Note: Mere moments ago, Herr Hausmeister (the building super) came by to tell us that we could no longer hang our beloved pirate flag out of the window. And my heart...sank. By the way, when I say "we" I mean "me and Alex" because today is André's first day on the job. Anyway, just what exactly was the Hausmeister's beef with the flag? Apparently, he was trying to show some potential new renters an apartment and two of the people with whom he had appointments cancelled upon seeing the building, because the flag gave the impression that this is a rough neighborhood. Riiiight...gotta watch out for those hooligans that live across from Birdland. HOHELUFT-WESTSIIIIDE!!! For your regularly scheduled drivel please click below...
In hindsight, I probably should have worn my Dynamite Deluxe shirt on Saturday, because Hip-Hop Concert Rule #1 states: You gotta wear the t-shirt of a hip-hop artist, just as long as it's not one of the artists that will be performing...cause, dude, that's sooooo lame.
Buche wore his Lyrics Born shirt and Toby was rocking some Dende-gear. Me? I was sporting a Lucky Charms t-shirt, because I will never give up hope that one day some brave soul will grace the stage under that moniker ("With rhymes so vicious/ my flow is magically delicious/ I know you're wishin you could find my pot of gold you bitches" - It'd be muthafuckin' tizzight, ya herrd?!)
After quick döner-stop at Akdeniz, it was off to catch the train to scenic Lüneburg where we had tickets for the Lunatic Festival 2006 featuring the headlining act, Blumentopf. Aside from a horrible crick in my neck from the night before, a very good time was had. Since my ticket was actually a gift, one could say that I had such a good time, that it was basically one of the best presents I ever received. And if I recall, I think that something along those lines may have escaped my lips at some point or another.
I can be somewhat of a very fickle concert-goer, as I am from the school of, "I Don't Give A Fuck About Waving My Hands In The Air Like I Just Don't Care", where our motto is:
Stop telling me to wave my goddamn hands in the fucking air. I do not give a shit where your weed smokers are at. That does not fucking concern your performance...I do not want to have some stupid yelling match with the other half of the club. I don’t know those motherfuckers and I do not give a fuck how much noise they can make. If I’m feeling your shit I’ll let you know...I paid you to rap, goddamn it.
Luckily, the performers didn't disappoint...well, those reggae dudes from Berlin with the weaksauce freestyles kinda disappointed, but the Topf more than made up for it. By the end of the show, my throat was sore and my legs even more so ("My shins feel like burning!"). Perhaps most astonishing of all, I would actually pay my own money to see them again.
To top it all off, in the train on the way to Lüneburg I was giving Toby a little update on my work permit woes, when this guy was sitting by us (politely) interrupted saying, "Excuse me, but wouldn't it just be easier to get a work permit if you married a German? For example, you could marry me and then I could go to the States and you could live in Germany."
Oh, if only it were that simple, Weirdo-Cook-Boy.
Still, dope rhymes and a fakey marriage proposal? It's what every red blooded American girl dreams of for her 25th birthday, right?
Riiiiiiight.
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