The final Freakshow! of 2009, semi-coinciding with the year anniversary of the test episode that catapulted the show from a potentially bad idea to WTBU wunderkind, will air on Monday December 11 at 10 PM EST.  In case you couldn’t tell by the poorly-Photoshopped picture of the dynamite plunger above, we’re taking this “explosive finish” motif a little seriously, as this Freakshow! is going to be one of the most unique shows we’ve ever done – the kind that can only be spawned from the clash of love and disdain (but more on that later) – so it would be most unwise to miss it, as I’m sure you can tell.

As always you can listen at http://wtburadio.org.

PS: the site’s going to get updated again really soon.  I promise!

You know I haven’t had time lately due to the upcoming finals and such, but I just had to post this. This is soo Freaking weird and just eye opening, it really is just made for Jerry Springer.

Canvas-acrylic-spraypaint 100/120 cm 2007

And I thought People of Walmart was Tralfamodorian zoo-worthy.  That’s probably because I live in Detroit, where we only have a People Mover* and not a subway.

Introducing… People of Public Transit!

It’s a world where this exists:

Does anyone else smell derivative sitcom?

And this:

It's fun to pretend they're singing "Bohemian Rhapsody."

*A t-shirt that sums up the general consensus’ opinion of our beloved Detroit:

Alternate slogan: "Where the future chokes for survival."

I saw him for the second time today. He was walking down the street, cigarette in hand as I approached him opposite. I supposed he looked nonchalant and somehow confident, though truthfully any supposition would be little more than a guess. It didn’t occur to me until far later just how baffling and confusing this situation truly was.

I remember jumping the first time I saw him. It wasn’t out of fear, but rather out of shock. I first caught his gaze as I held the front door for him, but I was far too much of a coward to hold it. Sadly, he must have been used to such looks of trepidation, but still I felt intense and vivid shame for my obvious reluctance to meet his eye.

I’ve come to think of his face as a warning against looking in the mirror when high on any kind of lysergic acid. Who would be foolhardy enough to try such a thing if they were guaranteed a view of a drug altered Victorian freak show? To have one’s eyes darkened and made inscrutable? To see one’s nose distorted as though it were sculpted by a blind man? To be without any kind of visible mouth? And to possess a face that appeared to be constantly melting?

There is no joy in relating the fact that I live two floors up from an unfortunately disfigured man. Really, I’m just trying to relate that I am quite unsure that I have the stomach to satisfy my curiosity towards him.

Sometimes we come across an image that we just know has been played with in photoshop, sometimes a guy’s penis really isn’t as long as someone wants us to think it is…but this, or should I say, these are REAL!

This man, Tommy by name, really has 2 dicks! WTF! I don’t know whether to be sick or jealous!

Ozzy Osbourne “Over The Mountain”
Dangerous Toys “Line ‘Em Up”
Sgt. Roxx “Push & Squeeze”
Poison “Fallen Angel”
Aerosmith “Angel”
Electric Boys “Electrified”
Queensrÿche “If I Were King”
Souls Of We “Skeleton Key”
Faster Pussycat “Nonstop To Nowhere”
Vince Neil “You’re Invited (But Your Friend Can’t Come)”
Chickenfoot “Turnin’ Left”
White Lion “El Salvador”
Warrant “Down Boys”
Uzi “Away From My Heart”
Def Leppard “It Don’t Matter”
Cinderella “Somebody Save Me”
Cinderella “Shelter Me” (live)
Freakshow “Four Leaf Clover”
Cinderella “Fire And Ice”
Freakshow “Burning Me”
Mötley Crüe “Bitter Pill”
Vinnie Vincent Invasion “No Substitute”
Sacred Oath “Blood Storm”
Lita Ford “Die For Me Only (Black Widow)”
Halford “Silent Screams”
Great White “Save Your Love”
Age Of Evil “Cruel Intentions”
Scatterbrain “Sonata #3”
Bang Tango “Someone Like You”
Guns N’ Roses “Shackler’s Revenge”
Automan “Back In The Sun”
Alice Cooper “Dangerous Tonight”

Continuando con la celebracion de los 30 años del Moca, como era logico organizaron una fiesta a la que asistieron infinadad de gorrones famosos, entre ellos nuestra querida Tranny Gaga, en el evento no perdio oportunidad de lucir uno de sus espantosos modelitos y de promocionar su nuevo sencillo “bad romance”, la verdad es que Gagaloo ultimamente se ve mas delgada y freaky que de costumbre, pero no hay que negar que no pierde su encanto de excentricidad XD.

click en las pics para agrandar

Jeff LaBar, guitarist for classic hard rockers Cinderella and new hard rock supergroup Freakshow, will join JT on the next edition of Hard Rock Nights, airing November 20-26. Jeff will recount the early days of Cinderella, how he joined the band and the first major tour, one of the group’s most notable videos, and the future of the band.

Jeff also talks about his role in Freakshow, the supergroup featuring vocalist Markus Allen Christopher (Miss Crazy), Tony Franklin (The Firm), and Frankie Banali (Quiet Riot/WASP). Freakshow’s debut CD was released earlier this year on Retrospect Records.

Hard Rock Nights is an internationally syndicated radio program and can be heard on a growing number of rock and metal stations, both terrestrially and on the internet. Visit our affiliates page for a full list of stations and times.

Clips from all the songs (except Triggers, since apparently you can only have 10songs up) from Plan Threes debut album Screaming Our Sins are now up on myspace! Freakshow sounds amazing, Whatever the Reason I already KNOW is amazing… Can’t wait ’til Sunday when they will be supporting MEW in Gothenburg. And they’ll bring the album with them to sell as well Ordinary release date is November 25th.

www.myspace.com/planthree

Work, work fashion baby, move on that bitch crazy!! Lady Gaga fue fotografiada por la gran fotografa Annie Leibovitz para la revista Vogue del mes de Diciembre, luciendo atuendos freaks como ella, so fierce, fashion!! loves it!! Asi es como se debe de hacer una sesion de fotos, disfruten!

click para agrandar

El dia de hoy se llevo acabo una entrega mas de los latin grammys grammys latinos, entrega que pasa con mas pena que gloria, porque todo mundo sabe que estos premios tienen la validez que un billete de 5 pesos, osea nada!!. Comprobando que si formas parte de una transnacional o eres amigo de Emilio No soy cubano Estefan tienes el premio asegurado, lo peor de todo no son los premios en si o la falsedad de estos, no, lo mas ridiculo fue ver desfilar a todo este batallon de monstruos “artistas”, tengan cuidado las imagenes podrian causarles panico o nausea, que comience el freakshow!

click en las pics para agrandar

Charitin, la reina del mal gusto

 

Bebe, mala como sus canciones

Laura Paussini, fea como su vestido

Natalia se equivoco de 15 años

Lucero disfrazada de algo

Natalia Lafourcade, pandrosa y X

]]> http://hardrocknights.wordpress.com/2009/11/09/november-6-12-2009-playlist/ Mon, 09 Nov 2009 18:59:26 +0000 JT http://hardrocknights.wordpress.com/2009/11/09/november-6-12-2009-playlist/

Twisted Sister “I Wanna Rock”
Souls Of We “Let The Truth Be Known”
Lynch Mob “21st Century Man”
Aerosmith “Draw The Line”
Poison “Fallen Angel”
Vinnie Vincent Invasion “I Wanna Be Your Victim”
KISS “Lightning Strikes”
Ace Frehley “Pain In The Neck”
Van Halen “Hot For Teacher”
Trixter “Give It To Me Good”
Lita Ford “Betrayal”
Lita Ford “Still Waitin’”
Bon Jovi “Livin’ On A Prayer”
Alice Cooper “Wake The Dead”
Machines Of Grace “Just A Game”
Dio “Mystery”
Mötley Crüe “Girls, Girls, Girls”
Cockpit “Mission To Rock”
Guns N’ Roses “Sweet Child O’ Mine”
Ozzy Osbourne “Crazy Train” (live)
Cockpit “Gun For Hire”
Judas Priest “You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’”
Warrant “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”
Black Label Society “You Must Be Blind”
’77 “Less Talk (Let’s Rock)”
L.A. Guns “Shoot For Thrills”
Metallica “For Whom The Bell Tolls”
Beatallica “Got To Get You Trapped Under Ice”
Age Of Evil “Get Dead”
Megadeth “Sweating Bullets”
Def Leppard “High ‘N’ Dry (Saturday Night)”
Cinderella “Talk Is Cheap”
Freakshow “Four Leaf Clover”
Iron Maiden “The Prisoner”

zugegeben, ich bin wirklich keine herzblut-hausfrau. aber staub und sonstiges kann ich nicht leiden und staub fällt erst dann wirklich auf, wenn der staubsauger kaputt geht.
so war das dann auch – vor knapp einem halben jahr verabschiedete sich mein staubsauger und der staub sagte immer mehr “hallo”!
ich hab mir das eine ganze weile angeschaut – so ziemlich ein halbes jahr (natürlich hab ich gewischt, aber…naja) und vor 3 tagen kam mir das re.al-angebot vom staubsauger “dirt devil” gerade recht. von 150 euro war er auch 60 euro heruntergesetzt.
“wunderbar” denke ich mir und schlage zu!
ENDLICH wieder ein staubsauger!! Höörrlich!!

am selben abend klingelt es an meiner tür und ich sehe meine liebe mama heranschreiten mit einem riesengroßen paket auf ihren händen und mit einem noch größeren lächeln auf ihren lippen!

ich sehe sie und muss fürchterlich lachen…
plötzlich habe ich da zwei staubsauger stehen!!

eine staubfreie sarah

It’s mornings like these that I’m happy that India tends to work on a later schedule.  Shubh had wanted to get up early so that we could go over to the Pushkar fair and really get some time in.  Early for me means 6am.  Early for Shubh is more like 9, and this thrills me as I roll over, see the sun setting the canvas tents aglow, but still hear my tent mate snoring.

When we finally do get up a take some time to inspect the tent again—it’s a bit like a small circus tent, with the space between our and our neighbors’ criss-crossed with ropes and stakes.  I wander around the back taking pictures of some of the plants, a praying mantis I find, and the plumbing system (which mostly consists of a pipe that drops off a cliff into the valley below.  Well, it’s rural India.

We walk up to the fort restaurant and get in on the buffet.  It’s an Indian/continental breakfast, which suits the crowd here best.  The majority of people that I see in the dining room are white westerners, and while they’re clearly here for some cultural experience, the food selection gives just enough of a hint of curry to allow them to say they ate Indian food for every meal, but still leaves open the possibility of toast and eggs.

We eat mostly in silence; I think Shubh is tired and I’m trying to make the room stop spinning because of my fucking malaria pills again.  I force down as much food as I can, but it’s no use—it burns my stomach like fire anyway.  I curse the doctor who prescribed these with the helpful advice “you might want to take these with food since they can be a little hard on the stomach.”  That’s a sugar coat and a half.  How about “you’re going to want to practice stuffing food down your maw like Takeru Kobayashi because these little guys are going to fuck you 7 ways from Tuesday.  But at least you’ll feel like you’re doing something.”

To pass the time and stave off my malaria pill-induced nausea we play the game of Where are They From.  Shubh and I listen to other people speak and try to tell what nationality they are; it’s not eavesdropping because we’re honestly only listening for vowel sounds.  The Dutch guy three tables down could be talking about his affinity for dog nipples—who knows, cause we’re not listening.

The most amusing part of the whole game for me is that Shubh really can’t tell the difference between English accents, even though I spend a lot of time working with him.  His categorizations consist of “European” and “American”, and that’s mostly because the syntax and accentuation is different.

How about this, I say, speaking with a heavy British accent.

“What?”

Do you hear anything different about my voice, I ask, switching to Irish.

“Not really.”

Nothing at all, I say, with my best shot at deep Southerner.

“I mean a little bit, but only some of the sounds.  I can tell it’s a little different, but not really.”

So we all sound the same to him.

We head back to the tent where he showers and I head out to take some pictures of the grounds.  Uncharacteristically, I will not have a morning shower today, which is weird for me.  But the shower is set up for an Indian bucket shower, and I’m really not in the mood to tackle a new cultural learning experience today, and on top of that, I’m going to a camel fair.  I don’t feel like a little one-day funk is going to make me a social outcast.

Once we a packed up and ready to leave, the tent organizer comes in and gives us some information about the fair and tells us what we owe him.  And now I am introduced to haggling.  Shubh throws his head back dramatically at the price and starts to argue and the guy puts up his hand as if to stop him.  And then the back and forth starts—the guys speak rapidly and I can’t even catch any quasi-english words.  Shubh will say something and the man looks wounded and moves his hand as though we’re threatening to steal food from his children.  The guy speaks and Shubh looks incredulous, shaking his head and acting like this is the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard.  Back and forth, back and forth.  And I sit there in the chair, not sure if I’m supposed to act like I’m unaware of the argument taking place, or if I’m supposed to participate in some way.  I pretend there is something wrong with my camera that requires my complete attention.

In the end Shubh bargains the guy down from 6,500rps to 4,500rps, which is pretty good.  If he hadn’t been there, I’d have been charged 10,000 likely, which is like $200.  Just the same, I don’t get the haggling, and what’s more, I find it incredible that once an agreement is reached we’re all friends again and the guy laughs and jokes with Shubh.  No hard feelings, no one feeling swindled…just carrying on.

I love this almost as much as I’m mystified by it.  I’m not one for haggling because I’m not one for argument, and this just seems confrontational.  But these guys are so conditioned and so good that there isn’t anyone taking this personally.  I’d take it personally.  I mean hell, I’ve walked away from Craiglist deals over $10 because someone’s trying to get me to drop my price.  If I’d take $6, I’d have listed it for $6.

The fair is a short 1km away, and once we get there I notice two very distinct characteristics.  The first, is that this is a very, very dusty landscape.  Dust blows around me immediately, and I can already feel it coating my sweat and bonding itself to my skin.  Also, it smells like camel shit.  A lot like camel shit, which should come as no surprise as there are (or recently were) between 15-to 20,000 camels here.  And they have left little gifts all over the place.

Fun fact about camel shit—the droppings, which people collect and use as fuel and sometimes medicine here—are uniform discs that are also littering the landscape.  I theorize that the reason for the uniformity is the fact that they all hit terminal velocity on the way down from such an absurd height and thus bombard the ground at the same speed.  Just a thought.

Before we’ve walked for three minutes I’ve already made a friend in the form of a thin kid of about 18 who is a local artisan who has work here he’d like to show me.  Camelshit.  Everyone here claims to be an artist, but the reality is that this kid’s job is to work the crowd, chat up a visitor or two, and direct him or her to a specific shop, for which he will receive a commission.  But he seems nice and we allow him to talk and walk with us for a while.

Shubh greets some people and begins talking and I look off into the distance attempting to catch a few phrases while feigning interest it some far off, unseen event.  Then the rapid conversation breaks off and he turns to me.

“Are you ready for your camel ride?” he asks with a grin.

What, I ask.

“I’ve negotiated 200rps for this camel ride right now, since you said you only wanted to go for 30 minutes.”

We’d been talking about this in the car.  I had agreed to the camel ride the same way you agree when a friend says you should backpack around Europe next summer—knowing full well that it probably isn’t going to happen.  It’s not that I’m not interested, it’s just that I’d expected a bit of a warm-up.  A camel is a big animal, and I’ve just gotten here.  I could use some time to walk around, get used to the noises of the fair, the feel of a small goat, or the idea that camels don’t frequently snap and kill their riders by dragging them for miles across an unforgiving desert.

Shubh looks very eager.

Ok, I say.  Let’s do this.

“Ok great,” he says, “just make sure you don’t give him the money til the end so he gives you a ride.

Roger that.

With a word form Shubh there are now 4 people spotting me as I try to climb up onto Jammy the Camel.  Jammy, though she has dropped down to a kneeling position on all fours, still comes up to a little below my chest, which is not only a long climb up, but a decent fall on the far side if I overshoot.  With a little luck, she’d roll over onto me too.

“Jump!” says one of the little men, who I don’t think fully appreciates my size.  I don’t think I’m going to hurt the camel, but she’s probably not going to love 200lbs of pasty white guy rag-dolling through the air and crashing down on her hump.  “Jump!” they say again.  So I jump, grab onto the saddle for dear life, and manage to not fall over the other side.  Jammy chews, spits, and looks bored.

Next two other little men place my feet into the stirrups, which consist of some webbing and give me riding instructions: “Lean back.”

With that Jammy starts to get up, and I get very excited because there are a lot of tourists with cameras here and my moment for YouTube fame is surely mere seconds away.  If you’ve ever thought that a camel was an awkward creature, you’ve never seen one get up.  Had you seen one get up, you would know that a camel was an awkward creature and would appreciate God’s sense of humor in not only giving them a hump, but also the ability to stand from a kneeling position.

As Jammy gets up, she extends her hind legs, which pitches me way forward, nearly bucking me off.  Fortunately I have a nub—roughly the size of a half-roll of quarters—at the front of the saddle—which I latch onto like a hipster on the last ironic trucker hat at American Apparel.  If I fall, I’m going right down onto Jammy’s long neck, an offense which (at least if I were a camel) would warrant a retaliatory trampling on principle alone.  Somehow I hang on, leaning back as hard as I can.

“Lean back as hard as you can!” Says the guy behind me.

Jammy then gets up off her front legs, which one would think would make things steadier, but instead almost pitches me off the side.  Finally we stand erect, beast and man, ready to take on the fair.  Then she starts to move.

We are high up.  Really high up.  It’s not a cliff or anything, but a horse is high—and a camel is a hell of a lot taller than a horse.  I hang on even tighter and lean back till my quads threaten to cramp up.  I’m not going to fall off this thing.  I refuse.

“This is good?” asks my tour guide, who sits behind me and gives his name as “David”.

Yes, I say, very good.

And we begin our tour of the fair.  The camel lopes along with a gait that never really smoothes  out.  Each step would be well accompanied by tuba music with a ba-wump deed dum, ba-wump deed dum theme.  We pass other camels, some pulling flowered carts with fat, cartoonish rubber wheels, and others that are dressed up and accessorized like hairy desert Barbies.  They have anklets with bells, nose studs, dyed hair, decorated and sparkling saddles, and pom-poms that swing with each step.

As we walk along David points out things that we see, but mostly talks about our professional lives.  What do I do?  What does he do?  He’s a businessman in Delhi who comes out here for the fair to make some extra money.  If I like the tour, he says, I can slip him a little gift when no one’s looking.  I’ll keep that in mind.

After about 10 minutes we pass one of the many water troughs that are located throughout the desert.  The handlers decide to give Jammy a drink (had it been 10 days already?) and take great pleasure in showing me the contraption used for watering the camels.  It’s a spigot on the opposite side of the water in the trough, and when they turn it on, Jammy lowers her head and grabs the spigot in her mouth, sucking away.  As her enormous cheeks balloon and drain with each gulp, I find myself laughing a little too hard at how funny this looks, and I disturb a bathing pilgrim.

Another reason for this festival is so that the faithful can come wash themselves in the desert before entering the temple to worship.  This is the reason the spigot is on the outside of the water trough—at any given point there are pilgrims—people who have made this journey for this specific reason—surrounding the water basin lathered up with soap, scrubbing furiously.  They then take water from the basin and rinse.  Then they repeat.   I would not dream of taking a picture of such a personal and spiritual event, even if the sway of the camel would allow it.  What’s more, it’s strictly prohibited by the town of Pushkar, as is immodest clothing, alcohol, tobacco, and embracing in public.

We lope on making small talk and with me attempting to take pictures on the back of the camel.  I’m fully away of the type of tourist I look like right now, but the next time I find myself in the Rajistani Desert on the back of a camel will likely not be anytime soon.

At one point a woman looks up to me and starts shouting to me from 17’ below.  “Shampoo!  Shampoo!” She cries, looking at me and tapping her head.

Hello, I yell back, unsure what to do.  Hi!  Then I turn away smiling like I feel we’ve had a great interaction but this camel-riding business now requires more of my attention.  And it does, because a few minutes later Jammy does a side-step around another camel and nearly sends me spilling.  The thing about the camel is that your natural inclination when you’re riding something is to cling to it as closely as possible—and with a camel, the only way to do that is to lean way, way back—and that’s the opposite of what your body tells you to do when you’re trying to not panic about a situation that’s freaking you out.

David then takes a break in his ongoing audio tour to solicit some prostitutes for me.  He does this right after we pass a restaurant he has just endorsed and right before we hit a ring of women giving a lot of attention to a single man as they sit on the ground by a walking path.  They are all dressed in very colorful garb, complete with translucent face veils and all manner of shiny ornaments.  David explains that they are ‘gypsy dancers’. For a few rupees they will take you out into the desert for dance circles in the evening, where they have taken many men and made merry.  I think he means ‘made merry’ in a Lord of the Rings kind of way, but after this he nudges me and explains that for a few more rupees he can arrange a more intimate gathering afterwards.

Sadly, I tell him, I won’t here this evening—I’m heading to Agra.  Otherwise I would certainly consider heading out into an unknown desert with a group of strange women in a region that forbids so much as public embracing, because I don’t see what would possibly go wrong.  For safety I should probably bring a ton of money and get really hammered first to relax the mood.  Yes, I tell David, it’s too bad I can’t make it.

As the fair gets louder I notice that we’re heading through the market now, where there is haggling all over the place, and for all manner of goods.  At the top of a small incline there are amusement park rides—several feris wheels, a few kids’ rides, and a freak show with posters of clearly photoshopped two-headed children.

As the ride nears the end David takes me through the competition area, which has a bit of a gladiator feel to it. It’s a circular arrangement of stadium seats around a huge dirt ring that is used for the showing of livestock and various competitions, including the Indian vs. tourist tug-of-war, which has just ended.  There’s a brief moment where I convince myself that I‘ve been betrayed by David and that I am walking into a trap.  The crowd roars as we enter through one of the tunnels and onto the competition grounds—I wait to here a voice announce that David has now brought in an unwitting tourist to the camel jousting competition or something similarly ill-fated.  But it turns out that once we enter it’s just the crowds cheering for various performers, which include a little girl of no more than 5 who is walking a tightrope 10’ off the ground while balancing a set of two pots on her head.

After Jammy skillfully navigates us through the crowd and to the other side, I see Shubh, who takes a picture of me on the camel as the handlers get it to “kush”, or kneel, again.  The kneeling part is not nearly as bad as the standing part, and I’m feeling so good about not face planting on my ride that I tip David 50rps.

Since we are close to the show arena we walk into the middle of the dirt circle and observe a group of women—tourists—participating in a water-jug carrying competition.  Each contestant has a large clay pot full of water, which she must carry as fast as she can for about 100’ to the finish line.  It takes a long time.  The logistics of organizing such an event are apparently more complex that one would realize, and after waiting for the contest to start for 15 minutes I start looking for a better way to spend my time.

Someone else has apparently made better use of his time as well as a scuffle off to my left catches my attention.  Two men have another by the arms as two police officers walk up to him.  The man in the middle is apparently protesting his innocence; one of the police officers gives him a sharp crack up the back of his head as the men on either side drag him off and out of the arena.

“Pickpocket,” says Shubh.

What are they going to do, I ask?

“The police will beat him up.” Says Shubh matter-of-factly.  Huh.

Now the women are off and there is much cheering and yelling as they madly dash across the dusty arena.  After about 20 seconds a woman in a white tshirt wins.  People cheer.  It’s a great moment as I look around—half of the people here can’t communicate with each other because of different languages or dialects, but in this moment of friendly and silly amusement, we are all sharing something nonverbal, and the joyous energy surges through the crowd as we all laugh and move together in a writhing mass towards the finish line.  The women are celebrities and seem a little overwhelmed, but spirits are high, cultural ice is broken, and Shubh and I decide to move onto some of the less-raucous events of the day.

We take some time to walk around the fair, lightly haggle with some people, and then look at more food that isn’t safe for me to eat.  There are several booths selling large daggers and swords, which Shubh tells me are for decorative or ceremonial purposes, such as for Sikhs to wear in their traditional garb, but as I look more closely at them, they are cheap and plastic and unimpressive.  I’m not sure what I was expecting—some part of me always wants to find something special from a region—a camel herder’s knife from ore found in a remote part of the desert that has been hammered and pounded into shape by traditional methods over weeks of time.  But globalization is increasingly making my idiotic dreams that much more improbable; why not just send to china to have plastic injection molds made and stamp these puppies out for 34 cents and sell them to tourists for $30?  You can’t blame them; authenticity is often a fabrication of a visitor—the locals only care if it works, not how it was made.

The only thing that we buy from the fair is a bottle of water—because I realize too late that the heat from the sun and the sand has stripped all moisture from me and I am now getting a really bad headache.  We stop to look at several interesting herbs from a guy who has set up shop next to a peanut vendor.  I had seen these plants before and had mentioned my fascination to Shubh, who advised that I take some home until I told him what a horrifying violation of customs that would be.  The plants were being sold from a round pile in front of the man—collapsed and greenish in color, they looked more like clumps of dried seaweed—and this is their appeal.  Once you place them in water and give them a day or two, they explode into lush green plants again.  I’ve seen them marketed as resurrection plants.

Shubh buys four of them for his brother who likes plants and we walk back to the car, but are first intercepted by our ‘artisan’ friend from earlier in the day.  He would like us—please—to come look at some of his work, and since he did say the magic word, I agree and we go to see what he has.  And immediately we are smoothly—but not smoothly enough—handed off to the sales guys who start using the key phrases that they know play on tourist sympathy.  This is my living.  My village makes its money this way.  This is how my village supports itself.

But they are a nice bunch and don’t pressure me too much, which is likely because, even though they speak English, I am speaking through Shubh.  As an Indian, Shubh has a much better idea of the value of these products and will be able to bargain for far better deals that I would.  And they know that he’ll pull me right away if they start anything, and the last thing they need is for the rich whiteface to leave.

So they begin showing me some marble jewelry boxes, some carved elephants, some chess boards, and a couple of ash trays.  The stuff looks pretty good—not like most of the crap I’ve been seeing, so I’m interested in buying, but am sure not to let on. The funny thing is that this doesn’t really matter in the culture I’ve seen; you can not be interested at all and salesman will put together a package and force it on you—“you like?  No?  How about this?  I make you good deal, real cheap.”

Shubh gets me a pair of stone elephants for 400rps each, and since they are playing nice, I buy a number of other items, which they wrap behind the table, though I am very careful to watch them and be sure they don’t switch anything on me.  We part amiably, and we wave goodbye to our little ‘artisan’ friend, who has surely now just scored himself a solid commission.  It’s at that point that we realize that our cell phones don’t work and that we cannot find the driver.

This is no small fair, so the likelihood of finding him by chance is not good.  On top of that, the combination of the malaria pills from this morning, the dehydration from the afternoon, and the constant wafting of foreign cooking and camel shit has made me start feeling less than wonderful.  Shubh can see this and hurriedly attempts to get a signal in a fashion that makes me think that we are in a very strange Verizon commericial.  Can you hear me now?  How about now?  No, I’m in Rajasthan.  In RAJASTHAN.  No, I’m at a camel fair.  A CAMEL FAIR.

After Shubh returns to the spot where I am slumped we walk over past a tent of carvers who immediately offer us a seat down.  I’m not in the mood for interaction—all I want is to be back in the car, back in air conditioning, and back to napping as we move across the desert.  But they will not be dissuaded.

“Would you like some chai?”  One guy asks, “In our country you are considered a part of God and we will treat you as a guest.”  I have heard this, and this is the first time it has made me uncomfortable.

No, thank you, I say.  He looks a little insulted and I shift uneasily.  I’ve only been here for about a minute and I am already feeling uncomfortable.  Something doesn’t feel right and I’m on edge.  Shubh is off talking to someone at a few feet away and I wish we could get out of here.

“Please, please look around if you like,”

I will, I say, thank you.  And thus I make the same mistake again.  In being polite—which I can’t help but do—I’ve shown him that the door is open.  And now, through a subtle unseen signal, a guy from the side of the tent has been triggered.  He comes over with books of postcards and begins to show them to me, one at a time.

Very nice, I say.

Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid.

“I make you good deal—you take it, 200rps.”

No, no, I say, I’m all set.

“I make you good deal,” he says again.

No thank you, I say, and walk over to some of the carvings to get away from him, which was, in hindsight, the worst possible move.  I am now deeper into the tent, and it soon becomes very clear that they don’t bother putting the high-sellers on postcards.  Offhandedly, I touch a carving.

“You like?  I make you good deal.”  The guy is off to my right and has swooped in so closely that I can see the blackened roots of his teeth.

Oh just looking, I laugh.  But this doesn’t matter because now another guy comes in from the left side and starts taking out sets and sets of the things that look like the carved elephant I have just touched.

“You like elephant?  Look at this elephant—I give you good price, money no problem.”

“No, no, money no problem,” pipes in the guy from the right “we make you good deal, good deal.  What you like?  More elephant?”  he looks at the guy at the left sternly and motions with his hand in a what the fuck are you doing kind of way, which creates a new flood of carvings from my left.

“This one has the elephant, pregnant, with lions and other animals outside carving.”  He traces his finger along the elephant’s snout, highlighting the carvings.  “This one has elephant three times pregnant—very good, my grandfather carve this—and I make you good deal.  First customer.”  What he means by the pregnant elephants is that the back end of the stone elephant carving has been hollowed out with a honeycomb pattern so that there’s a dome where a solid back end would be—in this the carver will work his or her tools and carve a second elephant inside from the leftover stone.  It’s a very popular style that I’ve seen before—like back in the other tent—and they were of much better quality.

“Here is also an elephant with man and woman making sex,” he grins, showing me a hollowed out elephant which has a stone carving of a man ‘making the sex’ with a bent over woman.  I take a moment to appreciate the detail in the ‘oh’ faces, which is extensive.

Very nice, very nice, I say, looking back over my shoulder at Shubh.  I want out of here.  I don’t want one of these elephants, and I’m running out of ways to stall.  I see a chess set and inquire about the price, which, of course, means not only that I want to buy it, but that I want to pay top dollar for it.

“Oh this set very nice,” the guy on the right says, giving a whole schpeel on how everything is hand carved and the pieces are authentic. “I make you great deal.  Great deal.”

I’m just looking, I say.  Just takin a look.

“You not like it?” And again he makes a furious face and a violent hand movement to the guy on the left who quickly picks up another chessboard and displays it to me as the guy on the right begins his monologue about the quality of the set once again.

I again tell them I’m not interested so now come the package deals.  The elephant and the chessboard.  You no like?  Ok, different elephant.  No?  Different chessboard.  No?  I make you good deal.  Good deal.  Money no problem.

In the flurry of information I look to find Shubh to signal him to get me the hell out of here and I see to my dismay that he is now gone—nowhere in sight.  I am on my own with my two salesman, and his absence explains the heightened aggressiveness.  They need to sell this shit while the whiteface is alone without his Indian guide.

After the 6^th time of going back and forth I realize that I am in a textbook tag team.  As soon as I decline one offer, one comes from the other side where that person has been using his free moment to compile some new set to pitch when I turn away from his partner.  It’s furiously fast and incredibly exhausting.  And they are now getting frantic because they know Shubh wouldn’t leave me alone for long.

“All yours,” one of them says “3600rps.”  And I scoff at him.  That’s close to $80 for a chess set and a shitty version of an elephant I bought a few tents over for $8.

Nahi, I say, no way—too much.

“Ok, ok, 1400rps for elephant.”

Nahi, I say again waving my hands, too much.

“How much you give for elephant then?”

Elephant, I say, I’ll give you 400.  The man snorts at this, which actually helps me feel more secure in what I’m doing because now I know he’s bluffing and that we both know he’s full of shit.  He would still make a fine profit margin on this piece for 400rps, and I don’t even want it.  I just want the hell out of here.

“Chessboard,” he says “ I give you for 2600rps.”

Nahi, I say again, too much—I don’t have that much money.

“How much you have,” he asks, foolishly expecting truth from the man he’s been verbally accosting for the last 5 minutes.

400rps, I lie.

“Money no problem,” his friend pipes in who is clearly more of a trained parrot than an English speaker.  I expect ‘we make you great deal’ to make it in again, but it doesn’t.  His partner looks halfway between disappointment and disgust at this figure, but then remembers—money no problem.

“Ok, ok,” he says “elephant and chessboard—4000 rps.  I wrap for you.”

Nahi, I say, that’s more than the price you offered separately.

This is starting to get ridiculous and their aggressiveness reaching a frantic level.  But three minutes later my savior Shubh walks into the tent just and informs me it’s going to take 8 hours to get to Agra for tonight.

“It’s going to take 8 hours to get to Agra for tonight.”

Seriously, I say, looking very concerned.  How can it take that long?

I am acting very upset because I want a reason to divert my attention from my two new friends who are practically foaming at the mouth.  I make intense eye contact with Shubh and I feel their eyes on me.  Get me out of here, Shubh.

And then Shubh says the words I’ve been waiting to hear; “We need to go.”

Ohwellguysthankssomuchit’sbeengreattalkingwithyoubutnowihave togo, I say as I make a beeline for the edge of the tent.

And now the chase is on.  My new friends are now fully aware that the winds have shifted, and not in their favor.  Shubh is back, I’m leaving, and on top of that, they know that I know that they’re overcharging.  And prices plummet.

Ok, ok, elephant for 1200rps.  Chessboard for 1800rps.  I’m heading straight for the car now.  Ok, 800 for elephant.  800 good price—good deal! And the deals keep coming; the two of them are literally stumbling and tripping as we haul ass to the car, frantically dropping prices, thrusting items toward me so desperately that I jam my hands into my pockets so as not to risk “buying” something when it’s stuffed into my possession.  Nahi, Nahi, I say in desperation.

Ok, one says—600rps!  600rps for the elephant!  I give to you for 600!  We are now well away from the tent and are about 10 feet from the car.  Precious seconds later I’m opening the door.  Ok, 400!  400rps for the elephant!  That’s your price, that’s your price!  The man with the blackened teeth screams as Shubh helps me push his hands—which are now snaking into the back of the car—back out the door.  Finally the door shuts and as though someone has flipped a switch, the two immediately turn around and walk back to their tent without a look back.

I flop back in the seat and breathe a sigh of relief.  Shubh sits there smiling.

Where’d you go? I ask him.

“I wanted to see how they would treat you if I wasn’t there.  You got a taste of India.”

It’s funny how my tastes of India are so closely linked to traumatic experiences, I say.  Shubh just shrugs.  We drive for Agra.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

We get 30 minutes into the drive when we start seeing packs of camels—whole herds of them—walking down the road.  The driver now knowing that my incomprehensible babbling usually means I’m seeing something I want to look closer at pulls over and out I go, into an oncoming group of camels.  Off in the distance they make for a great shot—the sunset backlighting their tall and slender frames gives a feeling of isolation and a kind of peace.

And it’s at this point that I look up from my camera and realize that they are heading right for me.  RIGHT for me, and I don’t know what to do.

I’m not completely city.  I like working with animals and getting my hands dirty, but I have little experience with large animals and—lets say—a very healthy respect for their ability to do great damage with little effort.  And all I can think about is the size of the animals moving towards me—this huge mass, and the fact that like a fool I am standing in the open door of the car with my camera out about to be trampled, have the car crushed, and the open door snapped off.

Shubh, I say, they’re coming—what do I do?

And then they are on me and it’s amazing.  They make almost no sound, but like a stream around a boulder they part and move and slip around the car, inches from me.  I’m laughing like an idiot and the herders look confused, likely because this would be like someone in Central Park laughing and pointing at squirrels.

One of the herders comes up to be in the midst of the great camel migration and offers to take a picture for me.  I place my camera in his open hand, because, as is now obvious, I am a trusting idiot.  He looks confused so I take it back.  He sticks out his hand again and I shake it.  He looks even more confused.

“He wants money,” says Shubh “get in the car now.”

So we again exercise the save-the-white-dude routine and stuff me into the car like a fired-upon diplomat and whisk me away while Shubh scans the horizon for potential risks.  Later I ask Shubh what the whole thing was about.   “The people,” he tells me “are very poor, and they know that you are very rich.”  I protest for a moment and he cuts me off.  “In India you are very rich.  I am rich in India, but you are very, very rich.  So they think because you have white skin that you have much money and he was asking you for some.”

And right then I feel terrible.  I’d gotten so used to blindly following orders in order to stay safe that I’d forgotten to actually interact with people.  The little man dressed in the worn clothing wasn’t threatening—he was only asking for some money not because he thought he deserved it, but because he just thought I had a lot and that it didn’t matter to me.  And honestly, by the standards of this country his assumption was correct.  And I wish I hadn’t allowed myself to be driven away.  I wish I had given him money.  A lot.  I wish I had given him 500rps and made his year.  It’s 10 frigging dollars to me, but imagine how much that would have meant to him.  The feeling of a missed opportunity sits int eh pit of my stomach like a cold stone.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

It was Shubh who suggested the beer, and since we really had nothing else going on in the back of the car for the next 6 hours getting a little blitzed seemed like a lovely idea.  At one of the rest stops Shubh picked us up a couple of beers and some snack foods for the car.  As we sit in the back drinking and periodically hiding the alcohol at border crossings, we laugh about the fair and talk about all that we have learned from each other so far.  Shubh is a good man, and as I take another pull from my Hayward’s Dark Beer, I think outside myself and how I would never have dreamed that I would find myself in the back of a taxi in Rajisthan drinking beer with a friend and eating distinctively Indian snackfoods as we tumbled down the road toward the Taj Mahal.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

After a few hours and an several “rest stops”—the wonderful thing about driving in rural India is that rest stops are where you make them—we end up back in another very large, very crowded city.  It’s at this point that Shubh suggests that we try another little experiment since we are still a solid 4 hours from our destination.  I am going to go to buy beer, as a white tourist, and see if I get the same price as he does.  It seems like an interesting opportunity, but as soon as I step out of the car onto the busy street I am immediately struck by how dependent I am on Shubh and our driver.  Crossing the street makes me feel like a kid again—overly cautious and afraid—the rules I have been following all of my life don’t apply here, and I need to be cognizant of that, but at the same time trust in the way things work here and fling myself out recklessly into traffic.

I feel like an old scuba diver whose air line runs back to the ship—I am not really here in this place—I’m just a visitor, and my lifeline is this car.  It tethers me back to my reality, my world.  It is my safety and my hindrance—it allows me to travel safely and comfortably as a rich man in this country, but at the same time, it doesn’t fully allow me the opportunity to actually interact as on of the people, which is usual my favorite part of traveling.

After I cross the street dodging carts, cars, bikes, and cows, I make it to a small shop that sells to beer.  I had needed it pointed out to me, as they all look the same to me—very small shops with busy advertising signs placed all over, with none of the identifying insignia (which the exception of Coca-Cola) that I am familiar with.  When I get to the store I greet the clerk and tell him doh beer, which Shubh has told me is “two beers” in Hindi.  The man charges me 130rps and I walk back to the car, triumphant.  Not only have I managed to cross the street and make a purchase by myself, but I’ve done so without being overcharged.

“He overcharged you,” Shubh says when we are back in the car and he inspects the MRP (manufacturer’s retail price) on the back of the large brown bottle.  “By 40rps.”

Dammit.  I mean, in the great scheme of things, it’s like 75 cents.  Nothing to me and a lot to him, but it perpetuates the feeling of powerlessness that I feel in this country.  It’s strange to be so seemingly rich and powerful, but to perpetually play the fool from whom money is parted.  But then I remember that I’m sipping a local beer and driving down the highway towards the Taj Mahal.  If such bits of luck can be dropped in my lap, I’d be a hypocrite to complain about having 70 cents fall into someone else’s.  I genuinely hope he enjoys it.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

I find that the cities in India stress me out more than most anything else.  It is late night again (though not at late as last night), and as we ride through Agra and try to find the Taj Mahal (and by proxy, our hotel), I find that I get more and more panicky.  There are so many people.  So many.  It’s the first time that my aversion to crowds has really begun to manifest itself, and it does so with a vengeance.

The people that I stare at out the window keep coming in cascading waves of humanity.  Hundreds and hundreds of people flood the city streets for no other event that that of their daily lives.  Countless shops and dizzying numbers of Indians—with no purpose.  In the US there is an order—to people and businesses.  People come and go at predetermined times, and businesses have a certain place and linear nature that is completely absent here.  People are everywhere—in every nook and cranny, and they take no time or effort to stake out and defend the little plots of land that we Americans use to define our lives.  I don’t know how to handle all this.

The hotel is gorgeous and smells overwhelmingly of jasmine, which is from the candle-heated pans of oil that float by the raised jet-black pools full of gently flowing water and flower pedals.  Several bellhops wait on me and Shubh as we walk in to the lobby which is modern, clean, and exceptionally shiny.  A speck of dust exists on nothing. If IKEA made a hotel lobby, it would look like this—brilliantly shined marble floors, rich dark leather seating, and tastefully modern lighting that bathes the room in a warm yellow glow.  It’s beautiful after a day of travel, though all I can think about is showering and going to bed.

Our room is small but clean and overlooks the garden, and after I shower and change, I spend some time exploring the minibar and looking out over the pool.  We eat dinner at the restaurant down the hall, which is a buffet, and it is surprisingly benign—Westernized for the Western guests, Shubh explains to me, also shocking me as I watch him take a big bite of beef.  “Yes,” he says “I eat beef.”

It’s nice to be comfortable, and everyone likes to be treated well, but I have 4-6 people who are waiting on me at my table watching me eat.  As soon as my utensil touches down on the tablecloth someone is ready with a new one.  For someone not used to being served, this is foreign and unwanted.  But after a time we retire to the room and I think, as I drift off into a very deep sleep beneath my wonderfully clean sheets, that for all the pomp and circumstance, I’m very content to be here at this moment.

a trama drama

creepshow @ the freakshow players present:

tricky treats! a trauma drama

written//directed by mayor of coney dick zigun

star : scott baker

set by kate dale

from coneyisland.com : “imagine an old horror movie tv show host, like zacherly using props and wigs and a sound effects table to go “on the air” around halloween and share a traumatic tale with his audience. a simple story of “ding-dong. i opened the door” trick or treaters goes very wrong and very very off course. of course!“

schedule:
today thru thursday oct 29: 8 pm, 9 pm
friday, oct 30 @ 8 pm, 9 pm, 10 pm
saturday, oct 31 @ 2 pm, 4 pm, 6 pm, 8 pm, 10 pm
sunday, nov 1 @ 2 pm, 4 pm

this is a one act play with seated audience <not the typical creepshow guided tour>

run time: 30 minutes.  price $7.50

located @ sideshows by the seashore
corner of surf and west 12th

Marcello Rosauro e Isabella Muniz no especial sobre a semana de Design

Entra no ar hoje o programa 15 para as 7 especial sobre a semana de Design da UniverCidade. Como convidados nesse programa tivemos a professora Isabella Muniz, que faz parte da equipe do 15 para as 7, mas desta vez veio ao programa como entrevistada. Junto com a Isabella, tivemos a presença do Designer Marcello Rosauro, que falou sobre o workshop que fará na semana de Design 2009 da UniverCidade.

Vamos descobrir a programação e tudo o que vai rolar nesse evento entre os dias 26 e 30 de Outubro/2009.

Cartaz do workshop sobre Freak Show com Marcello Rosauro.

Ainda temos um bate-papo descontraído com o Marcello Rosauro, que fala sobre seus projetos entre eles o freak show.  Idealizado para divulgar os trabalhos dos autores em tipografia digital, que acabou virando uma turê pelo Brasil.

PODCAST 15 para as 7 Especial semana de Design UniverCidade

Cuando era pequeño y la televisión no sobrepasaba la media noche, existía un programa que comenzaba justo cuando los demás terminaban… como no recordar a “maldita sea” un lugar donde se podía ver lo mejor de la animación y el terror.

Así que hacer este afiche fue casi un honor, una deuda que tenia que pagar a los maestros Para y Salfate,

Espero ver a todos mis amigos freak en ese increíble evento.

Chi è appassionato di storia dei carnivals ( i luna-park itineranti, attivi dall’ottocento fino a pochi decenni fa) conoscerà senza dubbio la grande tradizione americana dei cosiddetti sideshow: si trattava, come dice il nome, di attrazioni secondarie – non cioè delle vere e proprie giostre, ma molto spesso dei piccoli “musei” contenenti meraviglie vere o presunte tali, fino ai veri e propri gaff, dei falsi ricostruiti con cura. Si trovava di tutto, nei sideshow: dalle sirene delle isole Fiji mummificate, al cervello di Hitler sotto formalina, ad esemplari di mucche con due teste, alla macchina in cui morirono Bonnie e Clyde, ai vari freak deformi (freakshow).

Quello che invece pochi ricordano è il nome di Elmer McCurdy. La sua storia, assurta poi a livello di leggenda urbana, è invece effettivamente accaduta.

Elmer McCurdy fu ucciso da un sottoposto dello sceriffo sul confine tra Oklahoma e Kansas nel 1911 a causa di una rapina al treno che gli aveva fruttato 46 dollari e due damigiane di whiskey. Essendo un ubriacone e un fallito, nessuno reclamò la salma.

Il coroner locale, nel frattempo, ebbe l’idea di esibire il suo cadavere imbalsamato al costo di 5 cents per persona. I visitatori dovevano far scivolare le monete fra le labbra del morto – vi lascio immaginare come i soldi venissero recuperati dall’imbalsmatore.

Per i primi anni, McCurdy stette in piedi in un angolo dell’obitorio, finché due impresari di luna-park si finsero suoi fratelli e reclamarono il corpo.

Saltiamo ora al 1976: una troupe televisiva del programma The Six Million Dollar Man stava effettuando delle riprese nel parco divertimenti di Pike a Long Beach, California. All’interno dell’attrazione della casa dei fantasmi, un membro della troupe per errore staccò un braccio al manichino di un impiccato, rivelando al suo interno ossa umane mummificate. I proprietari dell’attrazione restarono sconvolti, dato che erano i primi ad essere convinti che si trattasse semplicemente di un manichino. La realistica mummia era in realtà, l’avrete capito, il vecchio Elmer, la cui storia fu poi ricostruita a ritroso fra fiere, parchi divertimenti, luna-park e sideshow differenti: un passaggio di mano in mano del macabro “accessorio di scena” protrattosi per così tanto tempo (cinque decadi) da far scordare la sua vera origine.

Si dice anche che quando fu finalmente seppellito nel 1977 a Guthrie, Oklahoma, venne versata una colata di cemento sulla sua bara per impedire che qualcuno lucrasse ancora sul povero corpo di Elmer McCurdy.

Wow, man, I don’t think I like how I feel…

http://www.eyeblast.tv/public/checker.aspx?v=GdSUSU2GQu

Zur Zeit beutelts mich ja ordentlich durch. Der Stressfaktor Arbeit pendelt seit Wochen irgendwo zwei Zentimeter unter der Decke rum, zu 12 Stunden Arbeitstagen gesellen sich noch lustiger Baulärm und konzeptionelles Chaos. Es ist eine wahre Freude, die tagtäglich nur noch Zeit lässt erschöpft ins Bett zu fallen. Dabei stauen sich schon die geplanten Artikel im Kopf, hämmern an den Gehirnwänden und wollen raus, raus, raus. Zeit die Notbremse zu ziehen, mal einen Tag Pause zu machen und mich der Muse hinzugeben. Und die Muse führt nach Linz.

Linz - Kulturhauptstadt 09

Linz, Kulturhauptstadt 2009. Stadt an der Donau, die sich von einer grauen Arbeiter&Industriestadt zur modernen Insel der Technologie gewandelt hat. Ars Elektronica und Lentos am Donauufer geben der Lieblingsstadt des Führers einen hippen Anstrich. Und heuer gesellen sich dazu noch eine ganze Menge sehens- und hörenswerter Kulturinitiativen in die Stadt.

“Der kranke Hase” ist eine dieser Initiativen. Sie lebt an den verschiedensten Stellen Linz’ auf, mal ganz klein und kaum sichtbar in Form gesprayter Hasenicons, die durch die Straßen hoppeln, mal findet der Spaziergänger ein schrägbuntes Baumhaus des Hasen im Park. Der kranke Hase taucht überall auf.

Doch was hat es mit diesem Hasen auf sich? Und warum ist er krank? Dahinter versteckt sich ein lokales Phänomen. Jeder Linzer kennt den “kranken Hasen“. Sie kannten ihn schon immer. Für sie gehört er so klar zum Leben, dass sie sich keine Gedanken darüber machen ob Aussenstehende etwas mit diesem Begriff anfangen können. Des Rätsels Lösung finden wir in der Kindheit der Linzer Bevölkerung. Genauer gesagt in der Grottenbahn am Pöstlingberg. Dort wurde der kranke Hase seit Jahrzehnten von ein und demselben Zwergendoktor betreut. Ihm gehörten Generationen mitleidiger Linzer Kinderherzen.

Heuer geschah dann das Ungeheuerliche. Der kranke Hase verließ sein Krankenbett und streunte kulturneugierig durch die Stadt. Zurück blieb ein ratloser Zwergenarzt. Und eine Hasenvertretung.

Die Vertretung

Diese legendäre Grottenbahn wollte ich mir nun doch auch einmal zu Gemüte führen. So ganz ohne Kinder ist mir anfangs etwas mulmig zumute. Doch als ich den niedlichen Eingang der Grotte durchschreite, wird mir klar: diese Sorge ist unbegründet!

In der Schlange vor mir sehe ich graue Schläfen, geleckte Föhnwellen und Halbglatzen. Ich frage mich gerade, ob ich vielleicht doch die Jüngste in der Menge bin, doch nein – da hinten sehe ich noch einen kleinen Jungen mit großen Augen und dort wird ja wirklich noch ein goldlöckiges Alibi-Mäderl auf dem Arm getragen. Sie sieht nicht sehr begeistert aus …

Langsam keimt in mir ein Verdacht. Mag die romantische kranke Hasen Nostalgie vielleicht doch bloß ein unerkannter Fall kollektiver Kindheitstraumata sein? Werde ich gerade Zeugin unbewältiger Neurosen ganzer Generationen von Linzerinnen und Linzern, die dereinst im zarten Alter der Unschuld in diese Freak Show geschleppt wurden. War das süße Versprechen “Komm Kind, wir besuchen den kranken Hasen” vielleicht doch nur das örtliche Äquivalent zum gängigen “Gusch, sonst geb I di bei da Polizei ab!“? Und zieht es die Opfer von damals nun an den Ort ihrer Kindheitsschrecken zurück, um nun ihrerseits zu Tätern zu werden?

Todestrauer hinter den sieben Bergen

Mit derlei Gedanken im Kopf setze ich mich in den kleinen Holzzug. Dunkel ists im Tunnel, als sich der Zug langsam und knarrend in Bewegung setzt; vollgepfropft mit dicken Erwachsenenhintern auf schmalen abgewetzten Holzbänkchen. Ich frag mich, ob sich “Grottenbahnfahrerin” gut in meinem Curriculum Vitae machen würde? Doch, das hätte schon was.

Kinderarbeit inklusive Züchtigungsanleitung

Auf der anderen Seite – stundenlang durch den dunklen Tunnel fahren, immer und immer wieder im Kreis. Mit dieser Fracht hintendran? Ich betrachte den blassen Studenten am Steuer … ob der mal durchdreht? Also, ich mein, so richtig? Schon klar, das “durchdrehen” hier per se Teil der Job Description ist, bloß halt im Schritttempo. Und was, wenn ihm dabei mal die Sicherungen durchgehen? Vor meinem geistigen Auge breitet sich die Krone Schlagzeile aus: “Amoklauf in der Grottenbahn!“. Mit 120 km/h durch den Tunnel. Die Fliehkraft zerrt die Backen der Grottenbahnbesucher grotesk in die Breite. Gellende Entsetzensschreie unschuldiger Hausfrauen hallen durch den Grottentunnel. Dann springt der Amokläufer auf den ersten Wagon, reißt den Zwergendoktor vom Podest und schwingt ihn wutentbrannt über seinen Kopf. “Und da, meine Damen und Herren, da haben wir den Zwergendoktor! Na? Den wollten sie doch sehen. Deshalb sind sie doch hiiiier” brüllt er wutentbrannt ob der geistigen Unterforderung saisonlanger Kreisfahrten…

Gib mir dein Fingerchen ...

Kurz bevor er dem nächstbesten Pensionisten mit dem mottenzerfressenen kranken Hasen das Maul stopfen kann, schüttle ich die Phantasiebilder von mir ab und widme mich wieder der Realität. Aha, in der ersten Runde wird die linke Seite beleuchtet, in der zweiten Runde die rechte Seite. Kleine Nischen zeigen das Leben der Zwerge im Wald. Hier “der Philosoph“, dort “die Waldandacht” und da “der Photograf“. Nun ja, der Zwerg posiert vielleicht doch mit etwas auffällig lasziv gespreizten Beinen vor dem Fotografen. Doch das schiebe ich jetzt kurzerhand auf meine vielleicht noch nicht gänzlich erlöschten Phantasiebilder ab.

Die Bestie im dunklen Wald

Die dritte Runde führt dann durch den gänzlich erleuchteten Tunnel, der von allen Besuchern mit einem lauten AAAAaaah begleitet wird. Wohl so eine Art Grottenbahnkultbrauch. Manchmal ist die Realität halt doch grausamer als die Phantasie …

that s what I call a blow job! BUM!!!