The sun had not yet set and time for dinner approached. I hungered for a burger, and the place down the street also serves milkshakes, but a pilsner better suited my mood.

The phone rang, or rather, the cell phone rang. Handy.

L asked whether I was doing anything—no—, mentioned that she and some friends planned on getting something to drink, and asked whether I wanted to join them. She would call back in five minutes, and if not, I would call back in five, but in any case it provided me with the five minutes necessary to shave and dress, although while in the process of that latter maneuver the buzzer did its little jig and instead of buzzing them in I answered, she indicated they were downstairs, and I promised to be right out, which was fudging things a bit, since zipping the pants, pulling on socks, and slipping into shoes—not to mention checking the wallet for money, gathering keys, etc.—had to be accomplished before I departed my domicile.

Downstairs I saw L outside the gate with a squat dark haired woman, introduced to me after I opened the gate and joined them as Tao, and after shaking hands we all headed for the Ballhaus, a beer-garden-esque construction a block away on the left side, across from a soccer field. There stood Jan, who sported the Fu Manchu of goatees, and Stefan, whose floppy-curly head of hair nominated him for the Young Bob Ross competition. Ballhaus was also packed; the three had tried already to see Volver, which explained why they were in my neighborhood to start with and why it only took five minutes to reach my place. We set off again, in the direction of Tucholsky Strasse, and since none of the places on the corner there appealed to L, left we went to Oranienburger—Jan, Stefan and I received a mini-lecture about how we were the men, so we should act like it, make decisions, etc. Of course, as the reader can anticipate, any attempts at suggestions or decisions were systematically shot down. At the corner we turned right, didn't go to Aufsturz, and instead ended up outside a place that had a table free and an interesting enough view for people watching. The beer-on-tap selection was limited (about five options), but Flensburger was available ... good enough.

Shortly after 9:30 the concentration of feet and bodies on Oranienburger, outside our place in particular, increased to the level of busy and crowded. The consensus was for another beer; Stefan and I argued convincingly for another round but at another place, so we stood, vacated the table, and headed toward Tacheles, which had come up in conversation between me and Stefan while on the topic of film/movies—L and I met during the Madison Film Festival, I attended the Berlinale, Hungary is a land of film-lovers, hilarity erupted when watching Clerks subbed in Hungarian, Berlin has tons of cinemas but the number of art-house places seems to be shrinking, Tacheles houses a theater that has been advertising A History of Violence since last September, but the sign does not change ... only letters fall off—so off we went past prostitutes from the Tammy Faye School of Cosmetics toward the ruined department store.

The graffiti in one hall had been covered in a coat of white, but enough had chipped off at the edges to indicate the colorful layers below. The beer garden was as busy as anything on the street, and the gentrification of the neighborhood had continued. Tourists in late middle-age stood around trying to take photographs in the diminishing light of dusk, and truckloads of sand had been shipped in to construct a waterless strand bar, all the rage this summer. Instead we ended up in a cafe-bar in the building, next to or part of the High End 54, and ordered another round. A several meter wide painting on the wall behind us was entitled Sunday and has an asking price of 15,000 Euros. Description: a detailed, giant mecha.

As required in any such group after a drink or two, battle of the sexes banter must ensue, accompanied by generalizations about the cognitive and communicative capabilities of men and women, interrupted by trips down the stairs to the restrooms to relieve oneself of a liter of beer, followed by a game of what's-in-your-wallet? when fishing out money to pay the tab, resulting in the perusal of all official looking documents featuring mug-shot worthy photos.

Back along Oranienburger toward Tucholsky we marched, pausing only briefly to discuss the apparent demise of Las Cucarachas, the Mexican-themed-bar next to which salsa lessons are offered Monday and Thursday evenings, only to note a minute later, after evading streetwalker number ten or so, that we (meaning I) were looking at the wrong building and it was instead a pizza parlor that had been replaced by something swanker. We approached the S-Bahn station, Tao and Jan departed for parts unknown by way of said train, and the remaining three went back up Tucholsky until August Strasse, at which point Stefen went left to an internet cafe I once used a year ago before I moved in to my apartment, and L and I went right in the direction of my place, which is on her way home. The cafe across the street from me, closed at this hour, of course, is called the Milch Halle, which offers something for both L and M, for L is enrolled as a student in Halle, and Milch is always our favorite example of nifty vowel action in the Berlin dialect, which is spoken by M.

The day in email: K, an ex who celebrated a birthday two weeks back, wrote back: “thanks for the postcard and bday greeting. i have been having fun in the madcity. still no internet.”—the lack of a closing or signature was a first. The Fulbright folks are warning me that my reports are late. Yep.

Date: Thu Aug 3 21:37:32 2006
From: Sinoria Habib <katies@faithlc.qld.edu.au>
Subject: Whats up with your baby jokes?

Hello, i have to say what is up with the baby jokes their pretty sick dont you reckon? I think you must seriously have some problems if you think their funny, it's pretty disturbing actually. Can't you come up with some jokes that dont involve your obvious fastination with babies?

I did not realize that they were my dead baby jokes. I am not the top result for dead baby jokes on Google, but close enough. I have a higher ranking for sex with the dead, which disturbs me slightly, less for the content and more because, by looking at my logs and stats, I realize that that is rather popular search phrase. It is a sad commentary on my site that it is considerably more popular for such things than for my quote-unquote original content.

Born 150 Years Too Late tells the interesting story of John A. Coffer, a curious old photographer whose 19th-century style photographs go well with his 19th-century lifestyle. The idea of a simpler life or time is interesting, and the man has his horse and buggy, his small cabin, outhouse, etc., but it is not just his solar cells and computer that are modern. His retro-lifestyle is made possible by the more modern civilization he not exactly rejects but at least distances himself from.

Not as criticism but as minor commentary I mention the connection to fundamentalism as analyzed by Karen Armstrong, who noted that while fundamentalism might be reactionary, it is hardly traditional—it is a child of modernism, and relies on modernism for its faux-traditionalism. John A. Coffer acquired cast-offs, a cheap Maytag, a bathtub, and so on and so forth.

To conclude: Bee Swarm Sends 10 To Hospital Following Crash: “A swarm of up to 100,000 angry honey bees sent 10 people to the hospital including the driver of an SUV that hit a hollow tree in northeast Indiana, disturbing a hive.”