Prose: Fun

If you want to have fun, wait until I leave. This is my newest adage amongst a million adages that I have developed during my tenure here at the School of Hard Cocks in Berlin. Always the ethnographic sociopolitical researcher, there are many plights (some unbearable and some the antithesis of such) I’ve had to endure to fully experience the necessity of information I wanted afforded to me. One of these biggest conventions is my ever-present desire to be an early bird worm getter, but when faced with the rare amount of sunshine and daytime proclivities Berlin and Berliners have to offer, I’ve had to suffer through becoming a night owl from time to ungodly time.

I don’t dare to be different because I know there are other freaks in this city like me who (whom? that? God I need an editor) enjoy the loud silence of a 7am (sorry 7h) sunrise, when the height of debauchery is either piquing or peaking in the interests that run the gamut that need not be mentioned here. There is something about my internal clock that I’ve never had to set that rings an alarm in my brain when the juices of creativity are seething the most.

It is no wonder then that I have found out that even if I cannot make it passed 2am (sorry 2h) when the reputable and infamous crowds take to the streets to devour the dirty milk of Mother Berlin’s teet, I must settle on stories told in the aftermath wondering if I am fit enough to enjoy what everyone else comes here to enjoy – the everyone else of my stories and inspiration.

It’s happened at dance clubs where the music was good enough but did not make way for any sort of conversation, it happened at vernissages where conversations were more important than art, it has happened at artists thrown dinner parties where the art on the walls made me want to go home and make something better. It has happened at my own home where the timeless time of time flying while having fun was getting in the way of better things to do.

“I thought you came to Berlin to party,” is a direct quote from a movie that I have a supporting role in (now playing in theaters across Berlin /end shameless plug>). In context I play a college kid who comes to Berlin to meet old friends and basically party as so aptly aforementioned. In this B-movie Horror Comedy Satire I comb the streets and dens of this slut city looking for anything but love or at least not one induced by every sort of intoxication. Fun is the only thing that matters.

In my real life-like-life people wonder why it is that I am so dramatic about my 2am (sorry 2h) deadline of departing from this thing they call fun. I tell them whatever I can to avoid the peinlich adage (this time in German), “Ich habe eine grenze”. That seems to be anathema to this town, city, hell, rabbit hole, whatever. There is always the next bar, the next party, the next taxi (I hate taxis), the next drink, the next drug, the next fuck, the next introduction, the next song, the next walk of shame, the next the next the next, along with everywhere everyone is surprised I have never been. But one thing is for certain, my fun is had.

It comes in the form of voyeurism, the opportunity to live vicariously through these people who have no qualms about the necessity for hedonism. My pleasure comes from leaving and being that outcast that does not like to wait outside of Berghain talking about the world’s problems none of which I can solve, and certainly not at the Berghain, and I never wonder if I am missing something because I know it will always be there: the next flirt, the next darkroom, the next stranger, the next hangover, the next wakeup call.

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When I am leaving, that is when everyone else is coming and as my fingers dance on the keyboard or squeeze tightly against my ballpoint pen, or intricately stab at the greasy touch screen of my iPhone, I know that all the fun I need keeps me from leaving altogether.

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