“Quiet.” I felt her hand tighten on my shoulder. The strength emanating from such a slight frame forced me to focus on her words. “I don’t have much time. But they have been watching you since you came here. They know you and will be coming.”
“Who?”
“Die Vampyrs.” I started to laugh. “I am not joking. When you leave look at the scarves. Look for them. They, we,” I heard her choke back a tear, “are their food. They might makes us one, they might let us die, but you and your woman, they want.”
“But why?”
“No more time. I will miss you.” She kissed me on the cheek and then bit my ear lobe piercing it with her teeth. I felt a droplet of blood fall from my ear onto her tongue. I turned to say something but she was gone, instead all I saw was scarves. At every restaurant a scarf. Why I had never seen so many before I can’t understand. I beckoned the other waitress, no easy task, asked her for the Rechnung and where Mia was. She told Mia had just left, her throat ailing her greatly and that my bill was twelve Euros. I gave her fifteen, told her to keep the change, grabbed my man sack and headed toward the Rathaus.

To be continued...

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:46 PM, ,


Scarves - PART I
Tuesday, September 19, 2006

First Wrap

This has to be told, and I don’t know when I will get the opportunity again, if ever. Incredibly exhausted. Sleep is something that I cannot afford right now. I’ve added an extra scoop of ground coffee to the pot. It has the taste and consistency of 99-cent Salisbury steak gravy, but at least it will keep me alert. And most of all that is what I need to be. Let Turtle sleep, keep her safe tonight, she’ll be busy when she wakes. Tonight as for the past week, I keep my silent vigil watching the windows. Waiting for them. For they will come.

When we came to our new home, we noticed worlds of differences, most we accepted and easily understood. Then there was the oddities that made us confused, bewildered and just down right awed. One of the simplest curiosities was the wearing of scarves. Tightly wrapped around the wearers’ necks, even when the temperature was 80 to 90 degrees. We shrugged our shoulders, chalking it up to a fashion fad much like wearing underwear outside your pants, and thought nothing more of it.

After we began to comprehend the language, we made friends who understood the ways of our host. When there was a comfortable familiarity, we asked this question and many others. To our amusement we found the truth. The sporting of scarves was an old frau’s cure to alleviate a sore throat. We laughed and joked about this asking if it was also a good idea to wear a girdle to ease indigestion or to wear a knitted cap to treat migraines. A few weeks later, I discovered that this explanation was a ruse to hide a more elaborate, hideous reality. A truth that no one wanted to speak of, but I must.

Vampires.

I first became aware of the beasts about two weeks ago, even though I did not know it at the time. I was wandering back from the pubs late at night when I stepped into a big pile of droppings. After exclaiming what I had treaded in, I looked around to find something to scrap it off. In the gutter I discovered about half a Currywurst and proceed to remove the feces from my shoe using the meat as a stick. When the refused cooked meal touched the dung, the wurst began to move about on its own. Wiggling here and there. Squirming in my hand like a hamster in a tunnel. Without a second thought I threw it back to the gutter only to have it squirm its way to me. The meat was attempting to crawl up my leg and head north. Rather than find out what it wanted I did as most enlightened people would do and stomped the hell out of it. From the shadows, a booming laugh echoed out, then a very calm, pacifying voice spoke, “Es tut mir Leid. Ich schärtze sollte nicht scheißen in der Straße.” That was all I heard, as a sudden gust of wind came running past my neck, taking the voice into the gloom. I never mentioned this to anyone thinking that it was just my imagination and perhaps one too many Hefe-Weißen.

To be continued...

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:42 PM, ,


Isolationist and Their TV

NBC, and its subsidiary channels USA, BRAVO, and SciFi, are showing their new shows online the day after they premiere. Great! Cool! Fantastic! The miracle of the WorldWideWub. That is unless you live in Germany or other parts of the world that are not the continental US then you get a commercial and a screen that says "sorry current video is unavalible in your area." So, for me, go watch the pilot ofStudio 60 on the Sunset Strip and tell me if its any good.

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:31 PM, ,


How Much is That Dog Collar in the Window?
Friday, September 15, 2006

Excuse me how do I get to Mueller’s Bakery?
Ah, you go down here, turn right at the Adult Cinema, go about a half a block and it’s across the street from the Porn Shop.
Danke.

Typical directions in the urban sprawl of Germany. Sex is not something they shy away from. You can walk into an adult store and not feel like a pervert; with the bonus of knowing the people behind the register are not living out of their mothers basement of wonder what size purse your bladder would make. They embrace sex, so now I can finally display my collection of Lucite and leather dildos with pride. I can lay them out and be the source of much envy and desire without having to worry about being smited by others. Hi Mom.

Being over on stateside it gets you down to know that might is right, schlong is wrong. Most Americans love violence. We play violent video games, participate in violent sports (ya think football ain’t vicious Vivianne?), watch violent movies, and lionize violent men, but if one of them show their bathing suit area on television may the wrath of the Lord fall upon them and cause their nether regions to blister, wither and flitter off.

Think about this, the colonies, before they were the colonies, were populated by those that left Europe because of religious persecution. The Pilgrims left England because the Catholics persecuted them for being too conservative. Let me say that again. The Pilgrims, our forefathers, hopped on a leaky ship because they wanted to practice their beliefs, which were consider far too conservative by the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church, the ones who state homosexuality bad, self-love bad, sex-before-marriage bad, doggie bad. You might as well tie that thing off cause you ain’t using it for nothin’.

What is the number one grossing R rated movie in American cinema? Think. The answer is The Passion of the Christ. That movie was far more graphic then any porno I have ever seen. Horror movie directors hold that movie up as a paragon of torture cinema verite. It’s nasty. But still the old morale saturated U-S-of-A would rather watch a man being filleted alive that watch a woman having multiple orgasms brought on by 12 inch vibrator at the end of a steam-powered piston. Hi again Mom. Thanks for the batteries.

Why is it that we keep our carnal desires and fetishes in the closet but proudly display our bloodlust over the mantle? I say that we change this ideology. Every one of us, not just the bigwigs in power or the church groups, or the FCC – if we all just stop trying to fuck over, up, down, sideways, in the ear what ever confronts us and actually just enjoy a blissful orgasm, things might not be so bad. Half the time the male must destroy attitude comes from a whole hell of a lot of sexual tension, disillusionment and frustration.

All I’m trying to say is its time for the States to reconsider what we think is right. To reassess what are the answers. To readdress what is moral and what is not. Hell there is a book that most American hold on high as the Strunk and White of ethics and I think there are two lines in it that are pretty close together in its passages. Theres something about not killing and love conquering all. If I recall it was written by Lennon.

Hi Mom.

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:24 PM, ,


Fine Corinthian Leather
Thursday, September 14, 2006

Today we have an excerpt from the final billing statement of the car I leased in the states. All donations can be sent to my account at the Bank of GimmeGimme.

Dear DONALD TAYLOR:

The enclosed report is a list of the excess wear items and charges on the vehicle you leased from 02.01.2003 thru 08.01.2006. The mileage and wear items were identified by visual inspection of the vehicle. The excess wear charges listed represent the estimated or actual cost of repairing or replacing each item.

Front Bumper Cover (Gouged)
Wear due to shitty New York/Massachusetts Roads
54.42

Rear Bumper Cover (Gouged)
Wear due to asshole that never left a note after pretty much raping my car
155.80

Front Seat Cushion (Drivers)
Wear due to the fact my crotch is that hot, and caused the leather to melt
163.80

Total Excessive Wear Charges
374.02

We are in no way implying insult to your crotch. We know that the damage your loins could do is immeasurable due to its immensity. We felt that the 163.80 charges balanced out the considerable worth that your groin added to the value of the entire vehicle. In addition we appreciate that you never let the full force of your manhood loosed upon the vehicle. That situation would of cause the Residual Value of the vehicle to become unattainable to all humanity, with the few rare exceptions.

If you have any question, please contact us at the tool free number shown at the top of this letter.

Once again, thank you for choosing XXXX automotive. And may you and your nether region continue to lay to waste every seat that you encounter.

Sincerely.
Customer Service

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posted by Don Taylor @ 12:05 PM, ,


Are You Ready for Some Futball, Mate?
Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Moving to Germany I knew that I was going to be able to watch plenty of football. Big fans here. Always a good time especially when the taps draught, but the problem is the football is round. And no one wears a helmet.

The NFL season is underway and it has been burned into my genetic code that I must watch at least three hours of bonecrushing, nickel-defense, west coast offense, over-payed, human growth hormone users, playing a kids game on Sunday afternoon. I’m a junkie, a crack whore with no money in his pocket, who will gladly get you off while wearing a Little Bo Peep outfit to get my fix. Fortunately the only whoring I’ve ever done was that in client’s conference rooms.

I found a bar where Ex-Pats come together to root for the downfall of the Pats. Where the Green Bay Nachos serve up less fumbles then their namesakes. They have beer and multiple TV’s airing the games live. Perfection. The one o’clock games come on at 7pm here letting the games run from 7 to about 6 in the morning. It would seem that this crack den of sports will keep serving till the sun comes up if there are important games being broadcasted. Resulting in Monday Morning sick calls like, “Hey I won’t be coming in today, I have turf toe on my eyes. Yeah its very contagious.”

I sat done with some fanatics, order up my beer, got ready to hear the pithy, innate comments of announcers that I knew, not necessarily liked, but knew. What did I get… a Brit. A bloody, limey Brit talking about the arm of Michael Vick. Telling me how Brett Favre should retire, and all that rot. Fuck all man, the British know American football as well as we know European football. Blood pudding is not an acceptable tailgating food. And the Queen has never heard of LT, either one of them. I never thought I would say that I miss listening to John Madden’s obnoxious blather. I not saying it yet, but it might happen after 17 weeks of, “Oh that run was the Dog’s Bollocks. Those colonist surely do know how to crush each other most unmercifully.”

Nonetheless, I’ve got my football, I’ve got my beer, I’ve got my woman, now excuse me the kick off is underway and I haven’t gotten my order of Bedfordshire clanger.

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posted by Don Taylor @ 1:07 PM, ,


Four Out of Five Germans Agree
Monday, September 11, 2006

Don’t you hate it when you have something fibrous stuck between your teeth? You try to pry it out with your tongue, as if it was a soggy cookie at the bottom of a glass of milk. That never seems to works, so you start to suck at it, thinking that you can create enough suction with your mighty lungs to remove it from the crevace it has inhabited. All the while you look like an idiot with your lips moving side to side, eyes rolling back in your head, odd noising germinating from your throat, all as the frustration builds up. Then comes the scheme of using something, anything, as a piece of floss; the newspaper, your car keys, a credit card, your fingernail, a Buick, but no matter what you do the infestation will not be stirred. Its removal begins to consume your thoughts. You’re driving down the road, trying to make an appointment, but instead you miss your turn because you are sucking on your teeth ensuring that not only will you look foolish at the meeting but that you will also be late. This minute bit of food has ruined your day for it consumes you and all bits of rationale thought that you have.

Last Friday, the Turtle and I went out and got ourselves a big spool of mint flavored waxed floss and removed our respective food bits from our chompers. We no longer have to worry about the nasty little morsel known as finding an apartment. We have our place firmly cemented on our minty thread.

True, I had mentioned that we found a place we liked to some of you, but we had not yet captured the illusive prey until Friday. It was an on-going struggle. A lot of contract negotiations, a lot of paper work, a lot of money changing hands, yet in the end we got everything we wanted from the place, except the ability to have a dog. That part of the contract got changed due to the current resident having a beagle that pissed off every German in a three-block radius. Looks like we’ll have a cat that we’ll teach how to bark.

The crib is hot as a skillet in the Carolina sun. Two big bedrooms, two baths (with the mandatory tub for Turtle), big living room, new kitchen, patio and a garden. Let us not forget the uber-cool garage setting, where our car will think it’s James Bond’s whip. The garage has a multi-platform elevator which the TurtleMobile will inhabit, allowing it to be revealed like it’s in some secret cave. To the Turtle-Pole!

Everything we were looking in a place, now if I could only get this kernel out from behind my molar.

posted by Don Taylor @ 7:40 PM, ,


I'm Ready for My Close Up Herr DeVille
Friday, September 08, 2006

There has been an interesting turn of events in the past fifteen minutes. I have been smiled at, which according to what I have been told by the natives is a big flirt, by some outrageously beautiful women, been interviewed by a television reporter inquiring if I think that we know all the information about 9/11… unexpected to say the least and the German version of the Church of Jesus Christ solicited me. Where to start? Lets go right past the women smiling at me, they probably just had gas and were attempting to suppress a belch. The 9/11 itinerant reporter.

Going out on Fridays in Wiesbaden is a show and half; street musicians, viral marketing, poor pathetic saps wearing costumes to peddle the wares of their business and roving reporters. I’ve seen the cameras around quite a bit and have wondered what they were posing. Well today they hit me. I try to speak my best German but eventually came words I couldn’t understand or elaborate on. Words like ‘cover-up’ and ‘theory’ and ‘explanation’, I had to fall back upon my standard “Meine Deutsch is nicht so gut.” Which is also my fall back when I don’t want what you are selling. Now today of course I was curious, I didn’t want to dissuade them, and it showed. It would happen that the cameraman spoke perfect English. They inquired in English. I answered in a mixture of German and English. “No I don’t think we know every thing, I think the administration is still withholding information from its citizens. I think it will be another 20 or so years before we find out the truth.” Pretty PC, I didn’t want to get too political in my German television debut. Its hard damn work being a heart throb. I plan to usurp the Kaiser Hasselhoff in the upcoming months and years as Germany’s favorite Amerikan.

Then a heartbeat later another group stops me and begins to blather about this and that. Two young men dressed in black pants, white shirts, black ties; the ensemble is the same here as it is in the States, Urban Missionaries. Bringing their message to masses of heathens living in the concrete jungles of civilizations. I immediately go into my tap dance routine and am expertly foiled. GodBoy one starts in, “American?” I reply yes, actually thinking for a moment to lapse into my high school French. He retorts, “I’m from Utah”.
“How about the Jazz”
“The who?”
“No the Jazz. The basketball team. You know StocktonMalone”
“I’m not into sports.”
“Sure you aren’t.” I can see where this is going as unmistakable as the gleem of silver in Judas’ hands.
“I’m into Jesus Christ.”
“And I’m sure he’s into you.” Thinking Christ loves you soooo much that I’m sure he’s got a poster of you over his bed.
“Have you accepted Christ into your heart?”
“Nope sorry no vacancies. It’s all booked up.”
“But Christ can fit into the smallest cracks, the tiniest holes and make you feel whole.”
“Do I look like I am missing pieces?” I ask searching my person for missing limbs.
“Not on the outside.”
I wanted to scream at him, “You’re wrong. I’m missing my foreskin. So there, can Christ return that?” But instead I stayed silent.
“Even if you don’t love him, he will love you.”
“Listen,” I chide, “I’m an agnostic.”
“You’re what?”
“Agnostic.”
“What is that?”
“You spread The WORD but you are ignorant to all other beliefs.”
“Is agnostic a new thing?”
“Aarrrgh. No Utah boy it means I think there might be a higher power, a superior being, but then again there might not. I want proof, physical, viable, irrefutable evidence of God’s existence. And no, you are not going to be able to do that today. No matter what you think. No matter how many charts or pictures you make for me. Unless a large Monty Python like hand comes down from the sky and thumps me, I will not be converted today. So thank you for your time. Enjoy the weather. Tschüs.”
“Wait do you know anyone who would be interested in our message?”
“You want me to help you in your crusade?”
“Yes, please. Do you know anyone?”
“Oh hell yeah” as the image of my old copywriter, Bitch-Ass-the-Flying-Squirrel materialized in my head. “You want her number? International rates will apply.”

Yes I am that evil.

posted by Don Taylor @ 4:24 PM, ,


Not Another Chemistry Lesson
Thursday, September 07, 2006

White gold is not the gold that has a silver finish to it. No, white gold is Salt. The old NaCl. Our pal Sodium Chloride. Today we’re told to watch our salt intake, due to high blood pressure, heart attacks, and for me kidney failure causing me to feel like I have a hangover without the benefit of drinking. There was a time when salt dictated who had the power. Salt was an important commodity during wartime, whoever had more salt would most likely win the war. Believe it or not my fuzzy little pig dogs, there was a time that bacon cost more than pork loin. And here is a bit more info, there is a word in every language that is derived from the word Salt. A word that demonstrates the fiscal security that salt brought to those who possessed it. In English that word is still something that we take very seriously in our desire to keep up with the Joneses. That word is salary. 'Damn those Jones, how the hell can he afford a 50” plasma screen? I bet he doesn’t even know that his wife's back has a corset piercing. But I do.'

The other weight of salt was that it was alleged to stave off witches, demons and other malevolent spirits. Salt was placed in foods to help purify those that ate it. The truth of it is the salt purified the foods from insects, bacteria, and fungus allowing the recipient of the meal to not suffer botulism, or dysentery or possession of the devil.

So what you ask. Well since most of us have to watch our salt intake, none of us will be filthy rich or pure of heart. And for that I am thankful. Our ancestors had many things to overcome, we have so little to worry about in comparison. If we were all rich and never had to surmount our own personal demons life would be unlivable.

posted by Don Taylor @ 10:55 AM, ,


Taped in Front of an Live Audience
Wednesday, September 06, 2006

I fondly remember the days of vast open expanses. Where one could stretch out. Where one was able to move about freely. Where one was not worried about farting and giving oneself a concussion.

Yes this whole entry is one long fart joke, but at the same time – its not. I’m not too tall of a guy at 6’1”, but when one sits upon his toilet, he should not have to have his knees pressed up against the wall. And no I was not doing some odd Belgium Reverse Stool with a Half Gainer Poop on the Rebound trick. At CheckPoint the tile wall is, at most, two inches from my knees when I sit. Two inches. That’s smaller than the length of my pinkie, smaller than the shit that I’m taking. Two inches is what most people want to loose from they’re waistline. If I had two more inches on my waistline I would not be able to sit on the throne.

Now the kicker of this whole bit, is in our hotel at Rothenburg, the bathroom was so undersized that it felt like a dollhouse. As a guy you had to stand in the shower to piss in the toilet. While your there, you might as well turn on the shower, freshen up a bit. The act of defecation was a skit gone amuck. First off you close the door, unlatch your belt, go to turn around, the door pops open. You hold your belt, close the door, go to sit down, pop open the door. Close the door, sigh, pop open the door. Scream at the door, close it, release the hounds, door flies off the hinges, your woman laughs at you. You tell her to go to hell, and then proceed to fall off the toilet into the hallway. Where the laughtrack falls into applause. Fade to commercial.

Fade up commercial. "There was a time when a man could be alone in the bathroom. Dem was da daze..."

posted by Don Taylor @ 8:03 PM, ,


Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Summer is Over
Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Hollywood has ruined the rest of the world for us. It has destroyed all sense of genuineness and replaced it with quality fabrications. It has caused us to look at authentic sites and have no awe when we see them. The Turtle and I just came back from Rothenburg ob der Tauber (that there is what we in the writing world like to call foreshadowing… stay tuned) this weekend. The oldest walled city in all of Germany. I can’t remember if it’s all of Europe, anyhow -- it’s old. 12th century old, and the most phenomenal part of the place is it hasn’t changed since those medieval nights.

When you walk into town it feels like you are on a movie set. The buildings are gorgeous, highly adorned with friezes, a massive wall surrounding the city and a moat on the other side of it. You expect to see knights wandering by with squires at their side. The only exception is that the streets are cobble-stoned rather than being muddy corridors filled with shit, the dead, and more shit. Which I was thankful for. I say a movie set because we Americans have no idea how to deal with times of yore. We think that ‘hey this looks just like that movie’, or ‘hey this look just like that Renaissance festival I went to when I was kid’, but in fact its real. These stones have been here longer then there has been an America. Longer then most of us can trace back our heritage. Its inconceivable for us, a culture who tears something down after is been around for 40 years to even fathom something that is 400 years old.

On Saturday we left CheckPoint Bratwurst with friends to head to Rothenburg. Our ride was a bit late, which I expected. Punctuality is a law in German culture but in American culture it’s more of a disease. No one claims to have it but every now and then an outbreak occurs. With us piled in to the car, moving down the road, after waiting at Cinnabon to open for some coffee, we started signing along with the radio and enjoying some idle chatter. Two hours to get to our destination, or at least that is what our borrowed GPS system said.

Traveling along, traveling along, we’re seeing German landscapes, starting to climb mountains, getting onto smaller and smaller roads, then dirt roads. Passing horse drawn carts. Seeing men using scythes to cut down wheat. Was that a witch burning? I realize that this is supposed to be archaic but did we just take a left onto the Age of Enlightenment. Don’t you think they would have at least built a hotel for people; hey didn’t someone make a reservation? Millie begins to panic, panic leads to desperation, desperation leads to her pulling out the handy and calling the group that is supposed to meet us. In the cabin of the car we hear, “Yeah that’s what I put in. Really? Nothing else came up. Oh. There it is. Yup. Nope. Okay. So who has to go the bathroom?”

It would happen that, like the States, there are cities that share the same name. Springfield, Albany, Intercourse, and Rothenburg. There seems to be a few, but what you have to pay attention to is the words that follow the name. That’s some sagely advice my followers. Write it down. I don’t see those pens moving. Very good.

To make the most of unexpected situation, we got out wandered about in this small, diminutive town called, where is that postcard, ah here it is, Hirschhorn. It was nestled on a mountain with a ruined castle sitting above it and the Rhine River flowing below. Quaint, charming, easy to see all it had in a couple of hours. We moved on like the travelers we were that day. Packed up the ass, readjusted the GPS, threw caution to the wind and moved out on the autobahn for another two hour ride.

The first thing you see when you enter Rothenburg proper is this ominous wall, fifty or so feet high with 100-foot towers every 400 meters. Crossing the moat to enter the city you are hit with stank of ages as the moat is at the bottom of the hill; therefore everything slimes its way down into it. From that point on you have entered a time machine. As if it wasn’t enough, to intensify the feeling, we happen to come on the one weekend where there is a Renaissance-esque festival going on.

The reason for the fest is this, and it’s so German, during the Thirty Years war the town was about to be destroyed by Catholic armies. In a strategy that has never been seen prior or since, the Mayor of Rothenburg saved his town with a bold maneuver. He told the general of the Catholic armies that if he drank a gallon of wine in one chug then the Catholic armies would have to leave the city as it stood. The General, always one for good entertainment said why not you fool. Fully expecting the man to either fail by vomiting, choking or just giving up. The mayor being a stout man chugged, and chugged, and chugged and raised his jug upon high turning it over to show not a drop of alcohol remained. He then passed out and remained unconscious for three days, yet the city was saved. This was the weekend to celebrate this heroic alcoholism.

We raised glasses in Prost! Watched fireworks explode over the city. Visited a medieval torture museum. Bought a neck violin. Ate Bratwursts and Schneeballen. And looked around saying to each other with glee “Damn, this is just like Disneyland, but more real.”

More details here and shiny full-color picture. Click don't run.

posted by Don Taylor @ 6:29 PM, ,


Five More Minutes Mom
Friday, September 01, 2006

I love a shower that smells like an iron in the morning. It presses out the wrinkles of sleep, creates perfect creases in my thoughts and blisters the skin on my ass. Our shower is particularly nasty, at least for me. Turtle seems to have no problem getting it to the temperature that she desires, I on the other hand, who prefer the water to be on the edge of a rolling boil can never find the right temperature. Today it was particularly brutal, charged enough that it woke me from my month-long slumber.

We have been here for almost a month now and I have wandered aimlessly getting caught up in the current of the-stranger-in-a-strange-land syndrome, all that might be (usually the negative side), and trying to figure out what we have to do to survive here comfortably. As the scorching droplets of water punished my hind end, the answers started to come into focus.

First off I cannot make everything happen at once. Language is a huge barrier, but I am picking it up. I could take a course that cost 850 dollars. The course starts in November ends in April, is four days a week and last four hours a day. I’ve decided not to take it. I know my attention span (what did you say?) and I know that we don’t have that sort of funds lying around. The smarter thing to do is purchase Rosetta Stone (half the price) and continue to pester the locals with my silly questions. Grant it I might only have the vocabulary of 7 or an 8-year-old, but then again most Americans newspapers are written at a fifth grade level.

I have also come to terms with being without a job, which was for so long was the purpose and for some is the reason to live (scary isn’t it). Therefore I am going to attempt to get this writing business off the ground. And I blame all of you. You have all kept visiting the site, sending me emails telling me how amused you are, and that the writing is good, and so on and so forth that I feel its time to get it going.

[aside]
Now if you all could pass the link along
Let others know that these pages exist
Sing the melody of the raven’s song
Gladly I would fall upon favored lists

Hold your applause

Last night was a bugger though. Lying in bed listening to Turtle sleep I had idea for a character (the first good one I have since being here). Instead of writing it down or getting up and tapping away at the keys, I rolled over and went to sleep. It was three in the morning, it was my body’s ultimatum. Of course, it has been forgotten and seeped deep back into the recessed of my diseased brain. The positive spin on all of this is that an idea surfaced and more will come. And if they don’t, I can always pick up design again which I’m also not too terribly bad at.

The other fear that was eating away at my slumber was survival in Germany. I was worried about the money. Coming from a less than meager background that happens. I worry when I shouldn’t, no we won’t be living extravagantly jetting off to Milan staying the week in Monaco, but we will live well. And enjoy it to no end. Therefore as of today, the beginning of September, I vow to enjoy life a bit more and I think that my corner has turned since I just had a half hour conversation with someone I don’t know. The entire time moving from cheek-to-cheek attempting to not chaff my scalded seat.

posted by Don Taylor @ 9:23 PM, ,