birthday bash: soviets, smoke and screams

Yes, tovarishi, this evening I was once again in action. The variety this time: Crazed russian musician that tries to improvise free jazz on a fucking chainsaw.

My arms hurt from all the impressive antics I performed with the fucking heavy piece of equipment, I missed most of my own possible birthday party because of the session, but still it was worth it.

On the one hand, there's nothing I enjoy more than acting. Except, perhaps, acting as a crazy soviet chainsaw maestro.

The whole deal is a promo for plemplem that I expect to go up sometime today, so stay tuned for a link. It was quite fun - my colleagues, however, were not quite as loquacious as yours truly. As some of you might imagine, I stole most scenes that the director hadn't yet given me, as I was the only one with performance blood on site.

It was fucking hard to get them to respond to anything I did, unfortunately. Some of them just sat around most of the time, doing nothing. When asked to say something, they'd answer: What should I say?

So okay. What you do in these situations is to make up some impro-theater rules on the go so everybody can play and it's simple. We broke it down to simply saying "I want to play" in case nothing else occurred to us. But unfortunately, the crew couldn't even handle that.

So the spot will mostly be me, shouting, screaming, laughing, throwing tantrums, monologues and fucking duke nukem gasoline-powered chainsaws around. Fun for the whole family!

After that I (my mobile) was all out of battery, and I tried to meet someone, but failed (unfortunately) and succeeded simultaneously (quite a nice coincidence, really). In fact I had a very interesting discussion with two different groups of people that even might lead to something beneficial for all parties. And I'm always one for that, you know.

So now it's 04:10, I'm still writing, and I'll continue to do so until approximately 07:15 in the morning. I need to translate, write poetry and prose, concepts for videos and concepts for moderations, scripts, books, novels - An author's work is never done. Yay!

(now oficially an old wanker)


Prater Unser: Heretics, Hellfire and Heavy Bass

Fags die, god laughs. Thank god for dead fags. Beware of the fags.

Those were only three of the posters, on neon backgrounds, that spewed hate and prejudice against homosexuals. When I first noticed them I just was, like, what the fuck. Seriously. They were about as eyecatching as a bloody metal hook.

Of course I reckoned it would be some kind of extreme ironic artsy project, but I do think in this case, the project failed. What should have happened was that the first spectators tear the posters down and burn them in the courtyard - but in this aspect, the pratersauna crowd failed miserably.

At it's side, also adorning the entrance and requesting reverence like some crazy fucked up gessler hat was the image of a guy without pants, stroking his erect penis. But the people generally didn't seem to mind. The image of a priest and a nun handing out the true flesh, blood and flyer of Prater Unser wasn't that unusual in that context, and the partygoers remained unperturbed.

This is one of those moments when it really comes in handy (ha, pun) that this blog is adult only. Otherwise I couldn't continue to write much more.

The main visual feature of the evening, which continued non-stop until late morning, was a giant projection of the hardcore-porno "Josephine Mutzenbacher". As dicks pounded pussys and eager mouths gobbled up meaty bavarian sausages to the rythm of the progressive house and electro from the floors, the crowd went wild well until the break of dawn. The hardcore sex attracted about as much attention as a lava lamp at a hippy jam festival - only about one in ten actually gave the screen the occasional look.

Take this literally: Even at seven, when they finally decided to close the sauna, both floors were still active, half-full and the terrace was well occupied.

I was once more mostly present as my Alter Ego, Prater David, Bringer of the Holiest of Holy Flyers, the only edible promotional article to ever come with blas-tastic and sacridelicous varieties. The role of crazed reverend is truly one of my favourites: I strode up and forth among the unbelievers, heathen and heretics and preached the words of the one and only Prater Unser, the only true electronic festival in Vienna.

Our two locations are: The fluc, the pratersauna and the praterdrome. No, our three locations are: The fluc, the pratersauna, the praterdome and the planetarium. Our four.. Okay, I'll come in again.

In a sonore voice I chanted the holy syllables, handed out the holy cookies and kept the very holy and beautiful Sister Anna from being ravished by the drunk barbarian hordes. Indeed, I used English so much that evening that I'm writing this article in that language now: Otherwise, most of the guests wouldn't be able to read it.

Two lovely loony fairies from the plemplem collective tried to enchant us with mystical earth spells (they had wands and everything), but even though they wished me straight to hell (our edible flyers were more popular) we managed to defend our holy faith of universal Praterism.

So me and Sister Anna fed the poor and starving crowd (about 100 - 150 people) in front of the sauna, waiting for hours on end to get in. We were offered a shitload of bribes if we could only get them in sooner. At three, however, the place was full and the line was gone. We continued our sacred procession indoors for a bit, but then soon continued to the more festive part of the evening.

The crowd was a bit edgier than last time. We had a few more Christian fundamentalists and general promotion boycottees. Some didn't even bother to watch my crazy antics as I chanted and gestured like the pope himself.

The sound on both floors was marvellous, and the people were dancing like it's the age of the apocalypse. The bass was heavy, and the lines were straight, dirty and full of funk - one couldn't help but shaking one's booty to that beat.

To whomever decided to keep the terrace open until 7: I salute you. That must have been the best idea humanity has come up with, right up there with the weel and fire. Thank you for a wonderful night and morning, Pratersauna. Prater Unser, Brothers and Sisters, Prater Unser.

Pie Jesu Domine, Dona Eis Requiem.

- rAmen,
Prater David


Exzess Total: Free Parades, Free People, Free World.

Okay, people, I'm sorry I'm late. Normally, I like to update this stuff right after the party, in the morning as the sun rises, with a good hot coffee and some breakfast. But this time, it didn't stop there.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we? The anarchist mob that was the Free Parade (really very harmless techno-kiddies mostly, no Black Bloc in sight) can always be counted on leaving at least an hour late - this time, it was 1,5 hours. So that explains why we're still waiting for that revolution of theirs.

I hoisted the black banner of the Pastafari, and strode forth into the fray, aiming to convert a few unbelievers to the one and only true way of INM (It's Noodly Magnificence). And yes, the people cheered and danced and smoked and drank and danced some more. Sometimes even a few people noticed the flag I was waving around with one arm like a crazed rural orchestra conductor.

And yes, I also produced a new episode of dave's away. Now it's time for part II, people: Dave does Europe. :D A few hints: There will be half-naked people dancing their butts off, more scarcely clad people, butts, music, dancing, more butts, and of course yours truly.

I was accompanied by my trusty cameraperson, Tom. Unfortunately he was about an hour late - didn't matter, he made up for it by leaving 10 hours early.

The free parade was great - I even forgot to meet an old friend of mine. When I did realize I was too late, I went into the wrong direction and tried to find him for about an hour or so. We decided to meet some other time, a brief and fiery intermezzo at the Karlsplatz, and then off to the fluc it was!

All the people there are really great people. That's something you realize right away. There simply are no stuck-up assholes in the fluc, and if there are, the trusty security staff (most of whom are really quite okay people-wise and not the hormone-driven gorillas you see at the usual suspects'). And the Dubstep was fucking great.

The fluc was pumping, the people were jumping, and the sweat was flowing like water in spring. The first row was occupied by three young heroes that stood there, glistening like pearls, wet as a drenched poodle, and danced like there was no tomorrow, yesterday didn't matter and today would be over soon.

There was one girl that struck my eye - she was wearing a fur coat! Really! But I think it's a wonderful statement to all those wannabe do-gooder anarchovegans out there - Fuck you! We eat meat, we kill animals, we wear fur! Why? Because we're fucking omnivorous monkeys that tend to expand our territory and use resources, that's why. And we'll continue to do it until they all get stuck in a Zoo, a farm or on a mantelpiece.

Great discussions about Nietzsche, the world, the people, the music - lots of stuff. Even got a few interviews. ;)

As I gleefully ingested a morning pizza with a great group of people (Ecuador, Chile, Austria) the sun was already shining - and as I went home, with the firmly set idea to start writing and editing, I met another three people on the way to the subway.

We decided to go to my place and have some wine for breakfast. Las Pitras - delivered as promised. The Chilean red gave the discussion some glow, and we unraveled all the mysteries of god, philosophy and higher mathematics. Well, a few, at least.

Now it's monday, I have a lot of stuff to do, and the video might not be finished until the end of the week. So be patient, ye faithful! There shall be sound, and images, and they shall be arranged in such a way as to make viewing pleasurable for the whole family.

Cheers! - d -

(Most-used word in the last 96 hours)


UGE: PRATER UNSER - Dancefloors, Heilige und Hedonismus.

(Das PRATER UNSER Festival findet vom 8.7. - 11.7. in fluc, pratersauna und planetarium statt. Aber auch diesesmal war die Sauna heiß.)

Es ist halb Fünf.
Die Sonne steht bereits kurz vor dem Aufgehen, und der Himmel leuchtet herunter. Die Terasse wurde eben erst geschlossen. Das Lokal ist zum Bersten gefüllt.

"I sold my soul to the company store
A hot coloured woman made me off the line
Step aside"

Here come the Holy, the converters of the unbelievers.
Tatsächlich war ich diesen Abend vollkommen als Gesandter einer höheren Instanz tätig.

(Ich schreibe diese Zeilen gerade als sich ungefähr fünf Zentimeter vor meiner Nase die wohl schönsten Ärsche im Blues wiegen. Ich hoffe meine Leserschaft weis meinen Einsatz zu würdigen. Denn Schreiben muss alles transzendieren!)

Und obwohl ich an diesem Abend wohl fast 80% der Anwesenden aus eigener Hand mit Hostien versorgt hatte (wahlweise in den Mund oder in die Hand, je nach Ritus) war ich nach dem Ablegen meiner Kutte und dem Kreuz für die Anwesenden wie ein Fremder.

Ja, ohne die Symbole meines Amtes erkannten mich die Schäfchen nicht als Ihren Priester, der Priester des Universellen Praterismus, PRATER UNSER, wir geloben alle dortzusein.

Begleitet von der wunderschönen und äusserst heiligen Schwester Anna, die tatsächlich eine bezaubernde Nonne abgab, verteilte ich das Allerheiligste: Wahrer Flyer und Wahre Hostie des Praterismus. Mit den Worten In Nomine Prater Unser et Filii et Spiritu Sancti gab ich die bedruckten Oblatten aus, und die Reaktionen waren durchwegs grandios. Von "Beste Idee ever!" bis "Find ich Scheisse" war alles dabei. Das letztere war wohl eher ein Grafik-Snob, der sich über das Logo äusserste.

Backstage in der Pratersauna ist übrigends so ziemlich eine der gemütlichsten Locations Wiens. Wir waren zwar nur zum umziehen und Oblattenflyer aufmagazinieren dort, aber auch der kurze Eindruck genügte: Die Saunachefs haben Geschmack.

Es begüßt einem nach einer Stiege und dem zukünftigen Main Floor (Derzeit Concert Stage) eine Halle mit Ping-Pong Tisch, Busk-Graffitis und Artwork an den Wänden, ein abgespaceter Sci-Fi Sessel wie direkt aus Star Trek. Und dann das Büro.

Ich gehe hier jetzt nicht ins Detail aus Gründen der Diskretion, aber es ist durchaus sehr gemütlich dort. Social Networker und Graphic Artists, Modedesigner, Tänzer, lebendige Skulpturen - alles tummelte sich in der Sauna. Von den Outfits war alles dabei - von knappem Schwarzen über gewagte Gesichtsschleier, Lila Irokesen an Glitzerjacke und hautengem Codpiece?

Bei Zehn Euro Eintritt waren die Cocktails auch oft anzutreffen. Treffenderweise war der letzte Song von "A Clockwork Orange" (or was it Barry Lyndon, or even Zardoz? Yes, definately Zardoz.) - Ein junger Adonis, eindeutig professioneller Tänzer, in einem hautengen Etwas tanzte ergriffen mit einer jungen Dame. Leider schlossen die Securities um Fünf den second Floor - Am Main gings immer noch ab.

Summa Summarum: PRATER UNSER, wir loben dich.
Geheiligt sind die Dancefloors, denn sie werden gerockt werden!

Prater Unser, rAmen, Hare Krishna, Insjalla, shalom - Prater David

P.S.: Beste Frage des Abends:
"Magst du kleine Kinder?"
Antwort: "Nicht so wie manche der katholischen Kollegen es betreiben."
- Richtige Antwort!


Holterdipolter: Titten, Bier und Traditionen

Manche Dinge macht man nur einmal im Leben, zumindest im Regelfall. Der Polterabend vor der Hochzeit wird wohl dazuzählen, den gibts wirklich nur einmal. Also muss ein solcher auch nach allen Regeln der Kunst zelebriert werden, und wie es die Tradition verlangt mit alkoholischem Exzess gewürdigt werden. Also wurden die Fässer geöffnet und das Bier floss in Strömen, wie es schon unsere Vorväter uns vormachten.

Nach Etablierung eines akzeptablen Pegels gings ab ins Fischerbräu, einem Centimeter-Lookalike neben der Übersetzungsfakultät. Beer is good - more beer. Dazu Deftiges in Kasnockerlkform, und der Abend kann beginnen.

Der Bräutigam hatte im Verlauf des Abends einige Aufgaben zu erfüllen, und die wichtigste davon war definitiv die Kollektion von 15 roten Lippenstift-Kussmündern auf seinem Event-T-Shirt. Ein goldenes Mascherl und eine Krone halfen dem so ausgezeichneten Bräutigam sicher bei seiner Anbahnung - wie auch kleine alkoholische Geschenke für die Teilnehmerinnen.

Die nächste Station der bereits sehr besoffenen Meute war das Charlie P´s, ein "irish" Pub das ungefähr so irisch ist wie der Arsch eures werten Autors. Ein schwer übergewichtiger DJ versuchte mit Slipknots "Wait and Bleed" das Häufchen Feiernde zum Karaoke zu überreden - es gab dann auch Einlagen von Nirvana (the Groom smelled like teen spirit) und den Beastie Boys (Fight for your right, headbangend vorgetragen von dem Mensch hinter den Tasten).

Und dann, die obligatorischen Titten. Das Beverly Hills im 1. war das Etablissement der Wahl - folglich gabs auch das gleiche zu sehen wie am FKK-Bereich der Donauinsel, kombiniert mit jüngeren Damen in Lingerie und mäßigen Tanzkünsten. Junge Banker, Diplomatensöhne und alte Säcke in Sakkos beäugten fasziniert das Fleisch, das es auch im Internet gratis doppelpenetriert zu bestaunen gibt. Alexa, Natasha und ihre allesamt englischsprachigen Kolleginnen versuchten alsbald erfolglos uns auch noch den letzten Cent aus der Tasche zu locken - DJ Ötzi rülpste "Hey, Baby" - und die Atmosphäre entsprach so gar nicht den wunderbaren Visionen Frank Millers. Wie so oft ist die kulturelle Rezeption interessanter als das Geschehen per se. Shaggy animierte die jugendlichen Übergewichtigen Profiteure irgendwelcher Ostblockländer ihre flaumigen Rotzbremsen um 45 Euro an den käuflichen Brüsten zu reiben - Höschen runter, that´s all, folks. Weiße Grüsse aus Belarus.

Auf diese soziologisch doch recht interessante Exkursion folgte die Hölle in Club-Gestalt - das unweit davon gelegene Loch das sich "Bettelalm" nennt. Ouch. Hier kann man sich auch noch den letzten Rest Gewissen wegsaufen, Kapitalismus in seiner eskapistischsten Ausprägung. Die Damen des Beverly Hills wurden zumindest für ihre Anbiederungen bezahlt, doch dort werfen sich jeden Abend junge Mädchen freiwillig in die Arme sozial unfähiger Bankiers die unbeholfen zu der schlechtesten Musik des Erdballs etwas wie Tanzen emulieren. "Wir lieben das Leben, die Liebe und die Lust" - bei dem Publikum kommt einem einfach nur das Kotzen.

Tatsächlich findet meine Abscheu nach kurzer Zeit keine Worte mehr. Ohne die Anwesenheit Jaffa-ähnlicher Securities hätte ich wohl randaliert. Ausbeuter, Zecken und Schlappschwänze zelebrieren dort ihre systematisierte Unfähigkeit zur Reflexion. "Do what you like" - and whatever you can afford to buy.

Eine solche Karikatur des wunderbaren Nachtlebens von Wien hatte ich noch nie erlebt - und werde ich wohl hoffentlich nie mehr erleben müssen. Manche Dinge macht man tatsächlich nur einmal im Leben - und der Besuch des wohl schlechtesten Lokals von Wien gehört definitiv dazu.

soweit vom dave.


AV+: dynamite, cocks and puppets.

This is an entirely new section I'm trying to establish here. It's about the thing we love most, besides sex, that is: audiovisual entertainment. There are even statistics out there that some people prefer the boob tube to actual boobs.  But hey, I'm not one to judge. As a wonderful recently said: There's nothing better than rubbing one off each day. Wank, masturbate and have sex, people, as much as you want, with whomever consenting adult you want, and with as much dicks and pussys as you crave.

Okay, let's not forget the public service department.

But where was I? Oh yes, dynamite. There's one mean mothafucka out there that will smack you up if you sell smack - and his name is feared on the streets. You know what I'm saying? Black Dynamite gets the girls, the money, the car and serves a smackfull of kick-ass right with it. This is blaxploitation like you knew it once, excellently rendered an artful hommage to those movies of ancient times, when niggas were still niggas (to any person of african descent, please pardon my improper use of the once racist terminology). You know what I'm saying? Well now you do.

Now that the world is saved by this guy even Chuck Norris would run away from - let's continue to the finer arts. Ah, yes, music. Richard Cheese, Richard Cheese, Richard Cheese.
The champion of the loungy arts is only surpassed by, of course, Weird Al Yankovic .
But hear and see, ye people: There is a new star on the horizon. There is one musician to top them all in both cheesieness and offensive content. The comparison with the two aforementioned artists is a bit wobbly - as he cannot be compared. Except to god, perhaps. With a giant, glistening shiny rod of justice.

Thank you, Tim Minchin, that was what we all needed to hear. Ezekiel 8 is only surpassed by Ezekiel 9:6, by the way. And as for good Tim's message, I do hope we can all agree. I mean, seriously. Even if it feels great, even with your cowboy mate? The pope has his own piece of trouble.

As to the puppets: Do take a look as this wonderful 2009 animation project. "9" is both deep and artistically marvellous, and shall surely enter the annals of great storytelling and moving characters - that are magically animated puppets with screwed-in eyes and an interior body compartment. Anyone thinking of Bender right now?

So far from the d. - and now, it's time for a serious bacchanal, as my good pal Chris is getting married on Friday - so we're getting wasted today. In case you want to join, just look for the 8 crazy people hollering through Vienna.
adios, arriba, andale - dave out.

(probably until tomorrow, 14:00 at the least)


dave`s derivative dump - women, woes and despair.

Let's begin with the despair, shall we? I just spent half a night and a wonderful afternoon layouting a 30-page wedding journal for a good friend of mine. But just a while ago (I had to get through a bit of a cursing streak first) fucking freehand MX busted on me while exporting. And me with no fucking save file for the last three hours.

In short, this is what despair looks like: When you realise that once more, like Sisyphos, you must return to the climbing of the mountain, shoving a huge rock before you. Life is like that sometimes.

Nobody said it was easy, but we're here and so we better fucking make something out of it. So, it's back to work for me, after venting my stress by screaming at the virtual void. Seriously, readers, how about some comments? I feel a bit unread, even if the statistics say otherwise (thanks for the 300 % increase in the last month.. )

To the woes: We all have them, the little pet peeves that make your day a bit worse. For me, that's a certain religion I won't name any closer because of legal concerns, but I might mention that they allegedly have something to do with the following story. Down with Xenu, that's their (allegedly alleged allegational) agenda. His thetan is surely lurking around there somewhere. Perhaps it's even mine?

So, apart from that fucking bullshit, there's the women, and for me, they currently combine woes and despair. But I'll not go into too much detail on that - I earned a lot of it myself, so I can take that like a man.

And to that one special someone, waiting out there, or perhaps not waiting at all - I'd sure love to write to you, for you and about you. Get in touch.

And now I'll get back to work, because as a Milanese friend of mine said: "If you work good, then everything will resolve itself." rAmen.

cheers, love, blessings,
the d.


UGE: raw 3 - baseline meets ass.

Ein Fronleichnamsnacht mit viel Konkurrenz - Die Prater sagt fuck art, im flex gibts Drum n Bass und das Urban Art Forms zieht viele Elektroniker an. Um halb eins wird erstmal gemütlich oben gechillt, wo Country und Lyrics wie "Why can't I get just one fuck?" auf den Abend einstimmen.
Doch schon um Eins ist die Wanne prallvoll und wohltemperiert - Cueing, Quallen und RAW. Mindwipe ignited, hier gehts um die fucking baseline.

"Are you out of your mind?" Yes, please.

Eine Guy Fawkes-Maske scheint wie ein Symbol der Hoffnung auf den Screens der Visualisten, blutrot wie ein Versprechen, dem Himmel entgegenblickend. Raw rückwärts ergiebt übrigends War.

"Bitch ass cunt nigger fuck shit"
Take the tape out now
this is not a pop album
and by the way

suck my motherfucking dick.

Es folgt Pornokaraoke: Oh yeah, Oh yeah und weiter Gestöhne, SM oh yeah Ahhhhh...
Kryptische Muster im Dreieck harmonieren mit einem meliodiösen Break, der in einen sehr smooven Übergang mündet. Dubstep at it's fucking finest, mates!

Die Organisatoren, Stefan und Stefan, verdienen an der ganzen Sache nichts. "Rein aus Spaß an der Freude. Es tut uns einfach gut. Wir investieren alles was wir einnehmen in die nächste Party." Es wird weiterdiskutiert über die Vorzüge von Dubstep zu Minimal House.

Die Message von den Bildern gefiel wieder mal sehr gut:
The idea is to keep you indoors so that when you challenge opression you will find indifference in yourself.
Should I play it safe and stay on the pavement or should I go into the street?
"Thoughts create reality" - wie wahr, wie konstruktivistisch.

Um 04:30 folgt die Morgenpizza an Sonnenaufgang mit extrem viel Tabasco.
Merci, raw, wiedermal reife Leistung.

UGE: Don't mess with the BLOCKWERK - eclectic electric disco funk vom feinsten

Der Leadsänger posiert und hüpft wie Zohan in Höchstform. Neben ihm windet sich in den Windungen der Melodie eine Frau in Rot, barfuß und gelben Neonsocken. An der Gitarre ein Mensch ohne Haar, dafür mit um so mehr Bühnenpräsenz, während sich Percussion und Schlagzeug ein Rennen um den Rhythmus liefern.
Dubstep, Reggae, Ska, Drum N Bass, traditionelle Türkische Klänge, und of course Disco, Disco, Disco! So fetzte das Blockwerk über die Bühne des wunderbaren Ostklubs, wo sich sonst Shantel und Kusturica Gute Nacht sagen. Doch mit unserem bekannten Bukovina hat Blockwerk wenig zu tun - hier geht es um die Transzendenz der World Music, das ist vielleicht eher als "New Rave" zu bezeichnen, Österreichs Hot Chip heizen ordentlich ein.
Wie üblich war der Ostklub voll (selbst mir als Raucher ist das Rauchverbot im Bühnenbereich nicht unangenehm - da wurde es früher schon ordentlich stickig) - doch das Österreichische Publikum ist wie so oft nur in den ersten zwei Reihen, wo die getreuen Kohorten und extrovertiere Autoren stehen, zum tanzen zu bewegen. Denn tanzbar ist Blockwerk auf jeden Fall.
In den Lyrics wird auch schon mal Babylon abgebrannt, dazwischen geht es um den Sound, der die Gier besiegt, dann wird wieder auf türkisch geträllert (Keine Ahnung worums da ging - klang aber super). Indeed, der Leadsänger hat eine Stimme die auf die Bühne muss, sonst währe es ja schade drum. Die weibliche Lead überzeugte durch Auftreten und Interpretation - gute Optik, gute Akustik.
Der Bass slappte funky durch die Gegend, der Synth dudelte seine Retro-Sounds runter, und alles in allem gab das eine zwar sehr eklektische aber durchaus harmonische Mischung aus allem was man wahrscheinlich schon irgendwann mal gehört hat. Blockwerk ist vieles, aber garantiert nicht unoriginell - Bei 2000 Jahren Musikgeschichte was tatsächlich neues zu fabrizieren ist eine reife Leistung. Und noch besser: Es gibt auch ein Album dazu!
Hier muss man wiedermal sagen:
Die spontanen Streifzüge sind meist die besten. Danke, Claudia.

(All pictures (c) Simona Turriziani Colonna )


dave`s away - republished

Dearest of publics! As a special treat, I`ll repost the previously vanished episodes of dave`s away.
Although, if no one comments on this vid, I´ll let it be. So, your choice.

Dave's Away - enlightenment from David Horn on Vimeo.