Marcel Winatschek

The Depressed Girl:

Chiaki’s dead, comes a quiet voice from the other side of the table. Ichika’s eyes search for sympathy, but Kana doesn’t understand a word. Chiaki… which Chiaki? Chiaki Sano? Ichika replies. We were in the same class. The curly-haired one? Ichika nods. What happened? I don’t know. She didn’t leave a note. She killed herself? Yes. With a door handle, at her parents’ house. She used her Mac charger. Was the cable long enough? No idea.

The moment I first spotted the film’s poster in Shimokitazawa, I knew I had to see Desert of Namibia. Kana’s profoundly empty gaze—I wasn’t entirely sure whether it reminded me more of myself or of certain people from my earlier life. A lack of empathy seemed to have been widespread both in my hometown and in my heart. And even today I catch myself wearing that same empty, expressionless look of complete indifference on my face—even when I’m among people I actually like.

Desert of Namibia premiered in the Directors’ Fortnight section of the 2024 Cannes Film Festival, where it won the Fédération Internationale de la Presse Cinématographique Prize and made Yoko Yamanaka, at 27, the youngest woman ever to receive the honor. It’s a prize that feels both apt and slightly beside the point. Desert of Namibia is precisely the kind of film that prizes were invented for: formally daring, emotionally unruly, and stubbornly, almost defiantly, itself.

Yumi Kawai plays Kana with an authority that immediately commands the screen. She’s 21 years old, employed at a laser hair removal salon in Tokyo, and perpetually on the edge of some unnamed outburst. She drifts between two men—Honda, a dependable real estate agent who cooks her meals and keeps the household intact with patient, almost desperate affection, and Hayashi, a free-spirited artist whose charisma masks a capacity for cruelty that mirrors her own. She doesn’t choose between them so much as move between worlds, carrying her restlessness like weather.

Yoko Yamanaka, who made her debut feature Amiko as a teenager in 2017 on a budget of roughly $2,500—a fifth of which reportedly went toward repairing a car she totaled driving to the shoot—has grown into a filmmaker of uncommon assurance. Where her debut crackled with the quick-cut energy of a YouTube vlog, Desert of Namibia holds. It lingers. It zooms, slowly and with maddening patience, onto a face that gives little away. Shot in a boxy 4:3 format by cinematographer Shin Yonekura, the film has the claustrophobic texture of a life lived in small rooms: hair removal cubicles, cramped kitchens, the narrow hallways of shared apartments.

This formal restraint is not mere affectation. It mirrors Kana’s own condition. She’s a young woman surrounded by men—professionally, romantically, medically—who cannot quite hear her, even when she’s screaming. When Honda returns from a work trip having visited a hostess bar at his boss’s insistence, their subsequent confrontation is rendered with scorching honesty: the apologies that pile up and begin to mean nothing, the moment Kana’s quiet fury curdles into something physical and irrational, the way the film refuses to adjudicate between victim and perpetrator. They’re both, somehow, both.

The film’s also, intermittently, very funny. Kana’s workplace scenes at the salon—where she and a colleague speculate freely about why an elderly woman is getting a bikini wax, or where she’s fired for informing a customer that she’s been wasting her money on cosmetic rather than medical hair removal—have the rhythm of sketch comedy, the timing of absurdist theater. A role-play argument in which Kana coaches her boyfriend on how to refuse his boss’s advances at a hostess bar gives way, without warning, into something genuinely unsettling. The tonal whiplash is intentional, a structural analogue to the instability that defines Kana’s inner life.

Midway through the film, Kana visits a therapist. The session’s one of the most acutely observed psychiatric consultations in recent cinema: the doctor’s careful probing, Kana’s sudden tangent into a hypothetical about pedophilia as a philosophical example, the awkward moment when she asks the therapist to dinner. A potential diagnosis of bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder is floated but not confirmed. Kana’s desire to understand who she is comes closest to a thesis statement in the film, delivered so quietly it could easily pass unnoticed.

The film’s final stretch tips into something stranger and more surreal: a kind of waking dream in which panda ants, campfire songs, and parallel universes intrude upon the social realism of what came before. Some viewers will find this tonal leap liberating; others will feel the ground go out from under them. Yoko Yamanaka earns neither entirely, and the film’s last act is its least controlled. But there’s something right about the incoherence. Kana, in the end, cannot be resolved into a diagnosis, a lesson, or a character arc. She simply continues, which is exactly the point.

Yumi Kawai’s performance has been compared, with some justification, to Gena Rowlands in John Cassavetes’s A Woman Under the Influence. The comparison is generous but not absurd. Like Gena Rowlands, Yumi Kawai makes suffering look like electricity. Her Kana won the Blue Ribbon Award for Best Actress in Japan and received nominations at both the Asia Pacific Screen Awards and the Asian Film Awards, and every honor is deserved. She carries the film on a performance that never condescends to her character, never asks for sympathy on her behalf, never explains her to us.

Desert of Namibia isn’t a comfortable film, and it doesn’t want to be. But it announces Yoko Yamanaka as one of the most necessary voices in contemporary cinema: a filmmaker capable of holding contradiction with the same uneasy, unflinching attention she turns on her impossible, essential heroine.

A Weekend Among Dreamers:

Video games are the only art form that can distract my self-diagnosed ADHD brain to such an extent that I don’t constantly slip into self-destructive thoughts or reach for my phone to let pseudo-social media wash over me.

My most cherished memories in life, aside from those of a sexual nature, have something to do with video games. How, as a child, I won both a Super Nintendo and a Game Boy on Austrian children’s television. How I wandered through the flea markets of the surrounding area to snag treasures big and small bearing the PlayStation logo. How I fought gods, demons, and hell-houses with a ragtag party and the last scraps of health bars, to bring well-deserved peace to the fictional world I was inhabiting at the time.

Last weekend I attended GG Bavaria in Munich. The small gaming convention in the Olympic Park can comfortably be seen as the little local sister to Cologne’s Gamescom. Here too, game developers and their fans, as well as artists, cosplayers, and obsessive Japan enthusiasts, gather year after year.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected a gaming convention to sweep me up so thoroughly. But the moment I stepped into the Small Olympic Hall, it was clear: this was no ordinary event.

GG Bavaria entered its fourth edition this year—and you could feel its confidence. The convention opened its doors as early as Friday, giving you a full long weekend to dive in. And dive in really is the right phrase: glowing screens everywhere, playable demos, colorful booths from indie studios, an Artist Alley packed with illustrators and artists, and flowing through it all a stream of people who somehow all speak the same language—the language of gaming.

What impressed me most was the density of Bavarian studios presenting their games here. You could actually talk to the developers whose game you’d just been watching someone play. That direct meeting between creators and community simply isn’t possible at large conventions like Gamescom. Games like A Webbing Journey, Medieval Frontiers, or OrbiTower—all titles I hadn’t had on my radar before, all of which surprised me in different ways.

Speaking of surprises: the Cosplay Catwalk on Sunday was a genuine highlight. Costumes at a level that made you briefly wonder how many hours of work could go into a single outfit. The energy in the room when the cosplayers take the stage is hard to put into words.

Also on Sunday, the GG Awards were presented—five prizes for outstanding indie games, covering everything from best sound to innovative game mechanics to audience favorite. The fact that Bavaria’s own Minister of Digital Affairs personally handed out one of the awards shows just how seriously the political world is now taking the games industry. And rightly so.

New to me was the Career Space—an area I nearly walked past, which turned out to be one of the most interesting at the entire convention. Universities from across Bavaria, from SAE to Macromedia to the University of Würzburg and TH Deggendorf, were represented, showcasing what students in gaming degree programs are building. Panels, Q&As, workshops—anyone seriously looking to break into the industry will find real guidance here.

Musically, the weekend kicked off with a concert by Munich band Oblivion, who blend gaming soundtracks with Balkan grooves and Nordic sounds. It sounds like a strange combination—but it works surprisingly well.

Truth be told, I was mainly at GG Bavaria to visit friends who were presenting their games there, above all Incredibug by my 3D mentor Michi, and Bardcore by Flo, Tomas, Svea, and Ludwig, which I had already playtested several times and been able to share my thoughts on—including, for example, that there weren’t nearly enough waifus on display.

In the first physics-based platformer with Metroidvania elements, you control an adorable pill bug, unite your fellow crustaceans, and rise up against a menacing smart home system. In the second, you play as a colorful troupe of bards defending your village from quirky skeletons and a black dragon.

And since I’m a total sucker for all things Japan, I of course couldn’t pass up the action-packed presentation by the local 北辰一刀流兵法 samurai school, soaking in the small and grand stories of East Asian warriors.

When the hustle and bustle of the convention got to be too much, I made myself comfortable by the lake in the sunny Olympic Park, or fled with others to the nearby supermarket to stock up on caffeinated refreshments.

In the evenings, visitors were ushered out of the hall and the party began. While we stuffed ourselves with rolls, cookies, and free drinks and created characters punished by nature on various screens, a DJ dressed in red shook the hall with nostalgic anime openings and the occasional Nintendo soundtrack. The theme songs from One Piece, Case Closed, and Neon Genesis Evangelion are bangers you otherwise only get to hear at weeb events.

The journey home was in Ludwig’s packed car, which somehow fit not just me but also Tomas, Jan, and Johanna. On the way to the next motorway service station, we chatted about university, water damage, and the pitfalls of village life. No convention is a good convention if you don’t at some point flee from it by car, right Michi?

This year’s GG Bavaria gave me the idea of maybe dropping in on Gamescom again after all. It’s been a few years since I attended—back then, thanks to AMY&PINK, I even had the privileges of a press badge and everything that came with it: access to the press area, invitations to industry parties, and not having to suffocate among the general visitors.

On the other hand, I’ve also been wanting to finally make it to Nippon Connection in Frankfurt to catch the latest films from the Land of the Rising Sun. And I’m not sure my often hard-to-predict energy levels could handle two events of this kind back to back.

All in all, GG Bavaria 2026 felt like an event that has caught exactly the right moment. The Bavarian gaming scene is growing, and this convention is growing with it. If you haven’t been yet—I’d secure tickets early next year. Good Game, Bavaria.

The Man Between Masks:

Philipp has probably long since forgotten why his evenings consist of sitting alone in his small apartment somewhere in Tokyo, enjoying a modest bento box with a cold canned beer, staring out the window and watching people on the other side whose lives have taken different directions.

He wonders whether they are happier. Or whether they navigate their daily lives just as lonely as he does. But his life changes rapidly when he is unexpectedly drawn into the depths of Japanese interpersonal relationships.

You have a wedding invitation, but no one to call your plus-one. Your new boyfriend wants to meet your mother, but you’re afraid she’ll embarrass you. You’re tired of going to the cinema alone every weekend, but none of your friends are film lovers.

Who hasn’t wished for an ideal companion in situations like these—someone to fill our emotional voids in uncomfortable social situations? This longing for connection is at the heart of Rental Family.

Philipp is a middle-aged American actor who moved to Tokyo after landing a big gig in a toothpaste commercial. Seven years later, the acting work has dried up, and when his agent sends him on short notice to a job requiring a black suit, he jumps at the opportunity.

When he arrives at the location, however, he discovers he has been paid to appear as a mourner at a funeral—for a man who is still alive and lying in an open casket. As the service concludes, Phillip learns that the man had hired a company to stage his own funeral so he could listen to moving eulogies about himself.

After overcoming his initial shock that such a service even exists, Phillip agrees to meet the owner of the company Rental Family and shortly afterward begins working for the firm. What follows is a journey between hopeful wishful thinking and a reality that keeps pulling him back down to earth. The deeper Philipp immerses himself in the artificial worlds of his clients, the more genuine bonds emerge—blurring the boundaries between performance and reality.

The longing for human connection represents a central social phenomenon of contemporary society, one that has found a particularly distinctive commercial expression in Japan: the so-called rental family industry. This is a well-documented phenomenon with its origins in the 1980s, which has attracted increased academic and cultural attention.

There are currently an estimated 300 such companies in Japan, whose employees—trained actors—take on the roles of parents, friends, spouses, or other close figures for an hourly fee. Particularly in urban centers like Tokyo, but also in rural areas, social isolation can be a defining experience of everyday life.

Notably, the demand for these services is primarily driven by a need for human closeness: despite the commercial nature of the interaction, clients frequently report that genuine friendships develop within the two to three hours spent together. The growth of this industry can be attributed to structural factors such as increasing loneliness, social isolation, and the persistent stigma surrounding mental health care in Japan.

Compared to Western countries—particularly the United States—mental health services in Japan are significantly less accessible, especially in terms of telehealth options. As a result, many people turn to informal support services: while rental family agency employees are not licensed professionals, they offer a form of low-threshold emotional support through empathetic listening and personal perspective.

It’s almost unsettling how much Philipp reminded me of my loneliest moments in Japan. When no one had time for me. When I was too tired to leave the house. When I was no longer sure why I was sitting here at all—alone at the other end of the world—jealously watching people become one with the city around them.

But Philipp also embodied a possible future version of myself, and my fear of becoming someone who has realized their dream of moving to Japan and building a better life there—only to end up completely alone. And how every day spent in this illusory world, corroded by false hopes and shattered dreams, costs him whatever happiness might exist somewhere else.

As Phillip begins working in the rental family industry, he quickly realizes that the relationships he enters into with his clients are far more than mere business transactions. As he becomes aware of the emotional impact of his work, he is forced to grapple with the ethical implications of his new career path.

His moral compass is put to the ultimate test when he meets Mia. Mia is being raised by a single mother who wants her daughter to attend a prestigious private school. The school’s admissions committee initially rejects the girl, however, because she does not come from a two-parent household.

Mia’s mother turns to the rental family agency to hire an actor—Phillip—to play her father in meetings with the school. But the assignment demands more from Phillip than simply appearing before the admissions committee. He must build a genuine relationship with Mia so that their connection appears authentic. And so Mia, who grew up thinking she was abandoned by her father, suddenly believes she has one—and quickly begins to form a deep attachment to him.

At its core, Rental Family is an odyssey in search of ourselves: a question of what we want, who we are, and what makes us happy—and a constant series of decisions about whether to follow the rules or break them in order to bring happiness to ourselves and others. For every new path taken offers both opportunities and risks in equal measure.

Brendan Fraser as Phillip can safely be called the perfect casting choice. His deeply emotional presence carries the film and moved me to spontaneous tears more than once. And yet, even by the end, it remains unclear who Phillip really is. He seems to perpetually stumble from one role to the next—like a man between masks.

Rental Family is a film that could only be set in Japan, serving as a mirror of that specific society. Tokyo as a stage-like diorama is a backdrop for people who hunger for fulfillment in the depths of this concrete jungle and take curious detours along the way. And not infrequently, even the providers of these wishful worlds embark on that same journey themselves.

Philipp has probably long since forgotten why his evenings used to consist of sitting alone in his small apartment somewhere in Tokyo, enjoying a modest bento box with a cold canned beer, staring out the window and watching people on the other side whose lives had taken different directions. Because now he is one of those people who has dared to take an unfamiliar path—and will hopefully be rewarded for it.

My Only Constant:

The questions that occupy me most when designing this website are: Who am I? What do I want? And what’s the point of any of this? The answers to these self-centered existential crises are not easy to find, because they shift depending on my mood and emotional state, and reveal themselves as traps whenever I finally manage to corner them and practically beg for mercy—and the enlightenment that should follow.

Then I try to remember why I started blogging in the first place. Did I want to feel important? To connect with others? To prove to the world out there that I existed? Did I simply lack alternatives, given that shortly after the turn of the millennium there was no YouTube, no podcasts, and the written word was one of the few means of carrying my thoughts, feelings, and opinions outward?

My love of blogging probably stems from the fact that I enjoyed reading books as a child, and through that developed a fairly extensive vocabulary that I wanted to express, garnished with my own stories. This ambition was barely noticed or appreciated by my teachers, but it was by people in my closer circle, who wanted to know whether—and what—I was writing about them.

My love of publishing texts on the internet is probably rooted in the knowledge, or at least the desperate hope, that people I knew were reading them. Friends I had hurt. Acquaintances I hadn’t seen in a while. Girls I was in love with. Through my blog, I could transform my longing for them into frequently very embarrassing texts, without having to address those feelings to them directly.

Perhaps this approach was somewhat cowardly, and maybe my words—saturated with heartache and world-weariness—never reached the eyes they were actually intended for. But at the very least, I had created a creative island for myself where I could do as I pleased. And that was not only incredibly liberating, but gradually became an important part of my life.

At many points along my path, I could only begin to pursue happiness again after pulling various spiraling thoughts from my head and hurling them onto digital paper, only to then blast them out into the great wide world. The nameless feeling that came with clicking Publish was somewhere between catharsis and orgasm. The more personal, honest, and emotionally naked my confessions were, the greater the relief. I’m only happy when my words change the world—at least the one I call home.

Over the decades, my blog has evolved into a diary whose intimate entries lie buried under a mountain of attention-hungry, now entirely worthless drivel. Sometimes I come across one of them and feel a little sad that it’s no longer part of this great wide world, but seems to have been erased. Perhaps I can undo that.

The questions that occupy me most when designing this website are: Who am I? What do I want? And what’s the point of any of this? I still haven’t found the answers to these self-centered existential crises, but at least I’ve begun to track them down through countless psychologically questionable acts of self-reflection—or so I hope.

It’s difficult for me to find the line between introverted solitude and extroverted self-expression. One extreme would be a diary locked in a vault, into which I write all my thoughts in secret symbols; the other, an OnlyFans account in which I expose not only myself but also my sensitive data—passwords and all. Middle grounds are hard for me to walk.

In order to design something and actually finish it to the point where I can fill it with content, I first have to strip a project’s purpose down to its essentials. And at this task—which sounds so simple yet is incredibly complicated—I have obsessively worn myself to the bone. After all, this publication is meant to represent me and my thoughts. And to achieve that, I first had to figure out who I actually was—or at least, who I no longer was.

I now want to treat this dispatch as a personal notebook, into which I can enter texts about art, music, books, technology, film, fashion, travel, games, food, and my life in general. What matters to me is that everything I write must relate to me—my thoughts, my experiences, my feelings, my dreams, my fears, my hopes, and my opinions—because otherwise it’s worthless.

Going forward, I will focus primarily on the written word. I have removed the images that used to decorate every single post, because I realized that I sometimes never published certain texts for the simple reason that, even after hours or sometimes days of searching, I couldn’t find a suitable illustration. If I want to add a photo or video to a post from now on, I will simply link to it directly within the text—life can be that simple.

As a fitting typeface, I have chosen Libre Caslon Condensed by Pablo Impallari, because it works well even on small mobile screens. In the past I always found a sans-serif counterpart for headings, timestamps, and supplementary information—but even that felt like too much in this design. Instead, I’m largely limiting myself to the various weights of my new favorite typeface. Japanese characters are the one exception, represented by two variants from the Zen family by artist Yoshimichi Ohira.

I hope that this blog—and everything I have cut, burned, and destroyed for it—will help me figure out who I am, what I want, and what any of this is for. Perhaps I need to become (again) conscious of the fact that this journal is not only the center and pivot point, but also the only constant in my otherwise chaotic life. But this can only work if it becomes a part of that life once more.

20 Nights in Tokyo

I’ve decided to use Japan as the thematic foundation for my upcoming bachelor’s thesis in design. How exactly I want to approach this is still somewhat uncertain. At first, I intended to shoot a documentary about the colorful underground cultures in the Land of the Rising Sun. Cultures permeated by depression, anxiety about the future, and a kind of resentment toward society by their followers.

I wanted to cover everything from eccentric horror manga and underage idol groups to rape porn that only narrowly falls under artistic freedom, and speak with pop-culture experts about whether Japan’s aging population might eventually cause these scenes to die out. However, this plan ultimately struck me as somewhat too overambitious. I should probably be a little more modest.

Then I remembered that my professors at the Japanese university where I studied had always encouraged me to use my projects to explore stories drawn from my own life, my own feelings, and my own experiences. Because it gives an intention much more soul.

At the very least, I know that I want to address Japan and my time here in my bachelor’s thesis. And I want to take this chance to connect the project with my love for Tokyo. For when I close my eyes and think of Japan, I see not only the brightly lit streets of Shinjuku, Shibuya, and Akihabara, plastered with neon signs, but also the countless secrets hidden within them—secrets waiting to be uncovered and told.

Since I now at least understand that I want to portray Tokyo at night in film for my thesis, I will spend the next three weeks in Japan’s capital, preferably venturing out after sunset to wander through temples, parks, and towering buildings in search of my own story that I want to bring to life by film.

For this purpose, I have booked a bed at a quite cheap capsule hotel in the Sumida district and will dive into the always loudly pulsing metropolis from there. What exactly will come out of all this, I still don’t know. But sometimes I simply have to throw all my previous plans overboard and take a courageous leap of faith in order to transform adventures into stories.

Goodbye Kumamoto

My time here in Kumamoto is now coming to an end. For a full year I have been an exchange student at the Faculty of Design of Japan’s Sojo University, exploring new ideas in both artistic and technical fields.

Day after day, I wandered the two campuses that rise above the city, learning about typography, painting, and graphic design in lecture halls, tinkering with Arduinos and Raspberry Pis in the computer club, and studying Japanese in the library with friends.

I’ve met so many wonderful people, traveled across half the country with them, and through them gained deep insights into a different kind of society—glimpses that remain forever closed to most travelers. It’s hard to express how grateful I am to have lived through these colorful adventures.

I came to see my year in Kumamoto as my own little Persona game, determined to experience every side of this city. That’s why I dragged my friends to every restaurant, café, izakaya, karaoke bar, shop, park, cinema, and exhibition Kumamoto had to offer.

I wanted to taste every dish, see every movie, and join every festival. I even felt a quiet pride as I rushed past tourists to complete my own personal missions at city hall, the post office, or the housing agency—tasks usually reserved for locals.

I walked the narrow path along the river through all four seasons, from the first cherry blossom to the final snowflake. And on every single day, there was something new waiting to be discovered.

Of course, I’m sad to leave, to part from so many people with whom I shared my days, my worries, my hopes, and dreams. Yet I’m deeply grateful for every moment I was allowed to spend here. Kumamoto and its people will always hold a quiet place in my heart.

This year at the far end of the world has shown me that I can find my way anywhere, make friends everywhere, and keep gathering new goals, ideas, and insights. I’ve grown in Kumamoto, and that growth has prepared me for whatever adventures may come next.

Wherever life takes me, I’ll carry this place within me. Farewell, Kumamoto—and perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again. At least, I hope so.

One Year in Japan

For exactly one year now I have been living in Japan. I have a Japanese phone number, a Japanese bank account, a Japanese social security number. As a student at the art faculty of a Japanese university, I have met many local creatives as well as wonderful people from all over the world who, like me, are trying to find their place in this demanding society.

When I’m not sitting in lecture halls, studios, and cafeterias having my broken Japanese put to the test, my life plays out by day between cinemas, galleries, and museums, and by night between izakaya, karaoke bars, and supermarkets that stay open twenty-four hours a day, on nearly every corner of the city, bright and humming.

When I look back on this year, I see myself walking with friends along the river lined with freshly blossoming cherry trees, heading to the next spring festival. It’s the same river that led us in summer to the fireworks, in autumn to the castle, and in winter to the Christmas market, and where on quiet days white egrets basked beside turtles looking bored.

In the park the frogs croaked, in the brook, patterned koi raced each other, between the laundromat and the fast-food place I told the girl with the roguish smile and the short, thick, jet-black hair that I liked her. 好きだよ! still echoes through the cold night, before the brightly lit temple on the hill called us. 付き合ってください!

Even after this year, Japanese society remains a book with seven seals to me. Somewhere between well-meant politeness and militant rule-conformity, people operate day in, day out with the same mixture of a desire for individuality and a fear of otherness.

The Japanese are a close-knit and perfectly synchronized collective that, up to a certain point, tolerates outside influences with interested curiosity and at the same time rejects everything that isn’t through and through Japanese.

This cultural instinct for self-preservation hasn’t diminished my love for Japan in the least, for at every moment here I have felt welcome. And I can hardly wait to see what adventures still await me in this fascinating country in the months and years ahead.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

On a warm summer evening, when the cicadas were diligently chirping away and the moon was slowly pushing itself onto the stage of the sky, a friend and I were on our way home from an exhibition when, not far off, we first heard music and shortly after cheerful laughter. Because we were curious and still had a bit of energy left, we decided to see what was going on there.

So we picked our way through the neighborhood’s ever-narrowing streets and walked past streams, houses, and playgrounds until, a short time later, we stood at the edge of a small park where a neighborhood festival was underway. And it took less than a minute before friendly, perhaps slightly tipsy, people invited us to join the little festivity.

So we made ourselves comfortable on the blue tarp spread out in the middle of the park and looked around. In front of us a thrown-together band was playing familiar Japanese songs, and all around small stalls had been set up selling cool drinks and fried delicacies.

Around us sat talkative families, and children chased dogs, cats, and each other, or danced acrobatically and interestingly to the guitar tones of the cheerful musical artists.

We watched the summer spectacle unfolding before us with interest, and my companion confessed to me that she hadn’t known about this festival at all—despite the fact that she had already lived in this neighborhood for several years.

I personally was glad to be allowed to be part of this small gathering. After all, I don’t stumble into a little Japanese summer festival every day.

And as much as I love darting over the crossing in Shibuya, admiring Sensoji in Asakusa, and indulging in the latest nerd trends in Akihabara, my heart truly opens only when I discover Japan from intimate sides that remain hidden to most outsiders. Because they aren’t made for them, because they aren’t advertised, because they happen off all the beaten paths.

And so we stayed until the end, until the band had given its last turn onstage. And as people said their farewells, we too set off home, warmed by the sense of having experienced something small we will draw on for a long time.

The Samurai’s Grave

We arrived at the foot of Mount Tatsuda, the site of the Hosokawa family temple, Taishoji. Today the grounds belong to Tatsuda Nature Park, green, wide, and quiet.

Among bamboo and cedars stand four mausoleums: for Hosokawa Fujitaka, first lord of the Kumamoto domain, his wife, his son Hosokawa Tadaoki, the second lord, and Tadaoki’s wife, Hosokawa Gracia.

History you can touch. The teahouse Ko-sho-ken moved me most. Restored from Tadaoki’s drawings, it recalls a man who was a warrior and a tea master.

At the entrance sits a hand-washing stone he loved. In Kyoto, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and tea master Sen no Rikyu drew water from it. Later the Hosokawa lords carried a basin on sankin-kotai journeys to Edo to hold tea ceremonies—a traveling vessel.

And then there is the shadow of Miyamoto Musashi. One of his supposed graves is said to be here. In all, five places in Japan claim to be Musashi’s final resting place—three of them in Kumamoto, where he spent his last years and died in 1645.

Another grave lies in Musashizuka Park on the old Ozu road, the former National Route 57, among cedars. Legend says Musashi was buried there in armor with his sword, following his wish to protect the Hosokawa from behind as they passed.

The park holds a stone inscribed Stone Pagoda of the Sword Master Musashi and a bronze statue. The third grave, Nishi-Musashizuka, is in the Shimasaki district. Which is the real one? No one knows to this day.

Since 1955 the area has belonged to the city of Kumamoto as a loan from the Hosokawa family and has been called Tatsuda Nature Park. For people here it is simply a lovely place to breathe: walking paths, shade, birds, benches, a hush in the trees.

Officially, together with the Myogeji temple precinct in Kitaoka Nature Park, the site is designated a National Historic Site, because the Hosokawa family graveyard lies here.

If you like history but not glass cases, the Taishoji temple grounds offer a quiet, dignified spot. Tea, samurai, and stories—and yet it is only a park where children laugh, strollers roll by, and the air smells of resin after sun, and crows wheel overhead. That, to me, is the Kumamoto I love.

Embracing the Escapism

Sometimes I wished I could muster the courage to leave everything behind, lock myself away forever in an apartment, and devote the rest of my life to a single online role-playing game.

In the midst of an enchanted fantasy world full of wonders, dreams and secrets I would transform from a peasant boy into a heroic warrior, find unimaginable treasures and fight monsters, and band together with other outcasts bored with real life to form a sworn adventuring party.

My days would be governed by quests, rituals, and leveling, by the pulse of raids, and the slow comfort of companionship the real world denied me. My existence would turn into a digital meaningfulness whose end would arrive only when the servers were switched off.

Moriko Morioka, thirty years old, single, and unemployed, put my dream into practice: An escape from reality. After losing her job she became a NEET, neither working nor studying, and seeking refuge she drifted into the World Wide Web. There she immersed herself in online games and reinvented her life as a young man named Hayashi.

As a newcomer she nearly dies in the game but is rescued just in time by a girl called Lily. Through Lily she finds allies she can trust and begins a life online that finally feels fulfilling.

Meanwhile, in the real world, she meets a handsome businessman who reminds her of someone she recently encountered. Will that encounter influence the life she has built in the game, and what will become of Moriko’s fulfilled MMORPG life?

Recovery of an MMO Junkie by Rin Kokuyo is one of my comfort anime, even though I am not much for romances and the director involved later turned out to be a disgrace.

I still love anime about people living inside online role-playing games like World of Warcraft, Guild Wars 2, or Final Fantasy XIV. Whether it is Sword Art Online, Shangri-La Frontier, or Bofuri: I Don’t Want to Get Hurt, so I’ll Max Out My Defense, I enjoy watching others enact my secret dream: finding not only the time of their lives but a kind of meaning in an otherwise hollow existence.

And perhaps one day I, too, will summon the nerve, like Moriko, to renounce the drab, gray, utterly magic-less reality and finally surrender forever, without regret, to the warm, connected wonder of a digital world.

Happiness Between Two Buns

Japan is a country full of treats. Those who want to fill a hungry stomach efficiently and cheaply can find sushi, tempura, and ramen on every corner, in different price ranges, in hidden restaurants or crowded supermarkets. But Japan would not be Japan if it hadn’t absorbed other culinary cultures and made them its own.

Cities brim not only with steaming noodle shops and futuristic chains where raw fish on rice travels past on conveyor belts, but also offer delights from Spanish and Italian kitchens or, for those who prefer hearty, fatty, generous portions, the American culinary world.

You encounter these options everywhere, from tiny stalls and family-run izakayas to high-end restaurants and bustling food halls in the most unexpected neighborhoods.

Although I love Japanese food in all its health-promoting variety, I sometimes have to descend into Western-influenced fast-food depths to keep from losing my mind. After all, nothing soothes a stressed head like calorie-drenched soul food.

Japan tempts hearts that long for an early death by cheeseburgers, French fries and sugary cold drinks not only with imported names such as McDonald’s, Burger King, and TGI Friday’s, but also with homegrown chains founded in the Land of the Rising Sun.

From MOS Burger to Dom Dom and on to Zetteria, the choices range wide: sandwiches piled thick with meat, cheese, and vegetables, fried platters, and combos that seem to dare you to resist. They are available at train stations, convenience locations and late-night outlets across the country.

My personal go-to franchise, frequented with friends, is Freshness Burger, known for its delicious fat bombs. Its first branch opened in Shibuya in the early 1980s. The official slogan, Burger cafe where adults can relax that proposes a high-quality eating habit, is as curiously phrased as the similarly English-sounding slogans of other competitors.

But in my experience Freshness Burger not only serves the most generously topped and juiciest sandwiches, it also often offers surprising specials that I am only too happy to devour.

And, what is almost more important: The fries taste, unlike those from the better-known rivals, as if they were more than a sadly looking side dish. Gigi Hadid once famously said: Eat clean to stay fit, have a burger to stay sane. And she was right.

For the Alliance

My journey begins in the Northshire Valley, enclosed by high mountains, somewhere in the thickly wooded Elwynn Forest. Before me stands not only the abbey of the local brotherhood but also an adventure that will take me into frozen deserts, bubbling volcanoes, and creepy ghost towns.

When I meet my friends, masquerading as knights, thieves, and wizards, behind the towering gates of the royal fortress Stormwind, and outfit myself there with keen blades, shining shields, and magical potions, I can hardly rein in my anticipation.

The scent of pine and old stone, the flutter of banners, and the clanking of armor all heighten the thrill. One thing is certain: Whatever challenges await in this digital wonderland, we will endure and overcome them together.

World of Warcraft is probably the largest and thus best-known online role-playing game, where paying participants slip into the roles of elves, dwarves, gnomes, orcs, trolls, and even talking pandabears on the fantastic planet of Azeroth.

They explore mysterious continents, live through adventures and complete quests, forge friendships, build alliances, and clash with enemies for power and glory. Players create characters, shape their skills, take on professions, tackle dungeons, trade, and socialize.

When the heroes are not busy fishing, collecting pets, or idly bouncing around auction houses, they immerse themselves in an epic saga of love, hatred, and broken dreams in which Alliance and Horde face each other bloodily and vie for the favor of gods and devils—by any means imaginable.

When I installed World of Warcraft on my newly bought Mac Mini in the mid-2000s, I played straight through until exhaustion set in at dawn. The months that followed were an experience that can never be repeated. Everything felt new, thrilling, and magical.

People around the globe logged into World of Warcraft to swap dreary everyday life for a generic but interactive Lord of the Rings copy. Some players became completely lost in it, even to this day, although twenty years on the initial fascination has largely faded.

I would give anything to wake once more in the Northshire Valley, ringed by high mountains, and set off with my friends to rediscover Azeroth and its fantastic tales, as if seeing it anew. But times change.

My Summer in Japan

Summer here in Japan is slowly drawing to a close, though no one has informed the sun. It remains so hot and muggy that every step outdoors becomes a sweaty ordeal, at least when I dare to leave the house in broad daylight.

Even so, over these past months I’ve tried to see, experience, and take in as much as I can. After all, every minute in this country, in this adventure, is precious.

Sooner or later I’ll be back on a plane, heading home, and any moment I haven’t used to the fullest will feel wasted. I want to keep that potential regret small, so I push myself to go, to look, to listen, to be present, and to savor what this place offers.

I grabbed dear friends and headed with them into every shop and restaurant that looked even vaguely inviting. We drove into the mountains and out to the water. We wandered through cities, museums, and temples. I met locals and people from every corner of the globe whose stories, dreams, or simply their way of not taking life too seriously touched and inspired me.

Japan is a riotously colorful grab-bag, a lucky packet worth opening and exploring. Whether in nerdy manga shops, smoky izakaya, or mist-shrouded samurai graveyards, I’m grateful for each memory I’m allowed to carry along on the rest of my journey, a pocketful of moments that clink like coins and remind me why I came so far in the first place.

And while the sun spent the days of this summer beating down on us without mercy, as if to taunt us and prove itself the ruler of the sky, Kumamoto at night turned into an idyllic dreamscape, a black-blue paradise full of chirring cicadas, croaking frogs, and purring cats.

Fireworks stitched light across the dark vault, and in meadows ringed by small houses people sat and grilled, drank, and sang. Neighbors waved, wind bells tinkled, and smoke drifted upward like a prayer.

Now summer here in Japan is coming to an end—and with it my year in this city at the far edge of the world, a place that welcomed me, challenged me, and, in ways I never expected, changed who I am.

My Favorite Cinema

The other night over dinner, a friend asked why I love lesser-known films so much. Her favorites are American action blockbusters like Die Hard, The Transporter, and the high-octane The Fast and the Furious series with Vin Diesel, Paul Walker, and Michelle Rodriguez, while my patchy watchlist includes titles like Nightcrawler, Melancholia, and My Small Land.

My quick, perhaps rash, answer was that I enjoy movies that lodge in my memory, that I might still recall years later because they moved me, fascinated me, or taught me something. Maybe it’s simply that I was in love with someone in the cast. I chase the afterglow: A scene that lingers, a line that won’t fade, a feeling that taps me on the shoulder after the credits roll.

In the shadow of the multiplexes in Kumamoto, somewhere between Toho, Aeon, and SMT, which lure crowds with hits like Jurassic World, Under Ninja, and the latest Demon Slayer, plus popcorn, tortilla chips, and syrupy cola in huge cups, stands my favorite cinema: The Denkikan.

Its dark walls, hung with obscure posters, host local gems and far-flung wonders, whose popularity sits somewhere between celery salad, cloudy sunsets, and computers running Linux as a daily driver.

How many people can say they saw Oasis, The Jazz Loft, or All We Imagine as Light in a theater? A haven where the projector hums, the aisles creak, and I catch whispers of other lives. A schedule like a treasure map inviting me to trust the curators and go somewhere unexpected.

With a freshly brewed coffee on one side and a companion on the other, I let the Denkikan carry me into unfamiliar worlds. On these long screenings, there are often no more than five fellow travelers, scattered among the seats.

Of course, I value the blockbuster experience too. Surrendering to wild action with sweet-and-salty snacks is as valid as falling for small secrets. Yet there is special magic when, in my little favorite theater, I watch Japanese indie films like Rainy Blue, At the Bench, and Linda Linda Linda.

Those are the films that make my heart beat faster, the ones that hum behind ordinary days, turn the walk home into an epilogue, and remind me that quiet stories can claim space in a life.

Arrow in the Knee

Staggering from the cave on my last reserves, I let my eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight as a vast, mountain-studded snowscape unfurls before me. In towns clasped by timber and stone, merchants, thieves, and kings ply their trades. Dragons, werewolves, and vampires wake. Bright hoards and darker magics hide from the gaze of a budding civil war.

I wipe fresh bear blood from my skin and set out for the next village. It is not the first time I have roamed these forests, nor will it be the last. Once more I have returned. To the valleys of Skyrim, where the wind bites like iron and distant watchtowers blink with fire as paths fork, promising danger, coin, and stories for the stubborn and brave.

Two hundred years after the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire of Tamriel in The Elder Scrolls V stands at the brink. The High King of Skyrim has been assassinated. New alliances form and stake their claim to the throne.

Yet amid this conflict, a far more perilous, ancient threat stirs to life. The dragons, whose existence is whispered in long-forgotten passages of the Elder Scrolls and deemed extinct, have returned to Tamriel.

Skyrim’s future, and that of the entire Empire, hangs in the balance as the land waits for the prophecy to unfold: the coming of the Dragonborn, a hero wielding the Power of the Voice, the Thu’um, and the only one capable of standing against the dragons—foretold in runes and shouts carved into cold stone walls.

Nothing sets my little nerd heart racing like diving into The Elder Scrolls V. Again and again. Sometimes as a kindhearted knight who rescues fair maidens, builds homes, and adopts children. Sometimes as a ruthless mage who slaughters monsters and farmers alike. And sometimes as a naked madman who, thanks to supernatural powers, can vault over castle walls, marry deities, and fight Spider-Man, with essentially one overriding goal: to hoard every cheese wheel in the realm.

The Elder Scrolls V is a vast playground full of marvelous characters and intriguing stories. Returning to the world of Skyrim is, each time, a blend of adventure and coming home, a feeling only a handful of computer games ever manage to create with enduring comfort for me.

Magazine for City Boys

Although my chest houses the heart of a digital minimalist and light-footed traveler who thinks in bits and bytes and has gradually moved the baggage of his not-so-young life into the cloud, I have nonetheless kept a soft spot for printed media.

Whether books, magazines, or newspapers, something happens to me when I hold these riotously colorful works of art in my hands and can not only look at them but also feel them, smell them and, to a certain extent, even hear them.

I buy them sometimes fresh off the press at the kiosk or happily second-hand, always knowing that I will take their secrets into myself and then release them back into the world before someone else can fall in love with them.

One of my favorite magazines is the Japanese Popeye. It’s a monthly fashion and men’s magazine based in Tokyo, addressing clothes, sports, and everyday culture from a young male perspective.

Popeye was founded in 1976 by Yoshihisa Kinameri, who saw Japan at the time in a state of drift and wanted to encourage the country’s youth toward a healthier lifestyle.

In the meantime it has grown into one of the nation’s most influential cultural publications. The magazine is widely known for introducing American youth culture to Japanese readers.

In his book Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style, W. David Marx described Popeye’s debut issue as a sunny take on life in California, where youth were carving out the future for the rest of civilization.

Each issue tackles a specific theme that it introduces to its readers. Sometimes it is about trips to the small and big metropolises of the world, New York, Seoul, London, Taipei, Paris, about the freshest films, books, and fashion trends, about cool restaurants with which city boys can impress their girlfriend—if they even have one.

But most interesting to me is the Japanese gaze on the world and the selection of stories Popeye correspondents bring back to readers in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto, and also from the farthest corners of Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Kyushu.

I dig the style, the interviews, the photo features, especially the Girls in the City series. Popeye is a beautifully designed declaration of love to mindful consumption and one reason print must never die.

After the Rain

The weather over the past few months here in Kumamoto seems to recognize only two possible settings. Either it strives to mimic the lava-laced dungeons of hell and cook us alive, or it bombards us so mercilessly with rain, gales, and typhoons that building an ark seems the logical step for ferrying ourselves, and a few stray animals, to safety.

Thanks to climate change, or rather to those who deny it, the weather has digivolved into my personal arch-enemy, and I, in turn, into one of those people who cannot help, at every opportunity these days, lamenting how awful things already are and how much worse they are likely to become—assuming, of course, there is any future left for us at all, for anyone paying attention.

The other day I came home seared through, surely nurturing one or two splendidly developing cases of skin cancer, only to realize that, precisely as I pulled the front door shut behind me and took a brief cold shower to stop the sweating, the rain began outside.

The joy at this long-overdue cool-down, and the prudent fact that I had just finished the groceries and therefore did not need to venture back out, did not last long.

What started as an exciting thunderstorm, complete with flash after flash and rolling thunder, quickly morphed into a rainstorm so merciless that one chirpy, softly whirring disaster notification after another began lighting up my phone, stacking themselves into a cheerful little tower of alarms on the glowing lock screen.

In front of my house the street turned into a long paddling pool, while I was first instructed to evacuate and later, because the bridges were overflowing, told to wait it out.

Since I live on the second floor, I watched the drama through the window and on special reports on TV. My only fear was that the power might fail or the water supply be hit, but that did not happen.

Sleep was impossible that night, because my phone chimed every few hours, sending grim alerts one after another. While I, as I learned next morning, got off lightly, others coped with flooded homes, cars, and supermarkets. Let us hope this was the worst we will have to endure in the near future.

King of the Monsters

There are certain Japanese subcultures to which, to date, I’ve never really found an entry point. Among them are animated VTubers, masked superheroes à la Kamen Rider, and kaiju—giant monsters that, at regular intervals, stomp Tokyo flat. Well-known examples include Rodan, Mothra, King Ghidorah, Gamera, and of course the universally beloved Godzilla, brought to life by Ishiro Honda.

I did see Roland Emmerich’s American version in theaters in the late ’90s, yet the destructive spectacle didn’t leave much of an impression on me whatsoever. And that’s strange, because I generally adore it when the world is reduced to rubble in the media I consume. Somehow, though, this particular behemoth and his city-crushing antics never quite worked their way under my skin.

The basic idea for Godzilla came from producer Tomoyuki Tanaka. The inspiration is said to have been the incident of a Japanese fishing boat that strayed into the fallout zone of an American nuclear weapons test.

The first film, from 1954, in its original Japanese version is not only technically impressive in its effects, it is also a thoughtfully constructed work in terms of plot and drama, one that can be read as an allegory for Japan’s trauma after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or as a direct reaction to the nuclear mishap that struck the small fishing boat. Since then, and with a nod to King Kong, Godzilla has run amok and spread fear and terror—most often in Japan’s major cities.

To develop feelings for the skyscraper-tall and perhaps even misunderstood reptile, I recently watched the newest, critic-lauded installment in the film saga, Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus One.

There, a kamikaze pilot tormented by survivor’s guilt seeks redemption when a giant monster he failed to kill is transformed by radiation from atomic bomb tests and lays siege to postwar Japan. It’s about honor, guilt, love, grief, friendship, responsibility—and, naturally, many demolished properties.

Unfortunately, I was as whelmed by this Godzilla outing as I once was by Roland Emmerich’s attempt to bring the creature to New York. Maybe I simply don’t fear irradiated monsters, no matter how loudly they roar. Godzilla and I, despite its cultural relevance, will probably never be friends. What a pity.

A Smoky Smell

Summer in Japan is barbecue season. Partly that’s because it is, let’s say, bold to leave raw fish outdoors for longer than three seconds in these godless, blistering temperatures, let alone try to serve it to anyone.

And partly it’s because there is nothing more flavorful than sinking your teeth, with an ice-cold beer, or in my case tea loaded with rattling ice cubes, in freshly grilled scraps of meat, blazing-hot sausages, and the occasional almost-scorched piece of vegetable.

Ideally it happens while good conversations flow and cheerful company gathers around. In that setting even the sweatiest evenings can be endured with a little style, a lot of taste, and decent entertainment, and somehow they pass pleasantly instead of painfully. That, in short, is summer survival, Japanese-style.

A few friends and I therefore met above the rooftops of Kumamoto, at the American-leaning burger, hot-dog, and barbecue spot Jiro 26, to celebrate that day’s sunset once again for the brief coolness it brought along.

We were entrusted with cute little gas grills and got to ornament each of them with bite-sized steaks, strips of bacon, and wiener sausages. Between the meats we set down carrots, cabbage, and bell peppers. When everything was cooked through and tantalizing, we dipped the treats in punchy sauces and let them melt away on our damp tongues.

From the terrace we watched the city settle as the sky dimmed. Tongs clicked and grills hissed softly while we hovered, trading pieces, comparing doneness, raising toasts to the breeze and fading light.

Because we are, all of us, small gluttonous creatures, we raided the steaming pot of curry after the barbecue, as well as the rice cooker standing beside it with an almost innocent air.

To wrap things up we went bowling at the nearby sports center, where we taught the pins a lesson in fear. Evenings like these are my regular reminder of why I love Japan—apart from the candy-colored entertainment industry and the tropes that are so quick to see through.

After all, here I get to have a wonderful time with even more wonderful people I would never have met otherwise. They anchor me to ordinary joy and make the city feel friendly, close, and warmly lived-in—and delicious barbecue comes on top.

Want to Come Down With Me?

Sometimes I refuse to consume media that has become too popular. Whether films, shows, or video games, once the hype train really gathers speed and it feels as if the entire planet is trying to convince me that I have to watch, listen to, or simply experience this thing because it’s the finest achievement humanity has produced in its more than 300,000-year history, I react almost reflexively with a defense mechanism that looks suspiciously like an allergy.

I tense up, dig in my heels, and avoid it on principle. Familiar examples are Squid Game, The Weeknd, and Balatro, whose emotional impact on my life falls somewhere between militant indifference and a burning, slightly irrational hatred that I can’t quite justify even to myself.

Yet I have decided to change this attitude. Exercising healthy agency by refusing to chase every, mostly artificially stoked, trend is admirable, and I still value that instinct. But when I renounce every recommendation, even those from close friends, and retreat into obscure niches, I insulate myself bit by bit from the mainstream and thus from the shared experiences of an entire generation, depriving myself of any chance to feel genuine empathy for others.

I stop speaking the same cultural language. Following this new logic, I recently watched Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite, approaching it with open curiosity, and trying to meet the work on its own terms rather than through resentment. That was my small but deliberate experiment in loosening my stubborn grip.

In the film, the Kim family has hit rock bottom. Father, mother, son, and daughter live in a dim semi-basement and will take any odd job. Only when the youngest gets hired as a tutor in the ultra-chic villa of the Park family do the Kims board the carousel of class conflict.

With clever schemes, talent, and teamwork, they push out the Parks’ employees one by one. Before long, the Kims are indispensable to their new employers. Then an unforeseen incident sets off a chain of events as unpredictable as it is unbelievable.

I found Parasite as brilliant, surprising, and surreal as everyone said. I’m glad this positive experience is my first step back toward a renewed love of pop culture.

My Odyssey

The Japanese language is a mountain that can be climbed only through perseverance, diligence, and the support of people who have already mastered it. Step by step, piece by piece, and word by word, I haul myself from one ledge to the next.

What began as a picturesque hike through the gentle woods of romaji, hiragana, and katakana, sweetened by simple vocabulary and understandable grammar, with one little success after another, turned, with each waystation I managed to reach, into a personal odyssey among ambiguous kanji, hazy shades of politeness, and pitch accents I can hardly distinguish.

As I climb, the air thins and I lean on the ropes offered by guides. Yet even as the path narrows and the rocks bite, the summit still glints somewhere ahead, inviting.

On my Japanese-learning journey so far I have ridden out every high and low. There is euphoria when I not only understand something but can reshape it and use it in my own words. And there is frustration when the cashier at the nearby supermarket asks me a question and all I can manage is 大丈夫, because from her stream of speech I could not catch any of the usual anchors like 伏る, カード, or 箸.

At those times I either feel a surge of drive and reconfigure my whole life into Japanese, listening to podcasts, buying stacks of manga, and watching YouTube, only to crash, burned out, a few days later. Or I simply want to quit, once and for all, and walk away from the mountain altogether.

After riding those emotional waves, I realized that everyone has to find a personal way of learning Japanese. For some people it works to ban every other language from daily life and, for a time, almost become Japanese. Others keep studying Spanish, Korean, and Icelandic alongside it and somehow rack up more progress than I do. For still others the best path is to keep things loose, curious, and fun, following interest rather than duty, and letting momentum build slowly.

I very clearly belong to that last group. And I count myself fortunate that there are kind people who actively encourage me, answer questions, correct my stumbles, and cheer from the trail as I keep moving forward, sometimes crawling, sometimes striding, but always, stubbornly, continuing the climb.

The Maddest Obsession

From early youth, my life was divided into chapters named for the women I happened to love at the time. Whether in Berlin, in Tokyo, or wherever I drifted, and whether anything became a relationship, whether intimacy happened or not, it was always too easy for me to become so intent on one woman that she defined an entire era.

From this came obsessions that at times stretched across years, fed by depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and a self-diagnosed borderline condition, and they often ended in an emotional detonation. After a few quiet weeks or months, another woman would appear. Hopes, dreams, and fantasies were projected onto her, and the cycle began again.

There is a name for this hyperfocused state: Limerence. The term was introduced in 1979 by Dorothy Tennov, an American professor of behavioral psychology, in her book Love and Limerence.

It denotes an extreme form of being in love, already more than just having a simple crush on someone, and the patterns that accompany it: relentless, nearly compulsive thinking about the beloved. Longing for reciprocation. Constant fear of rejection. A blind spot for her negative traits. A narrowing of perception to objects and incidents that relate to her. And shyness and uncertainty in her presence.

According to Tennov, limerence may pass into love if a relationship takes hold. If it remains one-sided, it fades of its own accord, and the state can last from a few months to several years.

My limerences resulted in me organizing entire days around the woman I’m currently fixated on. There is no stalking on my part, yet jealousy and possessiveness appear, of course at odds with reality. When energy runs high, an open, charismatic version of me steps forward. When my body and mind are tired, withdrawal follows.

Over time it became clear that my fixation is not on the woman as she is, but on the separate fragments of an ideal assembled for her. The fall begins when my feelings go unreturned and expectations collapse, and the only useful act is an unconditional retreat and a renewed willingness to meet other people, with the hope that this vicious circle will finally break—no matter how, and by whom.

Hobo Horror

Good stories put a quiet spell on me. Whether they arrive as books, films, or video games, what lingers afterward, often for far longer than I expect, isn’t the glossy, polished shell so many media try to sell these days, but the people inside and the moments that temper them into something tougher and wiser.

That is why adventures pull me in. Maniac Mansion, Leisure Suit Larry, and The Secret of Monkey Island don’t just tell varied, engaging tales—they let me stand close enough to feel them. And sometimes the mood can tilt darker, which suits me fine. So it does in the pulp thriller The Drifter, where the light thins and the edges grow hard.

In The Drifter we follow Mick Carter as he is hauled headfirst into a tangled web of shady corporations, murder, and a madman’s thousand-year obsession. The hobo has been adrift for a while, trading one job for another, never staying long anywhere. He jumps a freight car toward the town he once called home, witnesses a brutal killing, is chased by high-tech soldiers, thrown into a reservoir, and drowned.

That, however, is only the beginning of his trouble. His consciousness comes loose and is forced back into his body mere seconds before death. He ends up wanted for the murder he saw, tormented by his own past, and stalked by the conviction that something from the far side is on his trail.

What begins as supposed fantasies in a middle-aged loser’s head swiftly becomes a layered adventure suspended between a tragic past and a future that looks spent. The story moves Mick along at a sure pace, one situation to the next, with barely a breath in between.

One moment he’s assembling a Molotov cocktail from a bottle of high-proof rum. The next he’s interrogating a corrupt neurosurgeon. Before long he has to swing out of a high-rise window on a frayed extension cord.

The Drifter is a gripping rollercoaster of feeling, its lineages easy to sense: Steven King, Michael Crichton, and John Carpenter, with a trace of 1970s Australian grindhouse. In the end, good stories never die out.

Wurstcutters

I never thought of myself as particularly attached to home, yet staying away too long causes a small ache that points, stubbornly, toward Germany. Sometimes it’s nothing more than the sound of the language, its clipped edges and sudden softnesses, absent from the air around me. At other moments a single habit or custom goes missing, and the day stumbles.

An unspoken social rule fails to hold where I am, and the floor feels a little slanted. There are days when none of that speaks loud enough, and the craving reduces itself to something simpler and more insistent: Food. The kind that anchors a life even when one pretends not to notice.

After almost a year in Japan, the local fare has become familiar and, I admit it, beloved. Sushi and sashimi. Ramen and soba. Karaage and tempura. Bowls of rice, miso soup drifting its warm salt, plates of pickled vegetables that square the meal.

When a different appetite insists, the shelves and coolers answer with Japanese versions of spaghetti, pizza, and richly filled sandwiches from convenience stores and neighborhood supermarkets, each with its own taste and charm that refuses easy comparison.

Still, there are hours when German hausmannskost presses forward. The Sunday dishes my grandmother conjured onto the table at noon, the steam rising as if from her sleeves. Beef roulades, käsespätzle, fried potatoes. Or, if nothing else, a good, moist loaf of black bread.

To quiet that longing, Erika and I went to the German beer restaurant Oden in downtown and set out to fill our bellies with Central European comforts. The menu staged its pretzels, bratwurst, and potato salads between Japanese side dishes in a way that didn’t look especially German, and the food came with chopsticks that we used with wide smiles on our faces.

The room didn’t shift into Bavaria, nor did time turn obliging. The city outside kept its pace, and we ate the meal it offered. Yet the distance shortened by a finger’s width, and the missing eased for the span of an afternoon, enough to carry me back into the week with a quieter hunger for home.

Fellowship of the Fat Dragon

It’s no secret that, deep in my heart, I’m a nerd. I love wacky video games, quietly vibe to anime soundtracks, and enjoy stories in which foolish villagers become true heroes. Pen-and-paper adventures draw me in, and I gladly take part. Among mixed groups of barbarians, mages, and warlocks, I fight monsters, find great treasure, and rescue fair maidens.

Although my media consume often leads me down the psychological abysses of human beings to understand them, and perhaps myself, better, from time to time I simply need a hefty pinch of fantastic, humorous tales somewhere between fantasy and science fiction. The kind that let my soul hang loose. One such refuge was the film Honor Among Thieves from the Dungeons & Dragons universe, which I finally managed to watch recently.

Is there honor among thieves? Our unusual hero in this exciting fantasy flick certainly doesn’t ask. Former bard and thief Edgin breaks out of prison with his partner, the barbarian Holga. In a world full of long-lost legends, opaque magic, and overweight Wyrmsmiths, the two join the wizard Simon, the druid Doric, and the paladin Xenk to form a thieving crew.

Their special mission is clear: Recover a lost relic and stop the cunning rogue Forge and his dark plans. Yet he knows how to make the lives of our heroes as difficult as possible. The magical venture is full of dangers, and plenty goes wrong, but the thieves are not easily discouraged. Where there is no honor, there are no rules. Whatever awaits them, they will be ready. Perhaps.

Honor Among Thieves is a colorful, witty, and adventurous fantasy film in the best sense. The world around Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter, and the Sword Coast invites a mental dive and resurfacing. It reminded me of those absurd pen-and-paper evenings with friends, when we pulled every kind of nonsense and regularly drove our game master to madness.

The film pleased me so much that I urgently long for a sequel. As a series, the story would also have worked. Some narrative strands could then have been told more fully. It was like a smaller The Lord of the Rings, one that doesn’t take itself quite as seriously as the original sometimes does. Through Honor Among Thieves, I rediscovered my affection for classic fantasy and would gladly see more of Edgin and his cheerful crew.

Weightless Wanderer

Everyone seems to hold a different idea of minimalism. For me it means freedom. Freedom from objects that weigh on me, distract me, or hold me back. Consciously and unconsciously I try to remove, or at least shrink, anything that blocks spontaneity or agency.

Over the years I have learned to let go. I have noticed that many things that seem essential are nothing more than cargo—both material and mental. When they are gone, I breathe more steadily and act more directly.

Most of the time the rule is simple: Once something leaves my field of vision, it leaves my mind as well. The room created by subtraction becomes quiet, and in that quiet I can decide what I truly want.

I have become a nomad without fixed roots, moving from place to place and observing each location with childlike curiosity. Whether my journey stretches across Europe, America, and now Asia, or consists of a short walk to the nearest café, I want to rise, step out, and move without schedules, packing lists, or negotiation.

Even the laptop that once promised mobility began to interfere. Whenever I left the room I needed a backpack, and the weight on my shoulders sharpened my awareness of limitation.

That awareness felt heavy, not only on my body but on my thoughts. I learned that mobility is not only distance but also ease. When ease disappears, travel becomes a task rather than a movement.

To carry as little as possible and still be ready for anything, I placed my whole digital existence inside one object: my phone. It holds my books, movies, games, music, and personal pictures. I can write, photograph, and record anywhere, whether I sit by the sea, climb a hill, or lie in a hospital bed.

The screen guides me through unfamiliar streets, links me with other people, and manages my knowledge, plans, and finances. Even if the city unravels around me, the small rectangle in my pocket holds its quiet order and points me toward the next turn.

I no longer measure freedom by the number of things I own but by the lightness with which I can leave them behind. To me, pure minimalism is carrying my entire life in the single device that never leaves my side.

French Fantasy

Since my earliest days I have loved Japanese role‑playing games. No other genre draws me so deep into hidden worlds, deliberate stories, and mentally unstable characters. Dragon Quest, Secret of Mana, Chrono Trigger—whenever little boys rise to become god-slayers, I remain before the glowing screen for hundreds of hours, tracing each dialogue box while the world outside steadily burns to the ground.

Over the years I learned that these Far Eastern legends reach far beyond my room. They travel across languages and teach strangers to dream in the same fantasy worlds. Today their imprint is visible in Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, a surprise hit from a studio in France. The developers do not hide their admiration. It breathes through every single visible polygon.

The game unfolds on the small island of Lumière, housed inside the Belle Époque filtered through stone, steel, and smoke. For sixty‑seven years the inhabitants have faced an annual event called Gommage. Each summer a goddess known as the Paintress writes a number on the sky, always one smaller than the previous. Everyone whose age is the same or greater dies, quietly, without marks.

To break this cycle, the city council selects a squad after each ceremony and sends it across the channel to stop the Paintress before the next inscription. None have returned. Expedition 33 boards its vessel with hopes, dreams, and fears of what lies beyond the sea. We follow the march of these brave souls through a world that almost seems to be too beautiful to be true.

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is not a Japanese role‑playing game, even when the palette, the soundtrack, and the battle rolls insist on that lineage.

During my journey I recognised fragments of NieR Automata, echoes of Final Fantasy, and the depths of Xenoblade Chronicles. Yet the imitation stops short of substance.

The protagonists are nothing but tristful replicas of stratified, flesh-and-blood individuals. The world changes little and blends together, its flora and fauna repeating in blurred loops, and the final revelation comes short in epicness.

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 is the Avatar: The Last Airbender of video games—a botched attempt to mimic the emotional range of its idols without grasping the force that makes the originals so devastating and compelling. What remains is a rebuilt framework in vaguely French attire. I’d rather stay inside my Japanese wonderlands.

Fishers of Men

I have lived in Japan for almost a year now. The steady scrutiny that accompanies the life of a so‑called gaijin outside the big cities no longer unsettles me.

Children greet me as they coast past on bicycles, pensioners bow if I avoid blocking the aisles, and girls in navy uniforms let their eyes linger for a moment when they think no one notices.

Instead of discomfort, I feel quiet ease. People treat me with kindness or at least with courtesy that seems honest. Many are happy to speak a few words, test their English, or ask why I picked their town over the neon capitals they know from television. Each morning I rehearse simple Japanese, relieved when the sounds land cleanly.

I come from a country known for old wounds and a renewed appetite for exclusion. It’s hard for me to ignore or even forget that.

Japan is conservative, and I understood that before stepping off the plane, yet I was still shaken when an extremist party drew strong support in the recent election, most of it from voters my age or younger, some of them friends who share coffee with me on Saturdays.

Their approval surprised me more than the numbers on the screen. It showed me that the rejection I thought I had left behind can surface anywhere. The campaign’s orange flyers appeared suddenly, on walls and in hands. Some teachers at my university shrugged, saying protest votes were unavoidable, then changed the topic.

My frustration grew when I could not show those friendly, curious people how they were being guided. This nation’s fishers of men use the same routine every radical group prefers. Short slogans, invented statistics, and a steady supply of unease. With those tools they collect not only votes but also the public attention needed for patient work on real, often tangled problems.

Some asked why I remain liberal. The reason is simple and selfish. I want to live in a world that does not restrict movement, a place where eyes follow me only out of curiosity and never out of hate. Nothing else seems worth defending.

I remind myself that freedom rests on ordinary choices made every ordinary day. I count each conversation as practice for that defense, even when it ends in silence.

Konbinis Are Churches

I was living on FamilyMart rice balls and low blood sugar dreams. Tokyo nights too hot to sleep and too cold to stay awake. It’s always 3:47 a.m. when you walk into a konbini. The neon light like a kiss from a dying god. The buzz of the fridges like the sigh of someone who’s given up.

Meet me at the 7-Eleven by the tracks. She brought a can of Strong Zero and an open wound. Konbinis are churches. Sacred spaces where nobody prays but everyone kneels. Bent before microwave ramen, counting coins.

The salaryman, suit crumpled like a used cigarette box. The girl with smeared lipstick, eyeliner like bruises. The boy in a school uniform who’s not going home tonight.

I stood in front of the refrigerated drinks like it was an altar. Pocari Sweat, lemon chu-hi, cold coffee in PET bottles. I bought a rice ball with salmon, a pack of melon bread, and a lighter I didn’t need.

My hands were shaking. I liked the way they shook. Made me feel alive, or close to it. Outside, the rain tasted like metal and regret. I sucked it off my lips and watched people slide through the streets like ghosts.

There’s a konbini every few blocks, like veins pumping sugar and trash into the city’s bloodstream. Every one of them the same. Open 24/7, eyes never blinking.

I can lose myself in them. Not in a romantic way. In the way people vanish into cracks, forgotten until they rot.

We sat under the flickering sign, plastic bags between us, fingers greasy from karaage. I bought condoms and a manga I didn’t understand. She bought cough syrup and a toothbrush. We were both lying.

The konbini is where you go when you have nowhere else. When your apartment’s too small, too quiet, too full of memory. When your body wants something. Salt, sugar, heat, nicotine.

You know it won’t fix anything, but you go anyway. Because the lights are always on. Because the shelves are always full. Because the world ends softly, one plastic bag at a time.

Let’s stay here forever, she said. Sure. But we both knew, morning was coming. And nothing golden ever stays.

Food and the City

I’m collecting places like bruises. My plan is to swallow Kumamoto whole. I want its bars, its noodle shops, its grease-stained counters. I want every damn corner of this city that smells like soy and sweat.

I want sushi with my hands, ramen burning my tongue, pizza in alleys that look like everyone forgot they were alleys. I want it messy, I want it cheap, I want it at 2 a.m. when only ghosts and drunk boys are awake.

Neon-lit karaoke rooms where someone’s always crying into a mic. Dark izakayas where salarymen tell the same story again and again. Host clubs with smiles made of plastic and eyes like black tea. Coffee shops with maids, with books, with silence thick like syrup.

I’ll go. I’ll sit. I’ll eat. Whether it’s the city center pulsing like a neon heart, or out near the edge where the streets aren’t even part of a map.

Morning, noon, dusk, night. I don’t care. Just give me someone beside me. Someone local, someone who knows the places that don’t exist online. They take me there. And I pay in conversation. I pay in time. I give them stories. I give them laughter, a little light.

Like that one night with her. We found a hot pot joint downtown. The broth was boiling like we were. Meat, mushrooms, vegetables drowned in soy. We fished them out with chopsticks like tiny survivors. Robot waiters mercilessly rolled around with fake smiles and real pudding.

There’s no better way to know a place than to eat it. No better way to belong than to chew on its streets and sip its secrets. I don’t want the tourist version. I want the version with stains. The version with whispers.

I want every bite, every bar, every brokenhearted song in a tavern at midnight. I want Kumamoto to feed me until I forget why I ever came here in the first place.

And while the sauce stained our fingers and the sky got darker, we made quiet plans for what came next. Places we haven’t touched yet. Nights we still want to break open.

There was this feeling, buzzing just under my ribs, that maybe we’re not just consuming, surviving here. Maybe we’re building something.

Me at the Zoo

They said it was for our Japanese Arts Class. Something about sketching wild animals to improve our line sensitivity. But in reality, it was about sunshine, good company, and getting to know some new place—at least for me.

I walked to the local zoo on the other side of the city. It took hours, but I didn’t mind. I had my AirPods with some cheesy J-pop on and the sky above me was this deep electric blue, full of possibility.

I passed babbling creeks that glittered like broken mirrors and old parks where tiny dogs pulled at their leashes like they had somewhere better to be. Streets were quiet, except for the soft whir of bicycle wheels and wind brushing tree leaves like secrets.

At the zoo, I met my friends. Paint-stained fingers, backpacks full of snacks and sketchbooks. We were a mess, but in a beautiful way. The kind that makes old ladies smile at you like they remember being wild once too.

We wandered through the zoo like it was a playground for our eyes. Yeah, the cages were small. But even depressed animals are at least something. Tigers with lazy elegance. Bears scratching their backs against stones like it was their full-time job. Flamingos standing like proud poets in pink.

Then came the petting area. Round guinea pigs, soft like clouds, twitchy noses, black and soulless eyes, the kind of small joy that gets under my skin in the best way possible.

We rode the creaky Ferris wheel and watched over the lake, surrounded by red oaks. Then we found these old mechanical animals. We dropped in a coin and zoomed across the pavement like we were five again. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

Lunch under the trees. Bentos from the nearest konbini, crispy chicken, egg rolls, rice sprinkled with furikake. Someone had these chocolate cubes wrapped in gold foil.

We shared, laughing with our mouths full. We didn’t talk about work. Or stress. Or anything heavy. Just strolling, eating, laughing. Making something out of the moment.

We were together, the sun was shining, and it felt like one of those days I tuck into my memory forever.

A Serene Fairytale

Who gives a shit what Hollywood’s golden boys are sweating over in their hot rooms with their endless rewrites and plastic champagne. Because at the beginning of this millennium something happened. Something too soft to scream and too sharp to forget.

The best movie of all time slipped through like smoke. Lost in Translation. And all the computer effects and starlet tits in the world can’t erase it.

Coked-up executives can pump a movie full of crap and call it love, but it won’t bleed like this one. It won’t ache like this one. This one didn’t even need Los Angeles, New York, or whatever American tax haven dump bent over the lowest—it had Tokyo like a slow pulse under pale skin.

Bob Harris is falling apart. A middle-aged ghost in a five-star coffin. With some whisky in one hand and endless exhaustion in the other. Charlotte is drowning quietly in a fresh white dress, married but lonely like a window in winter.

They find each other in silence, in elevator glances, in night-blue bars and half-empty hotel pools. No grand confession. No clichéd strings. Just that quiet panic of two souls brushing against each other in a foreign city that doesn’t care whether you live or die.

They don’t fall in love. They dissolve together. Time fucks them over like it always does. But for a few moments, they forget the script. They make up something better. Something real.

Bill Murray doesn’t act. He exists. Scarlett Johansson doesn’t fake. She glows like she’s lit from inside by something bruised and holy. Sofia Coppola doesn’t direct. She whispers through the lens. And somewhere in the distance I can hear Happy End’s Gather the Wind, like an echo that holds this serene fairytale together.

Lost in Translation isn’t for people looking for endings. It’s for the ones who stare at strangers in the subway and want to cry. For those who fall in love with cities. With moments. With people they were never supposed to meet. It’s for the broken, the dreamers, the ones who can’t stop remembering things that never quite happened. And yeah. It’s fucking beautiful.

My Plum Ghost

I participated in an art contest. Nothing serious, but it swallowed me whole. The theme was Yokai. Japanese spirits, monsters, the beautiful weirdness that lives between shadows and dreams.

For this, I built a canvas with my bare hands in my Japanese Arts class. Cut the wood, stretched the cloth. I wanted it to feel like something real. Not digital. Not fake. Something that bleeds when touched.

I used traditional materials. Glue, brushes, powdered pigments that smelled like the inside of a shrine. Nothing fancy. Just old magic.

I spent days sitting in our classroom, hunched over it like a secret I couldn’t share. The canvas stared back at me. It whispered things. Or maybe I was just tired.

My yokai was mine. No one else’s. A hybrid born from salt and fear—a cross between umeboshi, that sour, shriveled plum that tastes like a punch in the mouth, and umibozu, the sea ghost with a black, formless body that capsizes ships when no one’s looking.

I called it Umebozu. A pun. A joke only the sea would understand. It looks like a plum, but it drowns you. The painting was a colorful homage. An amateurish love letter.

I shaped my small world to mirror Katsushika Hokusai’s wooden masterpiece The Great Wave off Kanagawa, but in a more cheerful way. The yokai stared from the center of the storm. Big eyes. Wrinkled skin. A hidden smile that made me happy.

People asked what it meant, and I explained. They smiled. They liked it. Sometimes I imagined the Umebozu slipping off the page, crawling into the real world, hiding in rain puddles or tea cups or behind vending machines late at night.

I started seeing it everywhere. The curve of a wave in the river. The color of a bruise on my arm. It followed me home in the folds of my clothes, in the ink under my fingernails. I dreamed of salt and storms and laughing things that lived in the sea.

And when I woke up, I missed it. I missed him. My little yokai. My plum ghost. Maybe he was never just a joke. Maybe he was the part of me that never fit, never spoke. But always smiled.

Call Me Ishmael

I was drifting. Low blood sugar. Air like soup. I hadn’t eaten all day, or maybe I had, I don’t remember. I was walking through a supermarket in Japan, one of those blinding clean ones, all neon light and weird elevator music. Cold, too cold. Fish eyes watching me from slabs of ice.

And then there it was. Whale. Rae flesh like wet velvet. Whispering to me from behind cellophane. I stared at it the way I stare at someone I’ve seen in a dream before. Wrong and perfect at the same time.

Bought it like buying a secret. No one stopped me. No one said a word. The machine at the checkout beeped after I fed it with some yen. And then the small pieces of a slaughtered giant were mine.

Back home, the silence was loud. I didn’t cook it. Just opened the package, dropped the slices on some shredded carrots and radish, squeezed a lemon wedge like a little prayer. Ate them with some metal chopsticks. They tasted like horse. Like blood and memory.

I thought about the whales. I thought about the protests and the documentaries and the guilt people wear like expensive jackets. I thought about extinction and betrayal and all the things I’m not supposed to do.

But mostly I thought: when else? When else would I ever get to know this feeling, this very specific wrongness melting in my mouth like ice cream? I ate the whole thing. Slowly. Like a ritual. Like a dare.

And when it was done, I just sat there. No music. No talking. Just the low hum of the fridge and the sound of my own breath, sticky and strange, rising and falling like I was learning how to breathe for the first time.

There was something curling in my gut, not quite guilt, not quite satisfaction—something older. Animal. Primitive. Like I’d remembered something I shouldn’t have.

Next time, I want to eat dolphin. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe to feel worse. Maybe to feel better. Or maybe just to feel anything at all. To scratch some unreachable itch deep inside me. It’s not about taste. It’s not even about curiosity anymore. It’s about going somewhere I can’t come back from.

A Neon Disease

Neo-Tokyo is a wound. It breathes smoke and vomits neon. It’s filthy. It’s alive. The streets are soaked in broken dreams. Syringes, sex, safe hopelessness. Skyscrapers scream in color, pink and blue and acid green. And deep inside this cyberpunk hellhole, built onto the ruins of a wiped out city, lives Tetsuo. He was a boy, like so many others.

Then a special kind of magic awakened inside him. Power. Screaming, impossible power. Not even he could hold it. And then the men in the shadows came. The ones in coats. With needles. With wires. With orders. Contain him, they said. Because they were afraid, of Akira. Always Akira. That name. That myth. That black hole of a boy.

Kaneda loved Tetsuo like a brother. Rode like a god on that red beast of a bike. Fast enough to forget. Tough enough to survive. They were kids. Rebels. Orphans. Dust. Racing through trash-light and chemical rain, chasing adrenaline, chasing heat.

No dreams, just the hum of the engine and the static on the radio. They didn’t ask for meaning. They just wanted to burn. Then the city turned. Started watching them. Started whispering their names into the wires.

Until the streets swallowed Tetsuo whole. Split him open, filled him with electricity, madness, grief. Not love, not anymore. Just power. Too much. Way too much. Kaneda couldn’t reach him.

Akira bled into the eyes of a nation. It was ugly. Beautiful. Real. Black ink on white paper like veins bursting under skin. Katsuhiro Otomo didn’t tell the future. It was the future. Then, the screen couldn’t hold it. The movie exploded. Cells melted. Worlds shifted. We all got infected.

No one was safe. Not the artists. Not the kids. Not the ones who thought they’d seen it all. Neo-Tokyo became a virus. A neon disease that glittered in the dark and tasted like sugar, sluts, and static.

I saw it once, and it lived in me. Curled up behind my teeth. Waited in my spine. Everything changed after that. They said it was fiction. But it was prophecy. And we’re still catching up.

The Wandering Mind

Sometimes I’m not sure whether the world I currently find myself in is real. Then I strain to search for glitches that the simulation around me may have overlooked—only to eventually give up in frustration and realize, disappointed, that I’m not permitted to catch even the slightest glimpse behind the curtain.

And this despite the fact that I could swear there have been enough moments in my life when I should have slipped into eternal oblivion. Yet I’m still here—if only in the fading aftereffects of my own thoughts.

Perhaps I’m forbidden from being forgotten—by myself as well as by others. I was born in the year of dystopia, on an unremarkable winter morning somewhere in southern Germany. My mother raised me on her own, supported by her family, who soon became mine as well.

I was never particularly diligent, let alone ambitious. Instead of doing homework, I preferred to daydream and lose myself in the colorful worlds of television series, video games, and fantasy novels. After catching enough Pokémon, watching enough anime, and kissing enough girls in my small hometown, I eventually felt drawn out into the big wide world.

I found myself in Berlin, Tokyo, and New York. In London, Paris, and Rome. In China, Canada, and Turkey. Whether I was ever truly in those places, or whether all my small and great adventures took place only in my imagination, may perhaps reveal itself at the end of my journey.

At the moment, I’m roaming the streets of a mid-sized city in southwestern Japan while studying the analog and digital arts of depressed people and even more depressed robots. After searching far too long for the truth of everything within myself, I recently decided to throw myself into the unknown with open arms and allow myself to be swallowed by the countless possibilities of this planet.

Culture Isn’t a Museum

I swore to myself I’d wring every last drop of experience from this burning, breathing, chaotic place called Kumamoto. Time is a cruel lover, always ready to leave, so I decided to chase after moments like they were pills I could swallow to stay alive just a little longer. When my friend asked if I wanted to go to a classical concert with her, I said yes before my thoughts even had time to catch up.

It was one of those days where the sun painted everything gold, like the whole world had been dipped in light. We’d just eaten something amazing. Rice soft as clouds, soup that tasted like secrets passed down from grandmothers, miso clinging to the corners of our mouths like a gentle goodbye kiss.

We walked slowly, almost lazily, like the city belonged to us. Bustling sidewalks, vending machines humming like they were keeping some rhythm only locals understood, children chasing pigeons, pigeons chasing dreams. The concert hall rose up like something quite sacred. Glass, stone, elegance. Inside, it was full of families. Kids cheering, parents looking tired but kind.

Onstage, a young man played the flute like it was an extension of his body. First came classical pieces, and then, like a soft rebellion, the familiar notes of My Neighbor Totoro. The air changed. Ghibli music isn’t just music. It’s memories. It’s growing up and not realizing it. It’s wonder wrapped in bittersweet sadness.

A woman stepped forward, her voice strong, deep, and fearless. She sang with her whole body. Then a child, probably no older than twelve, took the mic and trembled out a few songs, eyes wide, voice like paper folding itself into cranes.

And then something beautiful and absurd happened. People started dancing. Singing. Laughing like they were drunk on something better than alcohol. We were all kids again.

Culture isn’t a museum. It isn’t glass cases and hushed tones. It’s loud, alive, and full of rhythm. It’s messy. It’s fun. It’s the sound of childhood slipping through a flute, turning strangers into something softer than friends. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel alone.

Bubbling Like a Fever

The city is opening up to me like a fairytale. At first, it was gray, anonymous, all edges and noise. But now it’s bleeding color—flashing signs, temple eaves glowing under dusk, vending machines humming like lullabies. Kumamoto. It wasn’t mine, not at all. But I started stealing pieces of it. Slowly.

Every time I open a new door or take a wrong turn, the city breathes a little louder. I’m beginning to hear its rhythm. Every day, something reveals itself. The blank spots in my head, those static-filled no-places—they’re finally vanishing. They become convenience stores glowing at midnight, playgrounds with rusty swings, alleys where cats stare like they know what I’m hiding.

I found people too. Accidental encounters. Strangers who became storylines who became friends. Faces, voices, footsteps beside mine. They teach me things. We walk this city like it’s a puzzle we’re trying to solve with our bodies. They show me corners I wouldn’t have dared to enter alone. We move through it, through each other, like we belong nowhere.

The city never waited for me. But somehow it lets me in. It stares back at me with curiosity, like it’s trying to figure out what kind of ghost I am. Every corner hides something either heartbreakingly old or ridiculously new. Shrines behind cafés. Salarymen passed out on benches. High schoolers eating fries like it’s a ritual.

We visited a mall the other day. Huge. Unapologetic. Floating over the train station like a spaceship made of steel and fluorescent dreams. On top of it, above the noise and sorrows, red broth was bubbling in a hot pot like a fever. Meat curling. Mushrooms blooming. Vegetables losing their color like they were giving up dreams.

The city sprawled outside the window, buildings layered like old scars. And we sat there above it all, dipping, chewing, and talking about everything and nothing. We burned our tongues and fears at the shabu-shabu place. We laughed. And we promised not to waste a moment, not to go quiet. That day felt like part of the city decided to remember us back.

Love Machines

Being in Japan feels like a dream on loop—neon syrup, dazed smiles, and a never-ending maze of misconception. I think I’m free, that I’m just wandering past Tokyo’s electric veins, Osaka’s late-night sighs, and Kyoto’s soft ghosts.

But soon, really, really soon, this particular feeling appeared out of nowhere. A tickle on the back of my neck. Not fear. Not paranoia. Something subtler. The feeling of being watched. Observed. Loved, maybe, in a machine-made way.

They’re everywhere. It doesn’t matter if I’m lost in the middle of Shibuya’s famous crossings, walking through a rain-washed mountain village where even the wind feels exalted, or just crying behind the supermarket.

It’s 2 p.m. or 4 a.m. or some haunted hour in between. In the heat of summer, in the ache of winter. Alone in a forest, or swallowed by a crowd of strangers. They always find me. The machines. Vending machines. Jidouhanbaiki.

They glow like altar fires, humming softly to themselves, full of answers I didn’t ask for. They don’t just sell drinks. That would be too easy. They whisper temptations in aluminum and plastic—icy lemon soda, scorching black coffee, milk tea with floating pearls.

But they go further. They offer me exotic fruits sealed in glossy wrapping. Used underwear, when I’m feeling lonely. Ties, raincoats, and umbrellas like forgotten lovers. They’re more than machines.

They’re quiet survivors, like junkies who got clean but never quite forgot the high. The convenience stores might be the heartbeat of Japan, but the vending machines are the blood—rushing, steady, always there. They never close. They never talk back. They offer me something warm in the cold and something cold when I’m burning.

Sometimes, they look like art. And sometimes, they are art. Metal dreams stacked with color-coded longing, waiting for me on every corner like a past version of myself who still believes in miracles. I don’t know if they’re watching me. Or if they are me. But I keep pressing buttons. And they keep giving me what I didn’t know I needed.

Memoirs of a Samurai

Kumamoto Castle rises against the sky. We stand at its base, looking up. A monument of samurai, sieges, fires. The earthquake, when the ground split open and the walls crumbled. They rebuilt it. Stone by stone, piece by piece, putting history back together. Some parts new, some parts old, all of it held together by something invisible. Effort. Memory. Time.

The air feels different here, charged with something that isn’t quite present but isn’t gone either. We walk along the stone walls, stopping where the lines blur between past and present. Some of the stones are darker, weathered, soaked with rain, with sun, with war. Others are newer, cleaner, set into place with precision and care.

Inside, the past lingers behind glass. Swords, armor, old rifles that still seem to hum with gunpowder and blood. A mask stares at us, its iron grin sharp, empty. Behind it, a face once breathed, once sweated, once fought. Now it’s just lacquer and metal, something to be looked at, something to be remembered. Names carved into plaques, letters written by hands.

Words fade, ink smudges, but the feeling stays. The smell of iron, of old paper, of wood polished smooth by time. Outside, the world is loud again. The food market is alive, thick with the smell of frying oil, of soy sauce, of something sweet drifting in the warm air. Steam rises from skewers, from bowls of noodles, from sizzling pans.

We find a small shop selling fried croquettes with minced horse meat inside. The first bite is hot, rich, and unfamiliar. The second, deeper. The third lingers, something heavy, something that doesn’t quite belong to the present. The wind shifts, carrying voices—chatter, laughter, orders being called out from behind the stalls.

But beneath it all, something else, something older. Hoofbeats in the dirt. The distant clash of metal. The low murmur of men waiting for battle. The taste of salt, of iron, of something unspoken. Night falls, and the castle glows in the dark. It stands tall again. The sky stretches wide above it, deep and endless, as if history itself could dissolve into the black.

Last Night I Dreamt of Flowers

Tokyo swallows me in its heat. The asphalt quivers, glass panes tremble. Neon lights flicker in my eyes like broken memories. I drift with the crowd, let myself be pushed, my body feverish, my head full of everything and nothing. Then I’m inside—inside the world of teamLab. Borderless—no walls, no doors, no boundaries. Only light.

Waves of color ripple across the floor, over my shoes, over my hands. The warmth of the room caresses my skin, as if the light itself had fingers. I walk on. A dark hall. Then—explosions of flowers, meadows rising from shadows, pollen drifting in slow motion. I raise my hand, and the room shifts with me. My body is a line in a poem writing itself.

I run through the rain of the artificial night, lights bursting on my tongue like candy. My reflection fractures into glassy surfaces—thousands of versions of me staring back. Girls made of light, boys made of shadows, ghosts in a city that never stands still. Someone laughs, a sound like an echo from a dream. I lie down on the floor, looking up into the nothingness, flooded with color.

No beginning, no end—only this moment. My heart beats to the rhythm of the light. I close my eyes. Tokyo whispers. And I’m weightless. I dive deeper into the colors, as if I could drown in an ocean of light. But it doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like being lost, like time has stopped chasing me.

The walls breathe, the floor pulses, and I forget myself in the movement, in the silence, in this odd dance of pixels and dust. Everything is near and distant at once, like the sound of a song I’ve never heard but somehow remember. Every step reshapes the world around me, painting a new image onto the canvas of space.

A flower blooms beneath my feet, and in its petals, I see myself—fractured yet whole, shifting through all my contradictions. I turn in circles. Colors weave and unwind, vanish only to return. The light makes my thoughts flicker, my heart jumps to the beat of a melody only space knows. It’s a dream that never ends. Or maybe it’s the moment I finally wake up.

One Night in Ikebukuro

If I want to experience Japan at its most exuberant, I must venture into the heart of Tokyo after sunset. Ikebukuro is the Sodom and Gomorrah of this East Asian island. Here, night after night, the pent-up energy of identical-suited salary men is unleashed in its fullest.

In the countless bars and restaurants of this neighborhood—renowned far beyond Japan’s borders thanks to films, novels, and video games—people eat, drink, and penetrate each other until the first subway train runs again in the early morning.

Ikebukuro is a place of love—whether real, fake, or simply for sale. Anyone left alone in the glow of the colorful billboards must be doing something seriously wrong.

Ikebukuro never sleeps. A district of electricity and nicotine, cheap cocktails, and burnt-out light bulbs, trapped between the wings of the Yamanote Line. The neon lights twitch like frayed nerves on the brink of collapse. Pachinko balls rain against metal walls, the city breathes fast and greedy, like someone who has smoked too many cigarettes yet still craves another.

I wander through the streets, my eyes half-closed, half-awake. The air smells of ramen, of unspoken words, of hot plastic and the dreams of those who seek refuge here. Girls with gum-sticky lips linger outside love hotels. Boys in cheap suits lean against walls, waiting for something that may never come.

In Sunshine City, the entire town is reflected in the glass facades. There is a point up there from which I can see everything: The chaos, the glimmer, the people losing themselves. Stay, the city whispers. Here, I can be anything—a ghost, a shadow, a song that never stops playing. Ikebukuro is an ember that never burns out.

I dance through the light, lose myself in the shadows, and observe the mayhem. The city murmurs stories in my ear—tales of broken promises and nights that never wanted to end. Somewhere behind the flickering signs and steaming food stalls lies another life. But my feet remain stuck here, as if the asphalt had long since decided that I should never leave.

Life’s a Bowl of Ramen

One of the favorite pastimes of people here in Kyushu is asking me about my favorite Japanese food. My answer depends on the day, but I usually say ramen. And no, I don’t mean the cheap instant kind you find in supermarkets. I mean real ramen—made with real ingredients. The kind you find in a tiny restaurant tucked away in some unknown back alley.

Nothing revives me more at night than a hot, steaming bowl of soup filled with noodles, meat, vegetables, mushrooms, and a soft-boiled egg. And because I spent years addicted to Sriracha and thoroughly destroyed my taste buds, I pile on as much chili powder and fresh garlic as the Japanese immigration authorities will allow.

Getting into ramen is like diving into a rabbit hole of broths, noodle varieties, and regional specialties. Originally, wheat noodle soup came from China, but in the early 20th century, Japan adopted it and made it their own. After World War II, when wheat imports from the U.S. increased, ramen became a staple. Today, every region has its own version.

Some shops simmer their broth for over 24 hours to achieve the perfect flavor. Others focus on experimental fusion creations—something that fascinates me as much as the food itself. I’ve tried quite a few bowls of ramen, and despite all the variations, one truth remains: A good bowl of ramen always feels like coming home.

On my trip to Fukuoka, I couldn’t miss the chance to try the city’s most famous dish—one that’s beloved far beyond Japan’s borders: Tonkotsu ramen. This broth is the opposite of subtle—thick, smooth, and packed with umami. The secret? Pork bones simmered for hours until they break down, infusing the soup with that unmistakable milky richness.

The noodles are thinner than in other types of ramen, allowing them to absorb the heavy broth. It’s served with tender pork belly, fresh spring onions, and a creamy egg. If you know what you’re doing, you order a noodle refill. My sensei and I certainly did enjoy it at 大砲ラーメン. Tonkotsu ramen isn’t just a dish—it’s an addiction.

Fonts Turn Words Into Stories

I adore good typography. The bigger, bolder, and more brutal it is, the more I fall in love with it. Whether classically placed on a snow-white background or chaotically scattered across colorful illustrations, typography is truly effective only when it snaps people out of their wandering thoughts the moment they see it.

As British artist Mark Boulton aptly observed: Most people think typography is about fonts. Most designers think typography is about fonts. Typography is more than that, it’s expressing language through type. Placement, composition, typechoice. And as part of our ongoing design studies, we took a trip to Fukuoka to visit an annual typography exhibition.

Nestled on the northern shore of Japan’s beautiful Kyushu Island, Fukuoka is a vibrant city where tradition and modernity blend seamlessly. Known for its welcoming atmosphere, it’s a haven for food lovers, with steaming bowls of Hakata ramen served at bustling yatai street stalls.

Beyond its culinary delights, Fukuoka boasts serene temples like the iconic Kushida Shrine, sandy beaches, and a quite thriving art scene. With walkable streets, sleek shopping districts, and a reputation for being one of Japan’s most livable cities, Fukuoka offers curious visitors like us a chance to experience Japanese renowned warmth and innovation, all wrapped in an irresistible coastal charm.

The exhibition itself was a vibrant exploration of Asian and Western typography created by students and masters alike. Whether featured in books, on posters, or even online, the famous Japanese dedication to perfection was evident in every single project.

Personally, I was especially drawn to works that made bold use of hiragana, katakana, and kanji, creating a modern form of calligraphy that made my Japanophile heart beat faster. After viewing the exhibition, we had the freedom to explore Fukuoka on our own. We first hopped on a bus to the city center, treated ourselves to a bowl of hot ramen, and then wandered through the streets to soak in more of this enchanting city.

To the Lighthouse

The lanterns outside 老之倉庫 glowed with a soft, amber light, cutting through the early evening haze like scattered fireflies. It was the kind of place you’d pass a hundred times without noticing until someone told you it was worth stepping inside. That someone, in my case, was a group of classmates from Sojo University.

After the school festival, they had decided we should celebrate here. Inside, the air was warm, alive with the hum of conversation and the low, melodic clinking of glasses. The aroma of hops blended with the scent of food. I found myself at a long table, surrounded by faces that were both familiar and foreign, a constellation of new friendships still forming.

You don’t drink? someone asked, their tone more curious than judgmental. No, but I’m here for the company. This answer seemed to satisfy them, and soon the table’s attention turned back to ordering. Golden drafts arrived, frothy and luminous, like small suns. I watched as my friends lifted their glasses in a toast, their voices rising together in a symphony of celebration. Kanpai!

It wasn’t the beer that mattered. It was the act of sharing, of weaving ourselves into the rhythm of the evening. My oolong tea’s earthy bitterness grounded me, a counterpoint to the effervescence of the room. As I sipped, I thought about how people often seek connection through what they consume.

The conversation ebbed and flowed. Stories about the festival, plans for the weekend, fragments of dreams shared in halting English and Japanese. Outside, the city exhaled softly, the sounds of distant cars and bicycles slipping through the cracks of the night. By the time we left, the lanterns had grown brighter, their glow pooling on the cobblestones like liquid amber.

I felt lighter somehow, not because of what I had drunk but because of the time spent together, the threads of connection woven tighter. As we slowly walked to one of Kumamoto’s karaoke clubs, I realized that Ichinosoko wasn’t just a place to drink, it was a place to belong, even if only for an evening.

The School Festival

Over the weekend, my Japanese university transformed into a vibrant school festival. Students from all faculties buzzed around the campus like busy bees, setting up tents, stages, and stalls, and filling them with life, color, and energy.

There was an abundance of food, drinks, games, performances, raffles, and competitions—including a show by a somewhat famous idol from Tokyo, whose appearance drew an enthusiastic crowd. The spectacle concluded with a dazzling fireworks display that lit up the night sky.

Afterward, we gathered at an izakaya downtown for the final celebration, where we laughed, reminisced, and spent our hard-earned money on very delicious food and drinks.

Our group ran a stall at the festival, selling Sri Lankan delicacies like fried noodles with meat. My first day began at the archery clubhouse on the outskirts of campus, where we worked together to prepare the ingredients—carefully cutting meat and vegetables into bite-sized and pan-ready portions.

Once everything was ready, we transported it to our stall, where the ingredients were fried to perfection, packed into transparent boxes, and enthusiastically advertised to passing festival-goers.

Meanwhile, students from other courses were equally busy, offering sweet waffles, hot yakitori, fresh coffee, and an assortment of games like goldfish catching, ring tossing, and a lively lottery.

Gamers showcased their skills in intense Super Smash Bros. matches, flexed their strength in arm wrestling contests, and danced with boundless energy to popular K-pop hits.

As the festival neared its end, the main stage transformed into the site of an exciting raffle. Visitors who had diligently collected stamp marks at various food and game stalls over the two days eagerly awaited their chance to win fantastic prizes like AirPods, smartwatches, and even a Nintendo Switch.

Our reward was simpler yet equally satisfying: Feasting on leftover food, savoring the beauty of the fireworks display, and, to top it all off, visiting an izakaya and singing our hearts out at karaoke in the city center.

At the Soy Sauce Brewery

The water reached two meters, Sodai Iwanaga recounted, gesturing toward the flood lines that once submerged his hometown of Ashikita, in Kumamoto Prefecture. In 2020, torrential rains devastated Kyushu, leaving 77 dead and two missing. Among those affected was the Iwanaga family, proud soy sauce producers now in their fifth generation.

Despite the devastation, the Iwanagas never considered abandoning the business, founded in 1909. Instead, they turned to crowdfunding, raising nearly $90,000 from almost 1,000 supporters. Messages of encouragement poured in, including one that read, Our dining table has never been without a bottle of Iwanaga soy sauce.

We visited the Iwanagas’ brewery as part of our graphic design course at Sojo University. Located in Ashikita, a serene town in the southern part of Kumamoto near the west coast, the small factory is renowned for its high-quality local products. Soy sauces, vinegars, and miso pastes are crafted here with remarkable care and passion, embodying generations of tradition and dedication.

As very creative design students, however, our interest extended far beyond the flavors and meticulous production methods. While we were deeply moved by the tales of resilience in the face of a devastating natural disaster, our focus was more on the visual language of their high quality products.

The scars of the disaster remain visible across Ashikita, from damaged homes to fragments of daily life unearthed at mudslide sites. Yet, resilience and determination define the community’s spirit. Residents have worked tirelessly to rebuild, even as memories of the destruction linger.

Shattered neighborhoods are finding new life, and local traditions, like soy sauce brewing, have emerged as symbols of perseverance. The Iwanagas’ approach not only preserves tradition but also captures the essence of Ashikita’s spirit, creating products that tell a story beyond their taste or texture. It’s a testament to the strength of a town determined to rebuild itself, one bottle of soy sauce at a time.

Day at the Museum

Few places in the world exude a more peaceful aura than museums and galleries—though perhaps supermarkets at 4 o’clock in the morning come close. These sanctuaries of natural wonders, historical milestones, and cultural achievements stand apart from the chaotic events of the outside world.

Those who step inside join an exclusive clientele, people who have deliberately chosen to immerse themselves in what they hope is an inspiring parallel universe. Within these walls, time seems to pause, encouraging visitors to leave with the aspiration of making the world a little better—or at least not worse. A friend and I recently visited the Contemporary Art Museum here in Kumamoto.

Situated in the heart of the city, this museum is far more than a repository of art—it is a symbol of Kumamoto’s commitment to inclusivity, creativity, and forward-thinking ideals. Its mission is clear: To foster a tolerant city that embraces diversity and to inspire a future where every citizen can live a fulfilling, art-enriched life.

The museum’s vision is built upon three core principles: offering a welcoming space for cultural exploration, stirring deep emotional connections through art, and collaborating with the community to envision a brighter future for the city. This is a place of reflection, imagination, and shared inspiration—a space where the lively spirit of Kumamoto is celebrated.

The exhibitions we explored at the Contemporary Art Museum in Kumamoto ranged from thought-provoking Japanese paintings to intimate photography and interactive installations, each one a visually stunning testament to the museum’s dedication to showcasing a rich tapestry of creative expression. By the end of our visit, we even had the chance to become part of a colorful, participatory work of art.

Kumamoto deeply values culture, and the Contemporary Art Museum is just the beginning of my journey. There are countless museums, galleries, and exhibitions waiting for me to discover, each promising its own unique contribution to the city’s vibrant artistic landscape.

Gotta Catch ‘Em All

There’s always something interesting happening in the center of Kumamoto. On my way to the city’s downtown museum with a friend to check out a few free public exhibitions on a special open day, we stumbled upon a toy swap meet in front of a popular shopping center—and the runtish crowd that came with it.

This colorful event didn’t catch us entirely off guard, as our art teachers had not only warned us in advance but also handed us a few action figures to trade. So, before immersing ourselves in the world of paintings, photography, and installations, we took a deep breath and dove into the exciting universe of bright plastic toys, cute plush animals, and shiny trading cards.

As with most things here in Japan, the swap meet also had some kind of system. At one stand, we could exchange our action figures for points, which we then used to buy toys displayed on the other tables. The more valuable the product, the more points it cost—simple enough. Wandering through mountains of Far Eastern playthings, we picked out a few favorites.

I chose a small book about Japanese ghost figures, which fit perfectly with my participation in the yokai drawing competition. I was quite thrilled with my find, though we didn’t have enough points for much else. What we weren’t prepared for was the grand finale waiting for us at the very end of the amusing event.

The climatic highlight of the swap meet was an auction, where children, parents, and some random nerds like me could bid their leftover points on especially valuable toys. The selection included everything from Pokémon plushies to musical instruments and brightly wrapped plastic sculptures, the purpose of which I still can’t fathom.

While I spent just two small points on my cute book, the little monsters around us were screaming bids in the triple digits just to take home a goofy-looking sheep. Some kids cried. After witnessing this lively social and cultural spectacle, we finally made our way to the museum. Admission was eventually free on that very day, after all. Hurray!

Draw Me Like One of Your Yokai

I recently joined a drawing class here at my university in Kumamoto. After learning the fundamentals of Japanese painting over the past few weeks, it’s now time to put that knowledge into practice.

Most of the works my diligent fellow students create, sometimes after months of effort, are entered into various competitions, primarily national ones, offering not only fame and honor but sometimes even monetary rewards or other prizes.

Following the well-known saying, When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I’ve decided to participate in a competition as well. And I’ve really found a good one: The sunny island of Shodoshima is hosting a drawing competition with a focus on yokai.

Yokai are supernatural creatures, spirits, or beings from Japanese folklore, embodying a wide range of traits from mischievous and playful to malevolent and terrifying. They often reflect cultural beliefs, natural phenomena, or moral lessons.

Famous examples include Kappa, water-dwelling creatures known for their fondness for cucumbers and cunning tricks, Kitsune, fox spirits associated with intelligence and shapeshifting, and Tengu, bird-like beings often depicted as mountain protectors and skilled martial artists.

Yokai are deeply rooted in Japanese culture, often appearing in famous myths, art, and even way more modern media like anime, manga, and video games.

The required canvas size is manageable enough to give beginners like me a fair chance. My teachers kindly provided books on yokai and encouraged me to gather inspiration, develop ideas, and start sketching.

I now have just under a month to complete the painting, which includes preparing the canvas and producing the necessary paints, colors, and glue. I’m very glad that my fellow students are also there to help me.

If I win, I’ll not only receive money and a special artifact but also be part of a ceremony on the beautiful island of Shodoshima. Wish me luck as I compete against master’s students, amateur artists, and professional painters. How hard could it be, am I right you guys?

Ghosts in the City

A few years ago, I snuck out of the house on Halloween night and wandered through my dark, foggy, and eerily deserted hometown. With a scary story by ghost hunter John Sinclair playing in my ear, this one about a brothel haunted by vampires, it felt like the perfect entertainment for such a spooky night.

The atmosphere was electrifying, the kind of mystery that sends shivers down your spine in the best possible way. The only person I encountered that evening was a long-haired bottle collector making his rounds through the dense fog, his silhouette occasionally flickering into view before vanishing again. Every second of that enigmatic Halloween was unforgettable.

Since that night, I’ve developed a deep fondness for exploring the streets of whichever city I find myself in during Halloween. This year, as I’m living in Japan, I made it a priority to continue my quiet tradition here. My daily route often winds around the castle park, past residential buildings, shops, and Kumamoto’s always-vibrant downtown.

Around Halloween, this area transforms into a lively spectacle, with the market square near the popular bus station bursting with food stalls, shops, and a small but lively stage. In the heart of the square, a mix of cute witches, playful ghosts, and furries scurried about, juggling pizza slices, Coca-Cola bottles, and shopping bags.

On stage, children were applauded for their creative costumes. One memorable highlight was a little girl dressed as Sailor Moon, confidently shouting into the microphone with such enthusiasm that it took a gentle intervention to end her impromptu performance.

Halloween has always held a special place in my heart, but celebrating it in a city where others embrace it with equal fervor elevates the experience to another level. There’s a unique magic in blending my reflective tradition of wandering with the vibrant communal energy of a place like Kumamoto. The streets, the costumes, the laughter, and the shared love for all things spooky—this is Halloween at its finest.

Trick or Treat

My Japanese exchange university regularly organizes events on special occasions to bring Japanese and international students together. These include excursions to fascinating places around Kumamoto, like bridges, breweries, and golden One Piece statues, several competitions to improve participants’ English language skills, and farraginous festivities celebrating special cultural holidays.

Halloween, with its colorful disguises, mysterious customs, and sweet treats, sometimes scary, sometimes not, is no exception. The Japanese people here on the island of Kyushu embrace this day enthusiastically, and Sojo University has made its own contribution to this modern tradition.

On the spookiest day of the year, I was invited to a cozy Halloween party hosted by my university at its International Learning Center. The event featured an abundance of Japanese snacks and drinks—many of which were still completely unfamiliar to me. Students and lecturers dressed up as dinosaurs, witches, and bloody knife-wielding murderers, creating a festive atmosphere.

I had interesting conversations with new people, which made the evening even more enjoyable. My costume? Gru from Despicable Me, of course. Despite my immeasurable efforts, I couldn’t secure first prize in the costume competition. Too bad! But I’m not a sore loser—most of the time, at least.

Halloween has become one of my favorite days of the year. Growing up in Germany in the 1980s and 1990s, I only experienced it as it slowly began to gain popularity in Europe.

Unfortunately, by the time German kids started trick-or-treating, I was already a little too old for it. My childhood Halloween tradition was limited to watching The Simpsons Halloween specials on TV while snacking on skull-shaped chocolates.

This year, I’m thrilled to celebrate Halloween in Japan, a country where the fascination with ghosts, spirits, and yokai is deeply ingrained in the culture. It’s been an unforgettable experience to embrace the spooky season in such a unique and meaningful way.

Street by Street

My life here in Kumamoto primarily revolves around three main places: My home, where I mostly just sleep, work, and do laundry. My university, where I rush from one lecture to the next. And downtown, where I spend most of my free time.

Whether it’s stopping by the city hall or the post office, parting with my more or less hard-earned money in various stores, or meeting friends in cafés, restaurants, or at karaoke, the true spirit of Kumamoto thrives in the streets of its bustling city center.

It’s a lively area filled with all kinds of attractive, wondrous, and colorful establishments, and I try to visit it as often as I can, because luckily it’s only a stone’s throw from my apartment.

Kumamoto’s downtown, located directly below the famous and beautiful city castle, is centered around three covered arcades that are vibrant day and night: Kamitori, Shimotori, and Shinshigai.

These streets are lined with restaurants, drugstores, cafés, cinemas, museums, bars, konbini, bakeries, florists, hotels, and an array of small and large retailers, as well as several shopping centers.

I’ve made it my personal mission to visit as many of these places as possible during my time here and keep trying new things. After all, I don’t want to look back in the future and regret wasting this unique opportunity. While I’m here, I want to make the most of it. At least, that’s the plan.

Of course, this is easier said than done. For example, I’ve yet to visit some restaurants because I can’t figure out how to use the ticket machines, which only display Japanese characters.

That’s why I’m always grateful when friends join me, patiently explaining everything so I can press the correct buttons and handle things on my own next time. Hopefully, my Japanese will improve gradually—who knows?

While Kumamoto might not be the first city that comes to mind for tourists visiting Japan, I’m glad to have landed here. It’s an exciting city full of interesting places and nice people. Bit by bit, I’m exploring all of its charms, and it’s been a vastly rewarding adventure so far.

Barbecue and Fireworks

The Land of the Rising Sun is not only renowned for its, let’s call it, alternative entertainment industry but also its breathtaking fireworks festivals. And one of the most stunning takes place every October in southern Kyushu, in the town of Yatsushiro in beautiful Kumamoto Prefecture.

This vibrant spectacle showcases Japan’s finest light and sound artistry, with unparalleled effects created by the country’s leading pyrotechnicians—or at least, that’s how it was advertised to potential visitors.

Intrigued, I took a crowded local train to Yatsushiro with a couple of friends, where we not only admired the dazzling night sky displays but also savored a delightful evening barbecue.

At the cozy barbecue in a local parking lot on the outskirts of Yatsushiro, nestled in a quiet neighborhood, we indulged in an array of delicious Japanese fried delicacies, sweet and salty snacks, and, for those so inclined, an abundance of cold and fruity beer-mix drinks.

During the evening, we struck up a conversation with a possibly tipsy gentleman who claimed to be a famous voice actor from Tokyo. He enthusiastically told us he had starred in iconic robot anime like Gundam. I found this really fascinating and had a pleasant chat with him, but eventually, my friends politely yet firmly ushered him on his way. Bye-bye, Ojisan, I said with a mix of amusement and relief.

The fireworks competition began at nightfall and had a Disney theme. Whether it was The Lion King, Frozen, or Aladdin, each display featured classic animation-inspired scenes, paired with matching music and spectacular explosions in every color imaginable.

Standing there, on the outskirts of a, at least to me, unknown Japanese city, surrounded by wonderful people, delicious food, and a stunning hanabi show, filled me with joy. I couldn’t stop smiling—even while waiting in the long queue at the overcrowded small train station or enduring the, let’s say, cozy ride home a couple of hours later. And I simply can’t wait to experience all the amazing more things Japan has to offer.

The Otaku Dungeon

I realized very early on that Japanese entertainment is far superior to its Western counterpart. As a small child, German television introduced me to series like Maya the Bee, Vicky the Viking, and Heidi, which were far more heartfelt, emotional, and exciting than anything Disney and its contemporaries offered.

Of course, I loved normal cartoons too, but when East Asian classics such as Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and One Piece finally arrived in Central Europe a few years later, I found myself craving everything from the Land of the Rising Sun. I devoured anime magazines, bought shonen manga anthologies, and spent my pocket money on Japanese music CDs. An otaku was born.

When you think of otaku paradise, Akihabara, Tokyo’s Electric Town, naturally comes to mind. It’s a haven for every nerdy heart, offering everything from anime and manga to provocative figurines. However, my personal favorite store is on the other side of the city, nestled in the heart of Shibuya. The Mandarake there is somewhat hidden between a ramen restaurant and a guitar shop.

Descending the stairs into this underground otaku dungeon, I suddenly find myself surrounded by everything I truly love. The aisles overflow with movies, comics, trading cards, figurines, CDs, video games, consoles, magazines, drawing supplies, hentai, and all sorts of quirky odds and ends.

Whether it’s iconic series like Pokémon, Astro Boy, and Neon Genesis Evangelion or hidden gems like Excel Saga, Genshiken, and Eden of the East, Mandarake offers such a vast and wonderfully obscure selection that I could easily spend my life savings here—and still only scratch the surface.

The real obstacle, however, is that I’m broke. Sometimes, I wish I were obsessed enough with one series to want every piece of merchandise available. But because I have an eclectic taste and like a bit of everything, I usually find satisfaction in simply wandering through the labyrinthine aisles, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere, and drawing inspiration from the colorful characters around me.

Let’s Make Curry

At Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I am, as you all know by know, spending a semester abroad, a two-day festival with all the trimmings is set to take place in just a few weeks. All the faculties will participate, putting on a vibrant showcase of activities. At least, that’s the plan.

The festival will feature numerous food and game stalls, a large stage with various performances, and a spectacular fireworks display. There’s even a special guest—a pop idol from Tokyo. I imagine the whole thing will feel like one of those heartwarming anime episodes where the entire school plans a festival, only for the city to be attacked by ugly alien monsters—or something along those lines.

Recently, I joined a fun and vibrant group called Sojo Buddies—a lively mix of Japanese and international students from various faculties at Sojo University. The witty group organizes exciting events in Kumamoto and beyond, plans excursions to interesting places, and occasionally meets for meals at delicious restaurants.

Since good food brings people together, we’ve decided to run a food stall at the festival, serving spicy curry and other delicacies inspired by Sri Lankan cuisine. To ensure we know what we’re doing, and to avoid making fools of ourselves at the festival, we held a group cooking session, followed by a very essential taste test—and it was a complete success.

Cooking with such an amusing group was a nice experience, even though my main contribution was aggressively breaking pasta into small pieces—just as the recipe we received instructed. In the end, we were all quite pleased with the result. I got to meet many new people, and we capped off the evening by watching a live broadcast of a local basketball team’s match.

We’re more or less confident our food stall will be a gigantic hit at the upcoming festival, and the more money we raise, the grander our after-show party at some izakaya will be. Now, we eagerly await the festival at Sojo University. Hopefully, no ugly alien monsters will decide to attack our city in the meantime.

Shake It Off

Japan is not only known for its eye-catching fashion, delicious food, and captivating animation art but also for its frequent earthquakes of varying severity, a consequence of its geographical location. Ever since the Great Kanto Earthquake in the year 1923 and, more recently, the Tohoku Earthquake in the year 2011, both the inhabitants of this East Asian island and visitors alike have been acutely aware of the ever-present danger simmering beneath their feet.

Even the city of Kumamoto, where I am currently staying, experienced devastating earthquakes in the year 2016, which not only destroyed a bunch of city districts but also its famous landmark: The Kumamoto Castle.

As a recent resident of Kumamoto City, I felt compelled to, and also had to, attend a disaster preparedness seminar. Together with a few friends, I fulfilled this obligation at the first available opportunity. We visited a local fire station, where we learned how to act in the event of an impending disaster.

The seminar included an engaging video, hands-on simulations involving the four elements, fire, water, wind, and earth, and a Q&A session with the quite dedicated course instructor. After this experience, I feel confident in my ability to pull through should the worst occur. That said, perhaps I should also attend a seminar on surviving a zombie apocalypse—just to be fully prepared.

One key takeaway from the seminar was the importance of having a emergency bag. What should it include? A flashlight, a portable radio, a helmet, a protective hood, work gloves, a blanket, batteries, a lighter, candles, water, food, instant noodles, a can opener, a knife, clothing, cash, and a first-aid kit.

Having gained some expertise in disaster preparedness, I even found myself featured on Japanese television, sharing my thoughts on this crucial topic. Although I’ve grown accustomed to the frequent, minor tremors here, the specter of the legendary Nankai megathrust earthquake looms large in everyone’s mind. But I wouldn’t mind if it held off for a while longer…

Autumn Flower

The sweltering heat of summer is giving way to a cool breeze. Trees begin to change color, and the fields gradually empty. In the supermarket, the fresh harvest awaits eager shoppers. These days, I love strolling through the streets of my new city, searching for unexplored paths—whether in the heart of bustling downtown or along the quiet outskirts of the suburbs.

Sometimes, I encounter a lazy cat basking in the sun, other times, I hop over small streams or stumble upon a hidden café, shrine, or candy store. Kumamoto feels like a treasure chest, waiting to be discovered. Lucy Maud Montgomery once wrote: I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. I feel you, sister.

To hone our creative skills, the Japanese Arts Masters Club, of which I have recently become a member, organized a cozy walk to a nearby field with a small river meandering through it. Surrounded by rolling mountains and lush green trees, the area felt like a slice of paradise.

The vibrant Red Spider Lily, also known as the Autumn Flower and beloved in Japan, blooms here—its striking petals making it an ideal subject for sketching. We carefully selected a few of the prettiest specimens, unearthed them gently with their roots still intact, and brought them back to our classroom in small containers. There, the beautiful plants immediately became our models for drawing.

Armed with knives-sharpened pencils, soft watercolors, and a specific style in my mind, I set out to immortalize one of the flowers on thick paper. The result exceeded my expectations, giving me confidence that I might soon be ready to attempt my first painting in the style of traditional Japanese art.

I haven’t decided yet on the motif for this creative milestone, but several ideas are already taking shape. I’ve even crafted my first small canvas—it’s waiting to be brought to life. But all in due time. Everything at its own pace. Because that’s one of the things I’ve already learnt here in my time in Japan: Good things take time—and it’s very important to always keep this in mind.

The Art of Cheap Eating

Japan is not just the land of the rising sun and smiles—it’s also a nation of endless culinary delights. Sushi, ramen, sashimi… If you travel to this easternmost corner of the world hoping to shed a few pounds thanks to fresh fish and smaller portions, you may find yourself instead in a land of milk and honey teeming with a thousand delectable treats.

I embarked on an extensive, and extremely delicious, food journey to sample the country’s varied cuisine and step outside the proverbial box, discovering lesser-known delicacies that are especially rare in the West. Or in other words: I try to eat as much different Japanese food as possible while I’m here. Because it’s simply the best.

The result? A vibrant potpourri of Japanese delights that regularly fills my mouth. Whether dining in cheap fast-food joints, upscale restaurants, or cozy bars, my palate and I indulge at every opportunity. Tempura, yakitori, okonomiyaki—nothing is left undiscovered or untasted during my trip to this gastronomic wonderland.

However, there’s one small catch: Japan isn’t exactly known for being a budget-friendly country, especially when it comes to food. Anyone who has stepped into a random Japanese supermarket and seen the absurd prices of perfectly polished apples, bananas, and watermelons knows exactly what I mean. Unfortunately, my wallet isn’t bottomless—yet.

So, how do I survive as a broke-ass student in a nation of overpriced food? Do I subsist on instant ramen, dreaming of biting into a juicy piece of karaage? Thankfully, no. The secret to enjoying delicious food without going broke lies in patience—and in waiting for the legendary man with the stickers.

Every night, this supermarket savior appears, wandering the aisles of bentos, sushi, and pizzas, affixing small discount badges that slash prices in half. Moments later, a ravenous mob descends upon these bargains—and if you’re quick enough, you can snag yourself a cheap and tasty dinner. Congratulations, you’ve mastered the formidable art of dining in Japan on a very tight budget!

Painting Is Poetry

When I showed the last art teacher who had to put up with me my sketches of naked bodies, which I had more or less painstakingly created in the months prior, he said to me, and I am not exaggerating here, that they were the worst works he had ever seen. In. His. Entire. Life. This man certainly knew no mercy.

But not only was he right, his words also confirmed something I had long suspected: I was better suited for digital art than analog art. I even resigned myself to the likelihood of failing his course due to my lack of talent, a fate only avoided when a tipsy fellow student intervened. She sent him a borderline humorous email, miraculously persuading him to let me pass.

Thanks to this pivotal experience, I would have given up the marvelous craft of pen and paper forever if I hadn’t met two inspiring girls in Japan who invited me to drop by their art club. I tried to explain my complete lack of drawing skills, but before I knew it, I was standing in a room filled with paints, brushes, and canvases.

The teachers, bustling around the space, promptly handed me pens, sketch pads, and art books, urging me to create my first painting. I met other nice students, drank some black coffee, and, almost by accident, became part of the Japanese Arts Masters Club. It all happened so quickly and I’m not quite sure if I’ll fit in here. But it can’t hurt to try it out, right?

My first tasks are to study the basics of Japanese drawing and to learn how to create my own art utensils. Once I’ve accomplished that, I’ll start sketching plants and eventually choose a motif to bring to life on paper. With this, nothing stands in the way of my new career as a painter.

Soon, my masterpieces will adorn the walls of the world’s greatest galleries, hanging proudly alongside Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and Salvador Dalí. Visitors will marvel at my creations, shed tears of awe, and collapse with joy. And to think, all of this began with joining the art club. Or, as the modern Japanese mangaka Imigimuru aptly put it: This art club has a problem! And that problem… is me.

Design Is Everything

The other day, I asked myself whether I had ever consciously decided to become a designer. The answer was a perplexed shake of the head from one of the little men that haunt my mind. Like much of my life, it was more by chance than sheer will to succeed that I found myself on the path of those who make a living from creative work—or at least try to.

Did I have the potential to choose alternative career paths? Perhaps. Did I make use of it? No. Why not? Maybe because I’ve always been more comfortable with subjectivity than objectivity. Does that mean I’m swimming in money, with my art hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York? Yes, no, maybe? Hello? Hello?!

If it weren’t for my almost success-allergic life decisions, I wouldn’t be where I am today: The Department of Design at Japan’s Sojo University in Kumamoto. Not far from the main campus, creative minds, and also me, work under one roof with art students on illustrations, advertising campaigns, products, typography, sculptures, 3D and app design, interfaces, and paintings in every shape and color.

This is where I’ll spend most of my time in Japan, trying to channel as much visionary power as possible into my work so that I don’t feel too out of place when it comes time to present my results alongside my fellow students in the University’s very own art gallery in downtown.

We learn to see the world through fresh eyes, engaging all five senses to explore and create. By paying attention to the everyday, we uncover new perspectives and develop unique ways of expressing ideas. Through trial and error, we shape our creativity, finding inspiration in the ordinary and transforming it into the extraordinary.

This is a place to grow at our own pace, driven by curiosity and a love for discovery. I’m excited to see how much I can learn from this environment and how well I can complement my skills with impressions from a different world. Perhaps this journey will shape me into a designer whose work might one day hang in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

Reborn as a Student at a Japanese University

Guess who is now officially enrolled at Sojo University in the beautiful city of Kumamoto? That’s right—this guy. Founded shortly after the Second World War, the academy evolved from a technical high school and now offers courses in art, architecture, and various sciences.

I ended up at the famous Faculty of Design, where they teach graphic, illustration, typography, photography, video, and 3D, among other subjects. Since I need to earn a minimum number of credits to complete my semester abroad and have no idea what to expect from the lectures, I’ve enrolled in nearly all the courses offered to me. I’ll narrow them down in a couple of weeks based on what I enjoy most.

Sojo University boasts a konbini, several canteens, and even its own hairdresser. There’s also an international learning center where students from around the world can interact with each other and with Japanese classmates.

My first day here felt like stepping into one of those generic school animes. Curious people bustled everywhere, J-pop played in the cafeteria, and inspiring posters covered in kanji adorned the walls.

Interestingly, I am the only exchange student in my faculty. All my lectures are in Japanese, but the professors and students go out of their way to communicate with me through ambitious English, animated hand gestures, and a variety of translation apps.

Initially, I was quite worried about fitting in here. I’m twice the age of most other students, don’t speak their language at all, and only know the Japanese school system from fantastic tales where usually something supernatural happens in the first chapter.

However, my fears have not materialized. The initial shyness of my classmates quickly faded. They either find me personally, or at least the country I come from, fascinating. They’re eager to show me everything they think I’ll find new and exciting and help me navigate the social, organizational, and, especially, communication challenges of my exotic life in Japan. I believe I’ll have a great time at Sojo University—or at least I hope so.

A New Language, a New Life

As I prepare to spend the foreseeable future in Japan and am passionate about the culture of the Land of the Rising Sun, it feels only natural to learn the language. And where better to embark on this journey, one I hope will ultimately broaden my intellectual horizons, than in the heart of Japan? Exactly.

With that in mind, I visited the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Library in the vibrant international district of Roppongi. Armed with textbooks, a notepad, and a pen, I began learning my third language after German and English, immersing myself in a world I had chosen for myself. As Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote: The limits of my language mean the limits of my world. Amen, brother.

To make this process both efficient and enjoyable, I decided to invest in the みんなの日本語 textbooks, purchased from the 書泉ブックタワー in Akihabara.

This set of books has been an invaluable resource, guiding me through the intricacies of Japanese: learning the hiragana, katakana, and kanji scripts, expanding my vocabulary, mastering grammar, and picking up useful phrases for everyday life.

Like any ambitious student of Japanese, my journey begins with the first alphabet: Hiragana. The word literally means flowing or simple kana, making it the counterpart to the more complex kanji, which no human in the world truly masters because they’re so difficult to learn.

Hiragana and katakana are both kana systems, and with a few exceptions, each mora in the Japanese language is represented by a character or digraph in these sets. Translating words from the Latin alphabet into hiragana is relatively straightforward—I just have to follow the character table consistently.

However, two challenges arise: Navigating tricky rules and knowing when certain words are transliterated not into hiragana but into the more Western-oriented katakana. Mastering hiragana is the easiest hurdle on this linguistic adventure. Once I tackle my first kanji, I’ll look back at the simplicity of hiragana with nostalgia. But let’s not dwell on that future just yet.

City of Bears

Welcome to Kumamoto, a city nestled in the westernmost part of Japan on the beautiful island of Kyushu. Known as the City of Bears, this charming locale will be my cozy home for the next six months as I embark on my exciting semester abroad at the Faculty of Design at the private and prestigious Sojo University.

Here, I hope to refine my skills in typography, illustration, and computer graphics—though, of course, I sometimes wonder if there’s much left to improve. Waiting for laughs. I’m staying in a dormitory with other exchange students from around the world, about twenty minutes from the university’s main campus and another ten minutes from the creative art campus.

From my apartment, located in the higher part of the city, I can see the iconic Kumamoto Castle. Renowned far beyond Japan’s borders, the building sits majestically atop a hill, surrounded by a lush green park and beautifully illuminated with colorful lights in the evenings.

At the heart of Kumamoto lies the lively downtown area, anchored by the Kamitori and Shimotori shopping streets. These bustling arcades are lined with cafés, konbini, book stores, museums, karaoke spots, bars, restaurants, bathhouses, cinemas, boutiques, izakaya, barbers, teahouses, galleries, and countless other shops. Whether it’s day or night, there’s always something thrilling happening in the city center.

I can’t wait to spend the next months exploring its many offerings and getting to know its vibrant culture. Upon arriving in Kumamoto, I couldn’t help but feel like I had stepped into my own Persona adventure.

Much like the game’s protagonists, I find myself in a foreign Japanese city, at a new school, and with a few months to navigate unfamiliar surroundings, forge friendships, and soak up as much as I can—though saving the world might be a stretch.

I’m determined to make the most of this incredible opportunity, collecting unforgettable memories and experiences along the way. After all, I know how rare and special this chance is, and I plan to savor every moment of it.

Their Eyes Were Watching Girls

When I’m not enjoying the crème de la crème of the musical entertainment world, characterized by Italian operas, French chansons, and South American jazz, I immerse myself in the underground bunkers of Japanese idols. From internationally renowned classics like AKB48 to the nostalgic sounds of Morning Musume and short-lived Eurodance groups such as SweetS, D&D, and Folder 5, I know, listen to, and love them all.

These groups, a wild mix of personalities, sing about love, friendship, and emotions, accompanied by cheerfully poppy melodies that barely conceal the melancholic undertones—cries for help aimed at suicidal schoolgirls and kinky hikikomori.

My current favorite idol band is Sakurazaka46, which emerged from Keyakizaka46 with its center, Yurina Hirate. They are some kind of sister group to Nogizaka46 and Hinatazaka46 and a rival to AKB48, NMB48, and SKE48.

Sakurazaka46 briefly attracted international media attention a few years ago when their predecessor group wore outfits resembling the Schutzstaffel military uniforms of Nazi Germany during a concert. This sparked controversy, and the record company had to issue a formal apology.

Despite, or perhaps because of, this incident, fans remained loyal to the group. Today, they call themselves Buddies—and I am really proud to count myself among them.

Because I’m a huge admirer of Sakurazaka46, I couldn’t resist visiting an exhibition in Shibuya as part of their latest single release. The exhibit featured personal messages from members like Karin Fujiyoshi, Rina Matsuda, and Hikaru Morita, along with behind-the-scenes photos, stage outfits, music documentaries, and other smelly fans to mingle with.

On a personal note, I had to process the bittersweet news that Rina Uemura and Fuyuka Saito were using the exhibition as a platform to announce their graduation. But as a connoisseur of Japanese idol culture, farewells are part of the experience. Speaking of farewells, does anyone know what Atsuko Maeda is up to these days?

Some People Walk in the Rain, Others Just Get Wet

Nothing makes me happier than walking through the rainy streets of Tokyo. After the hot days behind us, with concrete and bones alike melting, I wanted to cheer naked and weep with joy at the sight of the first gray cloud creeping over our heads.

The sidewalks are lined with dancing umbrellas, some black, some white, most without any colors, but I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to cower. I don’t want to protect myself from the drops that timidly, then stormily, splash down on us.

For the first time since arriving in this city, I don’t wither away when I bravely step under the open sky. I can finally breathe again. Finally live again. Finally savor my existence—if only for a very brief moment.

The rain lures me into the back alleys of Ueno. I stand on a bridge, the clattering carriages of the Ginza Line rattling below, making their way to the next stations. The parks are empty, people hop around under the awnings of storefronts.

I feel closer to Tokyo than I have in a long time. Away from the must-see places, I find myself at an unfamiliar corner—between a pharmacy, a shoemaker, and a bus stop. It smells of ramen, cars, and opportunities.

A group of yellow-capped children waddles past me in their sailor uniforms. They stare at me. One of them begins to wave and greet me, the others join in, a chorus of Hello! sounds. I say Hello! back. We are all a little happier now.

I wish for the rain to dissolve my body, for me to become one with this city, right here, right now. I don’t care if I perish forever. I want this place at the end of the world to absorb me and never let me go.

Tokyo is my religion, my destiny, my God. If my soul will only find peace when I can proudly proclaim that I am Tokyo and Tokyo is me, then so be it. The sky shifts, trembling blue, red, and black before me, as if watching anxiously to see if the man-made spot of land beyond it will accept my humble sacrifice.

But on this day, the love of my life forgoes my gift, leaving me out in the rain. Perhaps Tokyo graciously wants to grant me a few more days within it before calling me to it forever.

The Emperor’s Shrine

Tokyo is a grab bag of emotions and experiences. Every turn in a new direction brings a fresh adventure and another story to tell. I love wandering through the bustling streets, shops, and cafés of the Japanese capital.

Yet, I am also grateful for moments spent in more or less sacred places scattered across the spacious city. Surrounded by green trees and towering gates, these temples and shrines serve different gods and spirits.

The smaller and more hidden they are, the happier I am to find them, feeling as if I’m the first person in ages to rediscover them. I conveniently ignore the burning candles and fresh offerings that suggest others have been there before me.

Sometimes, though, I seek the enlightenment and support of truly powerful energies. Because I need all the assistance I can get to bring my messy life at least somewhat back on track. This is what led me to the famous Meiji Shrine in Shibuya, nestled between the fashion district of Harajuku and the serene Yoyogi Park.

The shrine, built in the early nineteen-twenties and dedicated to the deified spirits of Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, is divided into two sections: Naien and Gaien. Although the original structure was destroyed in the air raids of World War II, it was rebuilt in the nineteen-fifties through public donations. And it’s absolutely stunning.

Though I’m an atheist and think about gods the way I think about unseasoned food and watery coffee, I still tossed a few yen into the donation box, clapped my hands, bowed a few times, and even bought a wooden plaque, or Ema, to write down a few wishes and leave a small part of myself there.

As I strolled slowly through the shrine, watching traditionally dressed miko and fashion-forward trendsetters pass by, I was reminded once again of how much I love Japan’s fluent blend of tradition and modernity. In special places like these, I temporarily let go of my atheism, enjoying the thought of a hidden world intertwined with our own—if only just a little.

Tower of My Heart

Though the Skytree has been a colorful rival towering over Tokyo’s skyline for years now, when it comes to captivating the eyes of residents, tourists, and the occasional bird, the Tokyo Tower remains the landmark of this East Asian metropolis for me.

In how many films, documentaries, and anime series have I marveled at this red-and-orange wonder of architectural significance, serving as the backdrop to tales of great love and even greater destruction? Seeing this colorful tribute to the Eiffel Tower always makes my heart beat faster. No journey to the Land of the Rising Sun would be complete without cozying up to the magical metal of this man-made giant.

The communications boom of the fifties prompted the Japanese government to construct a large broadcasting tower to relay information throughout the Kanto region. Additionally, amid the post-war economic recovery, Japan sought a monument to symbolize its resurgence from World War II—one of the most devastated nations rising again.

The resulting Tokyo Tower gained international fame through mentions in anime and manga like Magic Knight Rayearth, Doraemon, Tenchi Muyo!, Revue Starlight, Please Save My Earth, Cardcaptor Sakura, Digimon, Detective Conan, and Death Note, becoming a symbol of Japan and its eclectic capital for weebs around the world.

Stepping out of the elevator and onto the observation deck, I see the lights of Minato, Shibuya, and Meguro below. The Rainbow Bridge glows with vibrant colors. Around me, tourists fight for the best selfies, capturing themselves with the sprawling metropolis as their backdrop.

Here I am, in the heart of the one and only Tokyo Tower, which graces the pastel backgrounds of Naoko Takeuchi’s popular masterpiece Sailor Moon—the source of my lifelong love for it since childhood. If it were legally, physically, and biologically possible, I would outright marry Tokyo Tower and have lots of cute, little mini towers with it—but I’d probably be deported just for trying.

It’s Hot in Tokyo

If there’s one unsettling truth I hadn’t anticipated, it’s that Tokyo will become a blazing inferno this fall with a single goal in mind: To kill me. The moment I step out of my air-conditioned hotel, I’m transformed into a soaked creature, my sweaty silhouette a testament to a body in agony.

All for wanting a little sightseeing in Shibuya, Akihabara, and Shimokitazawa, only to be punished by some evil god, spirit, or yokai wielding the concentrated power of a thousand suns. I was completely unprepared for this unfair battle with climate change, which ambushed me along the way and turned my joyful journey into an odyssey in the blink of an eye.

I have to plan my daily trips through this burning concrete jungle down to the very minute—though, of course, that’s hardly possible. If I spend even a second too long away from the air-conditioned havens of subway stations, department stores, and art museums almost sealed off from the outside world, I liquefy into a dark, sweaty, and miserable mess that not even the iciest drinks from the omnipresent vending machines can save.

Japan wants me, and anyone else brave, or stupid, enough to face the open air on these diabolical days, to know who’s in charge—and no portable fan, mobile sunshade, or colorful popsicle can spare us from that harsh reality.

The longer I endure this endless game of hide-and-seek with the sun, the clearer it becomes: There’s no point trying to strategize against nature’s brutal counterattack on humanity. My time here in Tokyo is finite, and I’m not going to let a giant fireball in the sky ruin my trip.

Stepping out of a Family Mart onto the midday streets of Asakusa, I begin to melt at the first step, as the beloved konbini jingle morphs into the tune from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my boiling head. Fuck you, sun, I think as a puddle of sweat forms beneath my feet, and I slowly drag myself toward the next temple, shrine, or cute maid café for a few photos. I will survive—hopefully.

Wind’s Howling

As I leave the grimy swamps of Velen behind and stride through Novigrad’s gates, a city brimming with possibilities opens up before me. Cheeky rascals dart through the winding alleys of this bustling harbor metropolis, under the watchful gaze of the Eternal Fire that looms over its inhabitants.

Banks, brothels, and shops of craftsmen line the streets, and I catch the sounds of singing and laughter from countless pubs. I head toward the Rosemary and Thyme tavern to meet my old friends Dandelion and Zoltan, hoping to moisten my dry throat before I continue my journey to the freezing Isles of Skellige to find the most important person in my sad life: Ciri.

There are few video games that linger in my mind even years later. Games that left an enormous impression, that made me love and appreciate their characters, whose music still echoes in my ears, and whose vivid scenes play out in my mind’s eye.

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is one of those epic titles. As Geralt of Rivia, I crept through dark, goblin-infested caves reeking of decay, fought off monsters, specters, and whoresons, and wandered through lost worlds that hinted at the end of our own. And when I didn’t feel like doing my duty as a student of the Wolf, I played cards, got piss-drunk, and chased after fair maidens across Redania’s seedy beds.

Sometimes, I crave the chance to dive into a gritty fantasy world and live beyond the bounds of good and evil. Games like Skyrim, Dragon’s Dogma, and Divinity: Original Sin serve as a unique form of escapism. The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is my personal favorite—a vivid universe where I can fully immerse myself.

Based on the books by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski, the adventure is a rollercoaster of bloody encounters, humorous moments, and tender scenes. I’d give anything to erase my fond memories of that wondrous journey and walk through Novigrad’s gates for the first time once more, in search of peace, happiness, and the occasional fair maid.

Where the Trendy Things Are

Of course, Tokyo has its ordinary side, its normal, even boring aspects. Men in dark suits, towering walls of skyscrapers, and loud, crowded subways. But then, I step through a door and suddenly I find myself in a sugary Tokyo, where everything around me is glossy, fluffy, and overwhelmingly gaudy.

When it comes to fashion in all its glorious shapes, colors, and magnificence, the Far Eastern metropolis of Tokyo is a vast and vibrant universe, full of small and massive clothing stores, hidden vintage shops, and independent galleries. Old stores close, and new ones sprout like mushrooms in an endless cycle. It’s nearly impossible to stay fully up-to-date.

What’s even more intriguing than just keeping pace with fashion is the experience of wandering through Tokyo’s diverse stores myself. Especially in Harajuku, Tokyo’s iconic district where styles are created, mixed, and discarded faster than I can say kawaii, the sheer variety of colors adds warmth to the bustling crowds of this megacity.

Strikingly printed sweaters, pants, and bags adorned with all kinds of cute accessories fill the alleyways. Style-conscious schoolgirls cast off their dull sailor uniforms after the bell rings and slip into the latest trends they’ve picked up from stores like Nadia, Honey Salon, and Love Drug, ready to showcase them in the lit streets.

Labels such as Milklim, Kirby, and Jóuetie are all the rage among trendsetters in the metropolis. These can be effortlessly paired with established brands like A Bathing Ape, Comme des Garçons, and Billionaire Boys Club. Harajuku is a true Land of Cockaigne. Every step through this magical neighborhood feels like another adventure waiting to unfold.

One moment, Sailor Moon gazes at me from the shelves, the next, I’m standing in a soft toy wonderland, and suddenly, there’s a candy paradise around me. Tokyo is a vibrant wonderland, and nowhere is this more evident than in its peculiar stores, none more dazzling than those found in Harajuku.

The Cozy Neighborhood

There is no place in Tokyo that feels homier than Shimokitazawa. The alleyways are lined with cafés, second-hand shops, and record stores. A few years ago, the neighborhood in Setagaya was considered a hipster haven, but it has since become a meeting point for those who find Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara too crowded, too loud, and frankly, too mainstream.

Visitors who make their way here are seeking slow moments in contrast to the otherwise hectic pace of life. Shimokitazawa smells of pastries, jazz plays softly in the background, and the staff are dressed as if they’ve stepped straight out of fashion magazines like Popeye, Brutus, and Fudge.

At the start of the millennium, the Setagaya City Council released plans to redevelop a large portion of Shimokitazawa, located in the southwestern corner of the Kitazawa district, which included the construction of several high-rise buildings and the extension of a highway through the area.

The narrow, winding streets and small alleyways, cherished by residents and visitors alike as part of Shimokitazawa’s appeal, have made this plan controversial, with some viewing it as degrading and overly commercialized. A decade ago, Shimokitazawa Station was restructured, sparking major changes deep in the heart of this charming neighborhood.

As I sit in a bookstore, watching passersby come and go, I sip my coffee and nibble on the mini chocolate pretzels that came with it. To improve my Japanese, I’ve picked up some textbooks and flip through pages filled with hiragana, katakana, and kanji. If I could move to Tokyo, I’d probably settle in Shimokitazawa.

Then I’d sit in this bookstore every day, drinking coffee, snacking on mini chocolate pretzels, and learning Japanese for the rest of my life. Banana Yoshimoto wrote in her book Moshi Moshi: When I considered the destruction of the earth, I felt I’d deal with it when I saw it happening, but when I thought of losing Shimokitazawa, I felt real fear.

The Electric Town

There’s probably no place in the world that makes weebs’ hearts beat faster than Akihabara. Enthusiasts of Japanese pop culture will find everything they could dream of in this district, known far beyond the borders of Tokyo. From anime, manga, video games, and J-pop CDs to books, trading cards, figures, model kits, cosplay costumes, and even hentai, it’s a paradise for otaku.

But Akihabara isn’t called the Electronic City for nothing. For those less into nerdy pop culture, it’s a haven for tech lovers, offering everything from cell phones and computers to spare parts and gadgets. Akihabara is a phenomenon that completely consumes everyone who enters it.

Historically, Akihabara was located near one of Edo’s city gates, serving as a gateway between the city and northwestern Japan. This made it home to many craftsmen, merchants, and samurai. Since its opening in 1890, Akihabara Station became a hub for freight traffic, fostering the growth of a vegetable and fruit market.

By the 1920s, the station saw heavy passenger traffic as it opened to public transport. After World War II, the district’s black market thrived in the absence of strong government control, transforming Akihabara into a bustling market town. By the 1930s, it evolved into a center for household electronics, solidifying its reputation in this niche.

Walking through Akihabara’s bustling streets, I’m greeted by big-eyed cartoon characters with even bigger breasts. Girls in brightly colored maid outfits shout cheerfully, offering flyers for themed cafés. The air is filled with the scent of plastic, tea, and sweat.

In the stores, young women and middle-aged men alike browse the latest issues of Weekly Shonen Jump, Ribon, and Ciao. Each floor is a universe unto itself—some filled with slot machines, others with art supplies, and hidden ones with cute sex toys. Once I’ve immersed myself in Akihabara’s fantastic anime, manga, and video game world, I may never find my way out again.

Open Your Eyes

As with every nineties nerd, The Legend of Zelda is one of the game series that has accompanied me since childhood. My real entry into the series was the third installment, The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past on the Super Nintendo. I played this adventure so many times that I knew every area by heart.

Thanks to a questionably legal cheat module I picked up at a flea market, I squeezed every last bit of life out of the game. It allowed me to have all the items from the start and sneak past the otherwise stubborn guards on that rainy, fateful day without even beginning the obligatory castle tour. I’m sure Nintendo wouldn’t have appreciated that kind of rebellion.

The stories in The Legend of Zelda games are typically the same: A silent knight tries to save a kingdom overrun by dark forces and, ideally, wins the heart of a beautiful princess in the process. Since this premise alone wouldn’t draw anyone away from the comfort of their couch, the series thrives on tricky puzzles, quirky characters, and an enchanting world full of exploration.

Of course, The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the Nintendo 64 was the game that truly immortalized the series for me. A vast 3D world to freely explore, paired with assets that literally blew my mind. And following that one, Majora’s Mask became my all-time favorite.

For me, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild on the Switch is the logical progression from the first Nintendo 64 installment. The world is even bigger, the puzzles even trickier, and Zelda even prettier. There’s probably no other game where I enjoy aimlessly wandering, just to see what I’ll discover next.

And I always find something—a deserted beach, a quaint village, a mysterious labyrinth. I only wish there had been a few real dungeons and larger cities with more inhabitants. Running into the same old shrines and stables got a bit tiresome after a while. Nevertheless, Breath of the Wild is an experience that will forever hold a special place in my heart.

The Nostalgic Paradise

Tokyo is much more than just Shibuya, Akihabara, and Harajuku. If I want to experience different places than the usual tourists, I have to go to places that are less well-known but no less exciting. For example, Odaiba, the artificial island in Tokyo Bay, which is a popular entertainment and shopping area for locals.

Before 1996, Odaiba was purely a business district. The Japanese economy was at one of its peaks and the island was to become the model of futuristic living. In total, the construction of the island cost over 10 billion US dollars. But the bubble burst in 1991, an event the Japanese called Kakaku Hakai. Half a decade later, the area was mostly abandoned.

After the renovation, Odaiba became a thriving entertainment and shopping center with all kinds of restaurants, stores, and amusement arcades. A giant Gundam statue looms over visitors, who usually arrive in the evening, and there is no end of comics, collectible figures, and knick-knacks. Odaiba is a nostalgic paradise that visitors to the Japanese capital shouldn’t miss.

The Daiba Itchome Shotengai, which is located in the middle of a shopping center and seems to be from a bygone era, is particularly worth a visit. Coming here is like traveling back in time. Many families, as well as some nerds, take the opportunity to experience exactly that, right there.

When I enter the shopping street, I feel as if I’ve been teleported to a fantasy memory. There are old slot machines, pinball machines, and pachinko machines. Posters of idols from the eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands hang on the walls. I recognize the faces of Yumi Matsutoya, Ayumi Hamasaki, and Perfume.

The shelves are crammed with food and bric-a-brac. There are sweets, ice cream, and chewing gum. But also plushies, toy cars, and colorful printed socks. Anime and manga everywhere. I can catch goldfish at one stand, play Mario Kart at the next, and a ghost house awaits me a few meters away. If I died here and now, I wouldn’t even be angry.

A Journey Into the Past

Tokyo, once known as Edo, began as a small, insignificant dump. It only grew into the most important city in Japan when Tokugawa Ieyasu, the third feudal ruler after Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, built a castle there in 1590.

If I’m looking to explore beyond the hottest fashion trends, tastiest food varieties, and cutest schoolgirls in Tokyo, beyond Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara, then Asakusa is the place for me.

Not only is it home to the hotel where I’m staying, but it also hosts Sensoji, the oldest Buddhist temple in the city. For a long time, Asakusa was known as an entertainment district, home to kabuki and rakugo theaters.

Asakusa has a past I could still sense here and there. After the Meiji Restoration, the modern entertainment industry began to take root, with Western theaters and cinemas emerging. However, after World War II, Asakusa’s popularity as an entertainment hub waned, with districts like Shinjuku rising to prominence.

Today, in addition to Sensoji, Asakusa is primarily known for the Nakamise shopping promenade and the annual Shinto festival, Sanja Matsuri. I also found many delicious traditional restaurants around the temple, where I could grill and season my own food, as well as numerous pachinko halls where I could test my luck.

This enormous metropolis on the other side of the world has a deeply traditional side. And every walk through Asakusa is also a journey into the past. Just a step out of one of the bustling shopping streets, and I’ll find myself in the middle of a small forest, an old temple complex, or surrounded by lovingly crafted shrines.

I can only imagine the small and grand spectacles that have taken place at Sensoji over the past thousand years. Despite all the colorful anime, manga, and video games that I typically associate with Japan, I feel surprisingly grounded and calm here. Perhaps I should visit such holy and magical places more often.

That Could Have Been Us, But You Don’t Care

For many years now, I wanted nothing to do with German culture. I switched all my consumption habits to English and looked down contemptuously on anyone still crawling through the oozy cesspool of German-language entertainment because they didn’t know any better.

For me, German-dubbed TV shows were proof of bottomless stupidity. German novels fell into one of two categories: Cheesy crime junk set on the Baltic coast, or coming-of-age ‘my-mother-is-an-alcoholic-and-I-just-want-to-fuck‘ bullshit. As for German music, I wanted to hear, haha, nothing about it—just the thought of the whole Schlager-pop-Deutschrap crap made me want to vomit.

Now that I’m older, wiser, and totally at peace with myself (#IWish), I’ve come to finally realize that I can’t tear myself away from my German roots, no matter how much, for whatever reason, I wished I could. I need the German language. I love the German language. I don’t want to reject it. Its systematic harshness is simply divine.

And the German language is not just another random dialect on this earth, it’s a shared identity between me and those who use it. I’ve learned that the German language and its accompanying culture can inspire me in ways, especially on a deep, intrinsic level, that no other vernacular can.

So now, I actively seek out people who express their feelings, thoughts, and hopes as authentically as possible in my mother tongue, using it in creative ways, especially in music. Artists like Paula Hartmann, Berq, and Lotte give me a cozy sense of home with their lyrics, even when I’m standing on the other side of the world.

My latest discovery is Liska. Her songs are genuinely emotional without descending into cheesiness, and they resonate with me through various feelings and experiences. German-language music hasn’t been this interesting since Juli, Wir sind Helden, and the very, very, very early days of Silbermond.

Center of My World

When I think of Japan, I picture the bustling intersection at the heart of Shibuya. As the traffic lights at each corner finally turn green, crowds of uniformed salarymen, laughing schoolgirls, and amazed tourists stream toward one another, briefly merging into a homogeneous mass before dispersing back into their daily routines.

On my first visit to the Land of the Rising Sun, halfway across the globe, the very first place I consciously visited was this iconic landmark in the middle of Tokyo. I took the train straight from the airport to Shibuya, met a few friendly people there, and found myself not only in the center of Japan, but in the center of my world.

Due to the anticipation of the 2020 Olympic Games and their underwhelming presentation a year later, the popular district at the heart of Japan’s capital has undergone significant transformation in the recent decade to appeal to both locals and visitors. I became most aware of this with the redesign of the city’s famous Shibuya 109 logo, which sits prominently atop a fashion-savvy shopping center.

The more such signposts change, the more I realize that time is moving on helplessly and doesn’t care about my nostalgic feelings. But maybe that’s a good thing. After all, change is life and the more Shibuya develops, the less I have to worry about its future.

As I stand at the edge of the intersection, I see the red traffic lights ahead, rising above the crowd on the opposite side, and the models advertising clothes, food, and phone contracts on massive screens. I hear the voices of those around me, the eager motorcade, and the man on a platform shouting into the crowd with a megaphone.

I smell a mix of expensive perfume and cheap deodorant, taste the green tea I’m carrying in a plastic bottle, and brace myself to feel the bodies of hundreds of people. Then, the moment comes. Red turns to green. I step forward, becoming one with Shibuya, Tokyo, and Japan—neither for the first time nor the last.

All the World’s a Stage

When Hikari is thrust onto the recently set up stage of a seemingly innocent chamber play, fate strikes a desperate blow against the most stubborn and dangerous form of conservatism—the one powered by pure fear of being alone. The audience demands change before it is suffocated by the dreariness of the powerful. Fresh blood must pave the way for a new future.

Few of the actors suspect that the light of hope conceals a story of self-sacrifice that transcends any level of human friendship. The bright star in the sky seems within reach, but whoever touches it in the end must live on with the possible burden of drifting apart from the ones they love.

Both strangers and friends sometimes ask about my favorite anime. Then I proudly list widely known classics like Neon Genesis Evangelion, Cowboy Bebop, and Ghost in the Shell. After all, these titles suggest what kind of anime I prefer and where my roots lie in this sometimes condemned Japanese art form.

I also secretly hope this keeps me from being labeled a complete weeb if I omit that I also enjoyed series like Akebi’s Sailor Uniform, Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, and Eromanga Sensei—for various reasons.

However, one of my all-time favorite anime is, and remains, Revue Starlight by Tomohiro Furukawa—because it is simply perfect from start to finish.

Revue Starlight follows a motley group of friendly schoolgirls from a renowned theater academy who secretly battle each other underground to become the star of their personal stage in life. When the lazy Karen’s lost childhood friend suddenly appears in class, it triggers the healing of a world whose progress has come to a standstill.

Everything about Revue Starlight is exceptional. The characters are fantastic, the animation style is striking, and the music is so good that I could listen to the soundtrack on repeat for days. It’s a shame that Revue Starlight is only known to a few hardcore fans. I sincerely hope you watch it one day and celebrate it as passionately as I do.

Journey to the East

The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home. Am I running away from myself, or am I simply longing for another world that will make me love my own again? Those who share my destination feel understood only from afar.

I stifle my fear of the unknown with the certainty that I’ve chosen it over the comforting arms of monotony on purpose. After all, standing still is death, and death will come soon enough. It seems only logical to sacrifice time with people I like for the possibility of uncovering white spots on my personal map. So, I close my eyes and wait for the moment when the doors to a strange universe open for me.

Before I finally begin my semester abroad in the Japanese coastal city of Kumamoto on Kyushu as a student of the renowned Sojo University in October, I plan to spend a few days in Tokyo.

It’s been over ten years since I last visited this enchanted metropolis at the edge of the world, and I can’t wait to aimlessly wander through the wonderous temples of Shibuya, the cheerful bars of Shinjuku, and the farraginous manga stores of Akihabara to see what has changed in the last decade. I’ve booked a room in a modest hotel in Asakusa and will set out from there, day and night, to explore both the bustling streets and the narrow alleyways nearby and beyond.

Having already lived in Tokyo and visited cities like Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama, I feel prepared for the biggest culture shocks and can focus on seeking new experiences and adventures—hopefully beyond the typical tourist attractions. The plane I’m on is taking me to a place that couldn’t be further from home.

That place is Tokyo, a man-made melting pot of diverse cultures where all my escapist dreams, hopes, and fantasies converge. May I find even a fraction of my expectations between the lives of millions of people. I hope to return home with new ideas, goals, and visions. Perhaps I’ll even meet myself over there, on the other side of the world.

Goodbye Augsburg

Exactly one year ago, I moved to Augsburg. I wanted not only to be closer to my university but also to the people I had spent most of my time with since starting my studies. The city in the far south of Germany welcomed me with open arms, gradually drawing me into its most remote corners thanks to the warmth of various friendly faces.

I wandered through vivid house parties, colorful music festivals, and boozy riverside gatherings, made myself comfortable in cozy bars, and spent my nights with like-minded souls. No matter where I ended up at the end of the day, I was always surrounded by people whose true love for the present moment seemed boundless.

Now, my self-imposed fate is once again pulling me away from a life I’ve slowly come to love. With my semester abroad in Japan approaching, I’ve sublet my apartment to a fellow student, meaning I’ll have to say goodbye to Augsburg—at least for a while.

I know the city will keep breathing, loving, and crying without me, continuing to be a euphoric playground for all kinds of human escapades. To Augsburg, I am just a fleeting visitor on my eternal quest for happiness. But that’s okay.

I realized long ago that staying in one place too long does me no good. Maybe I’m nothing more than a restless nomad who’s secretly afraid of any kind of commitment.

As I gaze over the seemingly endless rooftops of Augsburg, watching the sky slowly darken while the laughter and lights behind me grow brighter, I realize that I will miss this city and the people I’m leaving behind in it. The stories they write from now on will no longer include my name. I’ll become their past.

But sometimes, I have to make grown-up decisions, even if I’d rather avoid obligations. It’s not so bad. After all, I’m not saying goodbye forever. And with that certainty, I can dive into my next adventure without any worry. Because, deep down, I might already know that Augsburg is a place I’ll want to return to and stay a little longer. At least maybe.

An Evening With Friends

Before we part ways for a while due to our upcoming semester abroad, I spent a few memorable evenings with my friends. Investing quality time with people I care about is incredibly important for maintaining mental stability and avoiding the depressive phases that tend to creep in when I’m left alone with my thoughts for too long.

I’m someone who only understands how much I care about certain people once they’re gone. That’s why I’m a little afraid that I might only realize too late how important the network of friends I’ve built over the past few years is to me—as soon as I step off the plane without anyone else on the other side of the world.

We annoyed neighbors during gaming competitions, sweated up stairs during movings, devoured Asian delicacies on movie nights, flirted in beer gardens and ice cream parlors, emptied cold drinks by rivers and lakes, and fought monsters, priests, and potential murderers during game nights, pen-and-paper sessions, and mystery dinners.

There were also afternoon coffee parties and bar visits at the city’s trendiest spots, with deep conversations about life, love, and death. I spent as much time as possible with other human beings, draining my social battery to the max. But it was worth it, because I knew our window of opportunity would very soon close.

I know myself. It can be dangerous for me to cram too many appointments into a short period of time. That usually ends in temporary burnout, leaving me unable to exit my apartment for days, weeks, or even months—and during those tough times, not even my antidepressants help.

But just before my semester abroad and the impending flight to Japan, I didn’t have the luxury of pacing myself. Sometimes life gets in the way, and you either seize the moments that come with it—or simply miss them for good. I’m glad I had the strength to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way. In the end, I have no regrets when it’s finally time to say goodbye.

One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure

I pride myself on having excellent taste when it comes to cultural offerings. The more East Asian indie films from the late nineties I watch, the more superior I feel to the world out there. Although I often have no idea what exactly I’ve just gotten myself into, I like to compare it to jazz: the more I think of tortured cats when I listen to it, the more profound, creative and adult it must be.

As long as I’m consuming something that at least gives me the feeling that I’m witnessing something higher, I’m happy. Maybe if I’m able to fully understand Hideaki Anno’s psychological drama film Ritual someday, I’ll become some kind of holy cinephile god—who knows.

However, there are also evenings when I suddenly find myself in front of one or two reality TV shows on Netflix because my friends wanted me to watch with them how the singer from the band Tokio Hotel, you may still know them from songs like Monsoon, Don’t Jump, and… surely another one, getting fucked up at the Oktoberfest, eats curd balls at his mom’s, and drives through the desert with his twin brother in a camper van.

The fun went on for eight episodes. At the end I wasn’t much wiser than before, quite the opposite in fact, but at least there was delicious Hwachae with watermelon, mango, and some undefinable goo to eat in the meantime.

I more or less secretly hope that there will be a second season of the series, after all, I’ve invested time in it now, which should have paid off. Will Bill and Marc ever become a couple? How much alcohol can the average Kaulitz brother take in a day without collapsing? And do I have to listen to a certain podcast to keep up to date and because I may have promised someone without really thinking about the consequences? I’ll probably never know.

Trash television is a welcome change for my constantly stressed brain. Because sometimes it’s quite a good idea to dive into completely irrelevant parallel worlds with even more irrelevant protagonists in them.

Do You Wanna Play a Game?

As someone who typically enjoys gaming with a controller in hand or a keyboard under his fingers, sitting in front of a screen, and snacking while exploring old ruins, bustling towns, or enchanted forests with my illustrious group of virtual adventurers, I’ve found myself more frequently gathered around a table with others in recent years, passing balls, cards, and dice.

Whether playing for drinks, stakes, or simply for pride, with the right group, a fun evening was always guaranteed. Together, we played through Poker, Tac, and Dungeons & Dragons, held competitions, and sometimes even invented our own rules to make the games more interesting.

It’s amazing how distinct traits of individual players emerge when they’re placed in a group, seated around a table, and given the chance to win a round or two. They love psychology, fantasy, or social justice and show this more or less consciously in their actions.

Some analyze every strategy in great detail, while others dive into the chaos with a naive Leeroy Jenkins mindset. Some try to assist their rivals when they sense unfairness, while others show no mercy. Some lose interest the moment they sense they won’t win, while others persevere until the bitter end. The more distinct my opponents’ characteristics, the more interesting the game becomes.

The game nights I’ve spent with friends have also taught me a lot about myself. For one, my ambition is heavily tied to my mood. When I’m in a good mood, it’s easier to accept losses and celebrate wins. I’ve also realized that the conversations during the games mean more to me than the games themselves. The dialogues that arise are things that might otherwise go unspoken.

And finally, I’ve learned that I really hate Tac. It’s just a complicated version of Ludo with cards, for whatever reason. But despite that, I’m grateful to the wonderful people who have introduced me to a world of tabletop gaming that’s so different from my usual digital realm.

How to Cook for Forty Humans

I enjoy cooking with others because I love combining good food with even better company. Of course, I don’t do this with just anyone, but with people who are either close to my heart or just kinda hot. We go to the nearest store together, decide what to prepare while browsing the colorfully stacked shelves, pick out fresh, delicious ingredients, and then head home with our jam-packed bags.

There, we chop vegetables, fry fish, meat, or tofu, and toss some noodles into a pot. Meanwhile, we listen to the latest playlists on Spotify, chat about the ups and downs of life, and eagerly anticipate the upcoming feast, enjoying some fizzy drinks along the way.

The real fun begins once the cooking is done. Whether there are two, three, or ten of us around the table, we take a moment to look at each other before diving in, filling our plates with salmon, salad, and summer rolls. Conversation flows freely as we talk about the world and its wonders, big and small, or relax with a Netflix show or two.

And if we’re not in the mood for the inevitable clean-up afterward, we simply open a delivery app and save ourselves the hassle, scrolling through pictures of pizzas, sushi, or stir-fried noodles. An hour later we sit on someone’s bed, enjoying some delicious Pad Thai, a cute anime, and some human connection.

Sure, I don’t always need company when I’m eating-whether it’s a carefully crafted meal or a quick snack. Sometimes, I sneak into the supermarket next door in the evening, grab some nearly expired nigiri at half-price, and hope the salmonella gods spare me again, as I wash it down with a bottle of Diet Coke.

Dessert might be a handful of cornflakes that I nearly choke on because a Zelda Let’s Play distracted me from chewing. It can be quite relaxing to spend an evening like that now and then, but I shouldn’t rely on this so-called lifestyle all the time, because, as the saying goes, Food tastes better when shared with friends.

Cute Girls Doing Cute Things

Kaos doesn’t have it easy. Not only does the teenage manga tryhard look like a primary school student and have no friends besides some curious animals she meets on her way home, but she’s just learned that her four panel artworks came last in a survey among national comic book fans.

Before Kaos considers hitting up with Truck-kun to finally end her misery, her editor suggests she move into a dormitory for manga artists to improve her creative skills and perhaps participate a bit more in social life. Before Kaos knows it, she becomes part of a quirky crew of fanatical artists who all share one weeby goal: to achieve their big dream of a career in manga.

In the anime genre Cute Girls Doing Cute Things, the name says it all. There are no epic adventures, devious villains, or hard-to-guess plot twists. These comfy slice of life stories revolve around cute girls doing cute things—nothing more, nothing less. They go out for ice cream, chat at school, hang out in parks, visit bathhouses, and encourage each other in tough moments so they don’t give up.

Shows like Comic Girls are pure balm for the soul when the world feels too chaotic, stressful, and overwhelming. Life can be a real jerk sometimes, but in these colorful fantasy universes, every challenge can be solved with a little courage, fun, and good friends.

In the style of K-On!, New Game!, and Non Non Biyori, the different characters in Comic Girls complement each other, growing stronger together. Little Kaos meets the energetic Koyume, the tomboyish Tsubasa, the shy Ruki, and the somewhat sinister Suzu in the dorm. Each of them has their own fears, but together they can overcome them and make progress in life.

And there’s always something to laugh about, often through awkward or embarrassing situations. When I’m not in the mood for earth-shattering blockbusters, I cozy up with a hot cup of tea and watch anime like Comic Girls, enjoying cute girls doing cute things—nothing more, nothing less.

Is Beer Art?

Every semester, the Werkschau is the grand finale at the Faculty of Design. At this vernissage, students from Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg present their final projects from all areas of analog and digital art. From photography, books, and drawings to computer games and interactive installations, everything that’s new, cool, or just fun is included.

There’s also live music, delicious food, and plenty of refreshing drinks, along with many familiar and unfamiliar faces who don’t want to miss out on the hustle and bustle. And if that’s not enough, you can dance into the morning at the after-show party in a nearby club.

I personally had my hands more than full at this year’s Werkschau. Not only was I a member of the generally stressed team that organized this illustrious event, but I also presented my short film Into the Woods, which had previously premiered in a museum.

Additionally, I spoke to fellow students about their entrepreneurial plans after graduation for my work at the start-up incubator Funkenwerk, the central contact point for innovative ideas at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg. I even stood behind the bar as a member of the student council to ensure that everyone stayed hydrated in the sunny weather—mostly with beer.

The end of the vivid exhibition also marked the end of my fourth semester at Technical University of Applied Sciences Augsburg and heralded my temporary farewell. It’s amazing how much mental stress built up over the past few weeks and has now disappeared in one fell swoop.

I will spend the next month and a half organizing all the necessary preparations for my upcoming semester abroad in Japan. I need to sublet my apartment, finalize the last necessary documents, and attend a farewell party or two before most of my friends disperse into the big wide world. So long, my beloved university. We will see each other again next year.

The Illegal Girl

My collection of Japanese indie movies has grown considerably in recent years. What I appreciate most are the quieter slice-of-life titles that provide intimate insights into the small and large everyday problems of East Asian inhabitants.

It doesn’t matter whether the stories take place in the colorful, vibrant streets of Japan’s big cities or among the mountains, lakes, and valleys of rural areas.

Of course, the more I feel connected to the protagonists and their experiences, the more the films resonate with me. As Philip Pullman said, After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

Last night, I watched Emma Kawawada’s My Small Land. It’s about a girl named Sarya, whose parents are Kurdish refugees from Turkey living in Japan. She pretends to be German to her friends because she has had better experiences with this than with the truth.

While her father works, Sarya looks after her younger siblings and contemplates her future, as she will soon be going to college. An intimate relationship develops with her colleague Sota, and her feelings become increasingly clear.

Sarya wants a completely normal life. When her father’s application for asylum is rejected, the world she has worked so hard to build begins to crumble.

My Small Land is a haunting movie about the balancing act of a young refugee caught between two worlds, searching for her own. As the story progresses, I felt more intensely the inner turmoil pushing Sarya to her emotional limits as she tries to save her siblings from the fate that lies before them. Sarya’s life becomes a gauntlet of cultural constraints, social circumstances, and her own dreams.

My Small Land depicts the sacrifices people make to avoid being broken by reality. After watching it, I realized once again how much my privileges protect me from these challenges and the hard decisions that I’ve been able to avoid—at least so far.

Pen and Paper

I embrace my nerdy side not only through my limitless Japanophilia, which manifests in an arguably unhealthy consumption of anime, manga, dramas, books, and pop music I can’t even understand, but also through my love of geeky tabletop role-playing games.

In this exciting fantasy realm, I navigate enchanted kingdoms as a magical dragon warrior, explore small towns overtaken by Cthulhu’s monsters as a clumsy policeman, and venture through enemy spaceships as a trigger-happy hophead.

Tabletop role-playing games are like a carefree vacation for my brain, offering a chance to let loose and try things I (probably) wouldn’t dare to do in real life.

A couple of friends and I have been members of a role-playing club for some time now, where we more or less regularly experiment with different scenarios, characters, and rulebooks. From fantasy to science fiction to cyberpunk, there’s nothing we wouldn’t dare to try.

Personally, I prefer the bloody horror one shot adventures, where we slip into the roles of unsuspecting citizens who roam through abandoned settlements, haunted mansions, and cursed cathedrals, only to face crazy cultists, hungry vampires, and, in the last dungeon, an overpowering deity and, in the best-case scenario, be torn to shreds by it. After all, survival is only for cowards.

I’ve wanted to try tabletop role-playing games for a long time after hearing about them in various podcasts, YouTube videos, and not least in Stranger Things. So, I’m thrilled to have found other people who are just as eager to dive into other worlds and let their imaginations run wild.

Where else can you try to ride angry unicorns, shoot the newly born Antichrist, or drown a doomed metropolis in smelly feces to perhaps save it from its fate, only to realize in the end that all these ideas were rather semi-smart? Exactly. When I’m on my semester abroad, we’ll try to hold the sessions online. And maybe I’ll find a group in Japan that’s keen to play, too. Who knows.

Public Viewing

Anyone who knows me even a little bit understands that soccer doesn’t interest me in the slightest. During some World Cups, I am a vague fan of the Japanese national team, but only to the extent that I follow their wins and losses from the sidelines.

I generally have little interest in spending several hours watching others compete in sports unless they are characters in an anime or manga to whom I have formed an emotional attachment.

In the end, my favorite soccer team remains the Kickers around Kakeru Daichi, even though they only know about winning tournaments from hearsay. But at least they scored a goal against the Falcons once. Yeah.

Despite my general disinterest in any ball sports, I went to a public viewing event in the city center on Friday night with some friends because Germany was playing Spain in the last sixteen round of the European Football Championship.

As we all know, our national team lost, but I doubt anyone there cared less about that than I did. So why was I there anyway? Because I realized that it’s essential to socialize regularly, especially when you’re hanging out with people you know, like, and can have fun with. The reason for getting together becomes secondary. It’s much more important to feel connected to others—and eat some snacks while you’re at it.

The time I can spend with these people is finite. And that’s not just because of my own mortality, but because we’ll soon have to say goodbye to each other as the semester abroad is just around the corner. Mine in Japan doesn’t start until the fall, but others will be leaving in a few weeks to explore the world. From Spain to Canada to South Korea, everything is included. We won’t see each other again until next spring.

That’s why I’m trying to spend as much time as possible with my friends before our schedules scatter us in all directions. And that, in turn, means that I even watch soccer with them, despite my interest in it being around freezing point.

My Heart Is a Ghost Town

Although I’ve always considered myself a global cosmopolitan who has long since cut ties with German pop culture, Paula Hartmann’s Kleine Feuer has been my most-listened-to album over the past few months. There were days when nothing else played in my AirPods all day but these 15 songs, from beginning to end, over and over again, morning, noon, and night.

Others see ghosts, I only see you, Paula whispers to herself without any empathy. So long shadows with so little light. You send a smiley face, trap doors open. My heart is a ghost town and you are the ghost. The wine at two makes me cry again at three, then I fall asleep.

Paula’s apathetic voice and the bleakly pulsating beats are the anthem of my default emotional state, which I can only escape when I’m with other people, and which I fall back into as soon as I’m alone. The Berlin singer comments on the world I’m trapped in on solitary evenings.

Wish we could talk to each other, wish us one last summer. Hear my friends say: ‘Everything will be fine one day.’ As long as you swim through the rain and thunder. Where’s our happy home? I’ve forgotten where I live. Listen to our last notes, otherwise silence on my phone. Share no more songs, share no more smoke. Share the stars and the moon.

I like tracks that I can listen to in the background, but also immerse myself in. Paula’s music covers me like a blanket and reminds me that other people feel the same way as I do.

The cord of my hoodie tastes like fall and the first birds are screaming in pain. The colorful ravens put on their black coats. A grandma behind every windowsill. The first bus wipes me up and then breathes me out. A brake light beacon in the exhaust, rusty leaves on cobblestones. A quick thought about you and suddenly gravity has me again. Kicks my legs, fall down and break. Your roof turns gray walls into a house. In it, we exchange disappointments for a lifetime.

Hollywood’s Calling

My favorite project of the semester, which is slowly coming to an end, was a short film I created for the compulsory elective course Motion assets. The topic was Young People and Old Trees.

While my fellow students focused on animations to complete the task, I insisted on making a real film and was allowed to do so. After all, I had always wanted to do something like this.

So, I grabbed a good friend of mine and we went to the nearest forest together to shoot Into the Woods. I can confidently say that the movie is an absolute masterpiece, and I’m expecting a call from Hollywood any second now to become the next world’s most famous director.

The short film is about a young woman who embarks on a journey into the depths of the forest to meet her destiny. I aimed to combine the flair of The Blair Witch Project with the aesthetics of David Hamilton.

The piano music, which I composed while tapping away on my keyboard, is intended to give the story an ominous touch. The countless retro filters I applied to the videos provide the whole piece with a dreamy feel.

Incidentally, the ending features a computer-generated imagery firework that makes even Michael Bay look outdated. I really enjoyed the shooting, even though the model caught eight ticks in the process. Suffering for the sake of art.

Into the Woods premiered in a museum last weekend, and interested viewers asked me afterward whether the young woman survived, what the fire meant, and if the movie was an allusion to the climate crisis we’re currently in.

I replied that I would answer all their questions in the upcoming second part, Into the Woods 2: Revenge of the Trees. Finally, I’ve acquired a taste for chasing nude girls through nature in front of my camera.

Fortunately, I’ve received a bunch of requests from potential models who would like to participate. So, you can look forward to my next magnum opus, which will be shown in an artistic, or adult oriented, movie theater near you.

Chaos Nation

I love dystopian movies. Children of Men, The Road, Snowpiercer—the more hopelessly the future is depicted, the happier I grin. Classical psychoanalytic theory would attribute my passion for the end of the world to the death drive, the urge for doom and destruction.

This concept was first proposed by the Russian psychoanalyst Sabina Spielrein in her essay Destruction as the Cause of Coming Into Being and later expanded upon by Sigmund Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle.

Personally, however, I believe I am simply fascinated by chaos because my life is a minefield of self-imposed rules, and I need confirmation that abandoning them would lead to anarchy.

Last night, I watched Alex Garland’s Civil War starring Kirsten Dunst, Nick Offerman, and Cailee Spaeny. In the dystopian thriller, the President of the United States illegally secures a third term in office, plunging the country into another civil war.

A ragtag group of journalists embarks on a dangerous road trip to conduct one last interview with the fascist Donald Trump lookalike before the rebel army reaches the White House to end the man-made horror and restore democracy to the deeply divided nation. But between them and the most powerful man in the world lies a mayhem universe full of racist lunatics, mindless soldiers, and creepy murderers.

The mental appeal of Civil War lies in the increased probability that the world it depicts could become reality with just a few wrong decisions. Many inhabitants of the land of opportunity already yearn for anarchic freedom and want to turn the United States of America into a lawless theme park where anything deemed unpatriotic, or just Mexican, can be shot at.

Perhaps Civil War is not just a glimpse into the future but into our present. And because this idea is only exciting until it comes true, next time I’ll prefer watching another unrealistic disaster movie. Preferably something with zombies, asteroids, or ravenous sharks that live in tornadoes.

Too Many People

A few friends and I were out and about at the Augsburg Summer Nights over the weekend. For a few days, the city center transforms into one big party with all kinds of music stages, food stalls, and even a silent disco.

But before we threw ourselves into the thundering crowds of the Bavarian town, we chilled out in a pal’s garden right next to the hustle and bustle, treated ourselves to a few cool drinks, and shared some funny life stories.

There, I met an amusing sports student whose chaotic love life sweetened my evening, and my psychologically quite committed playmate, with whose help I became the undisputed king of a certain board game.

Unfortunately, I have to say that I didn’t really enjoy the Augsburg Summer Nights—unlike my friends. There were just far too many people crammed into one place. I couldn’t enjoy the various music performances or have a bite to eat in peace. Everyone transformed into a huge ocean of bodies and I felt like I was drowning right in it.

I was glad when I finally stepped out of the barrier into the airy freedom again and took a few breaths without being pushed around by a crowd. The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was grab an ice-cold Coke Zero from a nearby convenience store and watch the colorful and very loud turmoil from afar.

This experience made me realize once again that although I don’t mind lots of people coming together in one place, I only enjoy it if they move in one direction as quickly as I do. That way, I can simply glide through them like some kind of slippery fish, as I do it in big cities like New York, Tokyo, or even Berlin. For the fun part, however, such events are not really for me.

I prefer quieter house parties where I can talk, drink, and dance with the guests without getting run over by a horde of drunken revelers. But after all, everyone has a different idea of fun. And I don’t judge if others had a nice evening or two at the Augsburg Summer Nights. You do you.

No Part of My Life

It’s an afflicting feeling to know people with whom I once felt very close, but who are no longer part of my life. It’s not as if they’ve moved away, disappeared, or even died, but our relationship has changed so much from one day to the next that we no longer communicate. Not even when we are literally standing next to each other.

Then we ignore one another because that’s what you have to do under these circumstances. And if we would usually have talked, laughed, and shared a few worries, we are now like strangers who happen to be finding themselves in the same place and will soon go our separate ways again without even looking at each other’s faces.

I find this situation particularly difficult at times when I experience something interesting or get exciting news that I would otherwise have liked to share with this person immediately. Until recently, these topics eventually mattered to both of us, or at least we knew that the human being on the other side of the city always had an open ear.

But just before I mindlessly reach for my phone to write her an update on my world or record a voice message asking for her honest opinion or valuable expertise, I remember that I’m no longer allowed to communicate with my former friend and have to deal with this current challenge piling up in front of me on my own.

The hole that this person leaves in my heart will close. Her profile photo will slide further down in the messages and, at some point, disappear. Other faces will take her place and talk, laugh, and share some worries with me. I will soon have forgotten this once important character and the melancholy feeling of emptiness that she’s causing.

It will be as if she had never existed at all. And then I will no longer reach for my phone to share a part of my life with her, because for a brief moment I forgot that this person is no longer a part of it. But before that happens, I wonder if this gloomy emotion I’m carrying around could have been avoided, or if it was inevitable.

Studying in Japan

The idyllic town of Kumamoto is located on the island of Kyushu in the southwest of Japan and has not only a beautiful castle, an old samurai house, and a colorful landscape garden to offer but also a university that happens to be the partner institution of my college.

This means that every semester there is a lively exchange of academics-to-be between these two learning establishments. Some students are sent from Japan to Germany, and some students are sent from Germany to Japan in return. And guess who has two thumbs and is one of the ambitious people sent from Europe’s politically split heart to the Land of the Rising Sun? This guy!

I will be spending the upcoming semester as an exchange student at the private Sojo University in Kumamoto, where I’m going to study creative subjects such as Graphic Design, Photography, and Manga Media in the Department of Design at the Faculty of Art.

I will be living in a free dormitory that is only a few minutes’ walk from the university’s campus and available to students from all around the world.

The winter semester doesn’t start until October, but I’ll be spending a few weeks in my favorite city of Tokyo beforehand, exploring my old hoods Shibuya, Harajuku, and Akihabara and hopefully seeing some old friends from back then.

The flights to and within Japan and the hotel in Tokyo are already booked. Now I just have to sublet my apartment in Germany and make the remaining travel arrangements so that I’m ready to go to the Land of the Rising Sun for the third time in my life this fall.

I should probably use the next few months to improve my Japanese language skills. Otherwise, it could be a bit difficult to communicate with my fellow students and the rest of the locals during my semester abroad in Kumamoto, because I probably won’t get very far with just basics like Hello, Goodbye, and Sorry, but where’s the nearest toilet? See you soon, Japan. I hope you’ve missed me.

Just Fun

I’m not sure if it’s my diet, the sun, or my antidepressants, but lately, I’ve generally been worrying less about my life. Whereas I used to spend weeks, months, maybe even years, doing nothing but creating as many sorrows as humanly possible in my mind, I’ve recently been blessed with a stoic calmness that is almost uncanny.

There’s so much free space in my head now, and I can fill it however I want. It’s not as if I don’t care about what happens to and around me, but I take note of it, accept it, grow a little from it, and then continue on my way. Maybe that’s just what you do as some kind of functioning adult—or somebody who pretends to be one.

In the past, even the smallest unforeseeable obstacle would have sent me into acute self-doubt and bottomless panic. But today, I know that difficulties are not only part of life but are essential for me to be a better person tomorrow. And that it is an art to use them to my own advantage.

With this knowledge, I don’t waste a second too much on problems that aren’t really problems at all. Not only that: with this newly acquired form of acceptable equanimity, I automatically allow myself to have fun without any, or at least many, regrets. Because when I invest less time in irrelevant conflicts that should be ignored, I have more time for the good things in life.

So I prefer to spend my time with people who also choose to have fun. I don’t care what exactly they understand by this term or why they have decided to do so. Maybe they don’t want to be alone. Maybe they need a distraction from their everyday worries. Or maybe they have simply learned that celebrating the time we spend together has no negative impact on our future. Quite the opposite.

Life is too short to spend it only in my own head. It’s always the happiest moments that I like to remember the most. So I try to collect a bunch of them before it’s too late. Because as Frank Ocean once said: Have as much fun as possible! Amen, brother.

Cheers to the House Party

Last night I found myself at a house party in a part of town I haven’t been before, where half the girls in attendance seemed to be called Julia. I like house parties. They’re much more cozy than clubs. And you can have intense conversations there, often with people you’ve just met.

The birthday girl had gone to great lengths to make her party pleasant. In addition to champagne, snacks, and suitable music, there was a bowl full of little challenges at the entrance that each guest could complete if they wanted to. My task was to transform myself into a so-called woo girl and to cheer loudly even at the most inappropriate moments.

Between the colorful fog machine, soap bubbles everywhere, and a drying rack turned into a beer pong table, I met new people who sweetened my evening with their stories. A photographer struggling with herself, a psychologist from Vienna, and an artist whose individual skills made a packed balcony roar with laughter.

I think it’s important to surround myself with new people and be inspired, guided, and encouraged by their dreams, hopes, and perhaps even worries at times when I seem to be at a standstill, at a loss, or generally thinking too much about the purpose of it all. And house parties are the perfect opportunity to meet just such folks.

As I step outside and board the over-punctual night bus with two of the many Julias, I am glad to have been here today among all the cheerful faces, whose laughter from the bottom of their hearts makes me forget my own sorrows.

The evening has shown me once again that this city is full of unique and interesting characters. And it is unfortunately far too easy to overlook them repeatedly in my stressful everyday life as I rush through the big and small streets. But it’s worth stopping, listening, and both hearing their stories and enriching them with my thoughts. I’m already looking forward to the next house party—wherever it may take place.

I Am Europe

I voted in the European elections this morning. After I bought a coffee at the nearby coffee shop and went for a walk to the next elementary school, where the voting took place, I chose the Green Party because they most closely represent my political views on environmental protection, digitalization, and human rights.

I don’t want to leave Europe to the radical left or the radical right. People who trample on our fundamental democratic values out of greed, ideology, or sheer stupidity must not be the ones who end up destroying our chances of a future worth living. Because tomorrow belongs to those who are committed not to fear, but to hope.

I don’t believe in heritage, tradition, and nationalism. Although I was born in Germany, I do not feel German at all, but as a citizen of the world who is dedicated to the wonders and possibilities of all the different cultures this planet provides.

For me, the idea of a unified Europe is the logical step away from restrictive borders and towards an open society characterized by a wide variety of people, cultures, and views.

Thanks to the benefits, safeguards, and support of the European Union, I have met countless amazing people from different corners of the Earth that I would never have been able to meet without the opportunities of a united continent.

We should be happy to be part of Europe because it strengthens us financially, socially, and culturally. The European Union must be led by people who have only one goal in mind: to improve our community and the lives of us all.

By casting my vote, I have helped to ensure that we are hopefully spared a dystopian future in which radicals, fascists, and populists, under the guise of democracy, aim to undermine and destroy it and our very own existences following thereafter.

Committing ourselves to the European idea is the best chance we have of a realistic utopia in this period of human history. We are united in diversity, we are the future, we are Europe.

War in My Head

When I was younger, I used to attribute my emotional shortcomings to being a spoiled only child. I had to be the center of attention in every group I was part of. If that didn’t happen, I would go to great lengths to convince everyone around me that I was the focal point of their otherwise unbearable lives. I was an obnoxious drama queen with a distinct main character complex—or maybe I was just bored as hell.

I began to realize that my own thoughts would become my greatest enemy. The constant overthinking about everything and everyone led to a melancholy toward the world and its people. Painful memories gave way to a selfish lack of empathy.

The guilt from poor decisions triggered emotional swings that not only affected me but also those I cared about. I grew afraid of moving forward, knowing that even the smallest steps could end in disaster. My mind became a prison of doubts, loneliness, and self-destruction.

Escaping myself seemed impossible. Even the smallest hint of stress, anxiety, or unpredictability would send me spiraling back into old patterns and harmful habits I thought I had left behind. Most of my mental energy went toward resisting the madness that loomed just one wrong thought away. I knew that if I gave in, I would be lost forever—and that wasn’t worth it. At least, not yet.

I’ve come to terms with a bitter defeat in my ongoing battle with my mind and realized that I can’t go on without professional help. Without support, I keep slipping into the same mental loops and faulty conclusions. Then I grow more frustrated, lonelier, and weaker.

My doctor has diagnosed me with moderate depression. Starting today, I’ll be taking prescription medication to prevent mental crashes, balance my emotions, and hopefully feel happier. I’ve also been referred to a psychiatric ward for therapy. It’s an option worth trying. I hope these steps will help me lead a somewhat normal life, or at least call a ceasefire in the war raging in my head.

My Britney Moment

This event has been planned for weeks in my mind. I storm through the front door, undress, and throw my clothes on the white sheets and pillows-covered bed. I enter the now brightly lit bathroom with a fully loaded electric razor and stand in front of the mirror. A little push in the right direction and the machine starts to buzz.

Anticipation has a habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment but tonight there’ll be some love, Alex Turner yells into my ear. Tonight there’ll be a ruckus, yeah, regardless of what’s gone before.

It’s about time. I’m not allowed to think anymore. Now is the time for action. I place the vibrating device on my head and it starts to shred through my hair. Dark tufts rain down around me. In a few minutes, I will be a new person.

I’m the artist of my own self. I try to optimize my body, my appearance, and my clothes so that they no longer cause me any problems. In my mind and the outside world. Because I’m in a constant battle between minimalism, depression, and mulling over irrelevancies. And, let’s be honest, a big chunk of laziness too.

Usually, it’s the same story all over again. I think about reducing my lifestyle in terms of food, habits, or stuff I own. The longer the decision to do so runs through my thoughts, the result is always something like: sure, why not? So I delete it.

Sometimes it returns somehow but usually I don’t give a fuck about it and it just disappears from my mind, my future, and my life. If I don’t regret doing it immediately, I know that I’ve made the right decision. Like shaving my head and thinking: This action brings me one step closer to my ultimate self.

There must be no more options, just my own unique and individual standard. It’s time to emancipate myself from my doubts. That’s why I choose one path in every single respect. And I try to stick to it, with some adjustments of course. The universe is chaotic enough. So I’m happy about any lack of alternatives—even if it’s only brought about by myself.

This is my Britney moment. The big difference between her situation and mine is that she did it out of mental desperation and I did it out of an unavoidable step in my perfectionist master plan.

The liberating feeling you get when you run an electric razor through your hair and realize that there’s no going back now is probably somewhere between orgasm and murder. And it’s only that good the first time. That’s for sure. Because from now on it’ll be just another routine that I have to implement into my life. It’ll soon become completely normal for me.

I look at my work of art in the mirror. No racing heart, no regrets. Just absolute satisfaction that I no longer have to worry about this part of my life. And, who knows, maybe Britney felt the same.

Going Places

Although life feels like it will drag on forever, and I’m convinced of my own immortality anyway, a bitter truth hangs over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles: I will die. I’m not sick, at least I hope not, but the day I die will come, without a doubt.

How am I supposed to deal with this bitter realization without slipping into paralyzing apathy or pure panic, weighed down by my weltschmerz? Exactly: I try to make the best of the time I have left on this planet.

This resolution doesn’t always work. Sometimes I lie in bed for days, letting life’s opportunities pass me by, like some fool who doesn’t even understand the fear of missing out.

On days when I have enough energy, curiosity, and hope, I step outside my front door and actively face the universe. I want to experience something new: an adventure, fresh faces, or something I’ve never seen before with my own eyes. It doesn’t always have to be a grand event or life-changing moment.

Sometimes, giving the small things a chance is enough. I visit an unfamiliar place—a café, a store, or a nearby lake—or strike up conversations with people I’ve just met or haven’t interacted with much before. Sometimes they’re hilarious. Or, I confront problems and fears with new approaches, solving and eliminating them for good.

I’m often so blinded by routine, that I don’t even consider exploring alternatives. Coffee? Black. Sneakers? White. Girls? Blonde. Sometimes, though, I avoid the unfamiliar because I’m afraid that even a harmless choice will plunge me into mental chaos, forcing me to expend significant effort to regain my balance—only to return to the tried and tested.

This has happened far too often, and I can’t ignore the risk. But maybe, the one new thing I embrace on a seemingly inconsequential yet fateful day could be the key to a whole new life. Because no matter how small or unimportant it may seem, every possibility carries the potential for something great.

Unrequited Expectations

I firmly believe that expectations are the root of all disappointment in interpersonal relationships. Expectations will always let me down, no matter who or what they’re directed at.

If I assume that someone I care about will act in a way I expect, I’ve already set myself up for failure. There is no exception to this harsh law of life. Even when expectations seem to be met, it’s often an illusion.

Why do people I place expectations on end up disappointing me? It’s not that they do it on purpose, they have their own expectations of situations, goals, hopes, and people. They’re playing the same doomed game, just with different players.

They don’t know what’s going on inside me. And they don’t have to, nor do they need or want to. They have their own thoughts and worries, and they’re busy enough with those.

So, should I never place any expectations on anyone or anything again? Perhaps. But maybe it’s enough to avoid basing my entire emotional world on those expectations and falling apart when things don’t go as I imagined.

I should aim to be strong enough, so grounded in myself, that the actions of others don’t throw me off course. The more satisfied I am with myself, the more I can tolerate not being the focus of others’ attention. And that’s a good thing.

I must be careful not to fall into the same traps as many others who overthink their lives, relationships, and dreams. Unmet expectations can lead not only to disappointment but also to the destruction of important friendships.

Unmet expectations offer valuable lessons. They help me reflect on myself and the people around me. Approaching people without expectations allows me to enrich my life with the experiences they trustingly share, without expecting anything in return.

I shouldn’t close myself off to this opportunity but approach it with an open heart—even if I may never truly become part of the world of the one I hold those expectations for.

Self-Destructive Tendencies

Hello. My name’s Marcel, and my various hobbies include reading, cooking, and sabotaging my own life. Then I chase away friends, place obstacles in the path of my success, and sacrifice myself for irrelevant beliefs.

While normal people know when to stop and avoid repeating the same mistakes, I crave unnecessary drama and go the extra mile. All I reap from these self-destructive tendencies are disappointment, anger, and loneliness.

The worst part is, I know when it’s better to stay quiet, when a situation doesn’t need to escalate—but something inside me wants to watch my world burn, over and over again.

With this attitude, I’m putting people through pointless tests they can’t pass, just to prove to myself that these friendships were doomed from the start. That I’m better off alone, because relying on others only leads to disappointment.

Thanks to my superior mindset, I save myself the time, which I can now spend alone—trapped in my head with no chance of escape.

It’s hard for me to tell who’s truly a friend and who just happens to share the same space. Who’s forced to spend time with me but looks for the next chance to get away. And just when I’m surrounded by people to whom I’ve devoted thoughts, dreams, and hopes, I feel alone again.

Why bother making connections if they’re only going to be shallow, collapsing like a house of cards with just a few wrong words? I could save myself the trouble. I shouldn’t set up false expectations, and if I did get disappointed, I’d only have myself to blame.

Should I stop people from entering my life and wave them away before they even get close? Since there’s nothing left but to spend some time together and then say goodbye?

It’s unrealistic to form friendships with everyone. It’s enough to share a moment, to enjoy each other’s company before moving on. And it’s okay to dedicate thoughts, dreams, and hopes to those fleeting connections.

Welcome to the Club

Each faculty at our university has its very own student council. There is one for computer science, one for humanities and natural sciences, one for architecture and civil engineering, one for electrical engineering, one for mechanical and process engineering and one for economics.

And then there’s the motley crew that I’ve been a member of: The Design Student Council. This is where illustrious people from the three degree courses Communication Design, Interactive Media, and Creative Engineering come together to chat about art, events, and life in general over pizza, beer, and music, as well as to have a bit of a rant about the other student councils.

Through the student council, I got to know all sorts of great people from different areas of the university who would otherwise have remained unknown to me and would have continued to pass me by without a greeting in the canteen. Together we organize flea markets, karaoke evenings, and exhibitions, act as contacts for new students, and try to improve university life with our ideas.

Sometimes we spend hours discussing grievances at our faculty, sometimes we try to answer the eternal question of how many primary school children we could defeat in a fight to the death. The correct answer, of course, is seven—everyone knows that.

I am very glad that in my first semester I dared to sit down week after week in a room full of people who were becoming fewer and fewer strangers to me, and through this, from my perspective, quite courageous step, I became part of a community that enriched my time at university in many ways.

Gradually, more and more of my friends have found their way into the Design Student Council, and thus to free cold drinks, and rumor has it that I have already spent a night or two in our designated room after the evening got a little out of hand. Every faculty at our university has its own student council—and ours is undoubtedly the best.

The Wandering Mouth

We’re at a party. Strange and familiar faces hover around us, drinking and shouting. Cheerful music fills the air. The garden where we celebrate is lit up in bright colors.

You’re having fun, drifting from one bottle to the next, from one taste to another, from one mouth to the next. People are waiting for you to push beyond the limit. Things are spinning out of control. The mood shifts. It’s no longer fun.

The night grows darker. You fall, lying on your back on the grass, laughing with the others around you. Your top has slipped up, exposing more than you realize. I walk over, cover you, and pull you to your feet. It’s hard to tell if you’re laughing or crying.

You try to kiss me. I turn away, pressing your head to my shoulder. I love you very much, I whisper in your ear. Silence. I love you too, you answer quietly. Björk’s voice whispers, Your mouth floats above my bed at night, my own private moon.

You nestle your head against mine, the faint smell of beer, salt, and cigarettes mingling in your breath. Hair to hair. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse.

Just because the mind can make up whatever it wants, doesn’t mean that it’ll never come true, won’t ever happen. Please, could I change that? I can feel your body against mine. Just because she can. This moment feels like the most important thing in the world.

Is that the right thing to do? Oh, I just don’t know. You turn toward me, your face close. Let me introduce one to the other. The dream and the real, get them acquainted. Introduce. A mouth to a mouth.

Your face becomes mine. I taste your lips, your tongue. Your breath enters me, warm, filled with beer, salt, cigarettes, and a hint of loneliness. The dream and the real, get them acquainted.

Maybe hope can win. Can I just sneak up from behind? I plead. Now please, can I kiss her? I shout. Is that the right thing to do? The void answers softly, Oh, I just don’t know. There’s a line there, I can’t cross it. I wake up, am lost, can no longer deny it.

Round Two, Fight!

Well then, are you all already as excited as I am? Of course you are. Because this week my second semester in the Interactive Media degree program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences is beginning. And ahead of me—and my daring fellow companions—lie a few months full of fun, excitement, and… very… nice… other… things. The main thing is that there’s something with alliteration. Because that always sounds good.

And since you’re surely absolutely dying to know what awaits little Marcel this semester, why don’t we all take a look at exactly that together. Because let’s be honest: you don’t have anything better to do right now anyway. Exactly. So… let the wild ride begin!

In the Introduction to Interactive Design, we’ll get an overview of systems of order, the principles of interaction and interface design, the basics of creative prototyping, cross-media design and creativity techniques, basic analog and digital design tools, and the fundamentals of usability as well as design theory. Presumably it’s also about the fundamental fundamentals of the fundamentals—but that’s obviously just speculative wishful thinking.

In any case, we’ll definitely learn information design, data visualization, mapping, screen design—so typography, grids, and design systems—the basics of usability and human-centered design, as well as generative design. That all sounds very fascinating indeed.

After successfully completing the module, we’ll be able to apply basic design principles and typography appropriately across different digital output media, independently prototype design tasks using analog and digital design tools, apply fundamental design and creativity techniques, solve tasks experimentally and process-oriented through prototypes and design variants, and analyze and visualize processes.

The course Introduction to Audiovisual Design, in turn, spans a wide arc from the elementary forms of expression in animation to methodological design concepts for time-based media. Both conceptual design and artistic experimentation are encouraged. The lectures challenge us to actively participate and to develop our own positions.

The working groups and workshops provide hands-on experience, fostering personal experience and self-organization within teams. Group work is, after all, the very best thing in the world. Everyone loves it. And the teaching methods are oriented toward critical discourse and practical experience.

A major focus here is animation. In lectures, the most important animation cultures are presented exemplarily, and in workshops, simple animation techniques are practiced. In addition, cinematic means of expression are also covered—again introduced in lectures and then applied in workshops. This is where we build the bridge to storyboarding, an essential design technique for audiovisual media. Discussions of current and classic media art, as well as excursions to relevant festivals and exhibitions, round out the program.

In the Introduction to Web Technologies, we learn all about the internet and how it works. We study the functionality of key browser protocols, the technical foundations of websites, and the basics of frontend programming. We acquire knowledge about the practical and correct use of relevant internet protocols and browser interfaces, the implementation of designed websites, navigation and manipulation of the DOM using JavaScript and jQuery, and the creation of interactive websites.

We also learn how to analyze connection problems and browser traffic performance in relation to web applications, as well as how to plan and implement our own websites using various developer tools. In the end, we’ll understand what HTTP, TCP, APIs, WebSockets, WebRTC, XML, HTML, CSS, JavaScript, and jQuery are. Hopefully. Wasn’t CSS a band once?

In the Introduction to Software Development, we learn how to design, implement, document, and test our own applications. These applications also include graphics and user interaction via graphical interfaces. By the end of the module, we’ll be able to transfer the acquired knowledge and skills to a small, self-developed software project and put it into operation.

We learn all about development phases, requirements analysis, design, implementation, testing, deployment, and maintenance of programs, as well as methods of agile software development and advanced concepts of object-oriented programming such as class hierarchies, inheritance, and polymorphism, along with programming graphical user interfaces. The content is made practically tangible through an individually planned and implemented software project carried out during the lab.

On a very personal note, the next part of the Japanese language course is also coming up for me, in which we’ll learn the second Japanese script, Katakana. It’s basically the alternative—and mostly Western-term-used—little brother of Hiragana. During the course, we’ll even all go out for Japanese food together and order our dishes in the East Asian national language. How exciting. Ichi sushi kudasai!

And since I postponed the programming exam from the first to the second semester—because my private fortune teller decided it should be so—I also get to look forward to another round of Processing. Hooray. At least I’m not alone in this, because some of my fellow students were just as incapable and are therefore in the same boat as me. That immediately makes me feel less lonely.

In any case, I’m excited to see what adventurous projects we’ll tackle in the new courses, and after the one-and-a-half-month-long semester break—which seemed to go on forever—I’m actually looking forward to returning to a somewhat structured daily routine that is not self-determined by me. On the other hand, the semester break could of course have lasted another three to eighty-seven months longer. I would certainly have been the last to complain.

By the end of this semester, we’ll also have to decide whether we want to pursue the artistic or the technical track. My choice is already clear. And that’s not only because of the traumatic computer science exam that I still sometimes dream about—only to wake up late at night drenched in sweat, shouting, A, A, B, B, A, A, B, A, B, A, B, B, B, A… C?!

My heart simply beats more for the colorful world of subjectively evaluated art. Objective technology, with all its rules, regulations, and laws invented by some mathematicians that are nearly impossible to argue away, is for me more of a means to an end—and therefore secondary. Yes, dear computer scientists, I know this sentence hurts a lot. But you’ll just have to get over it. Really.

As in the previous semester, I’ll then once again present you with a conclusion of the months behind me, in which I’ll proudly proclaim why I am the best, smartest, and probably also most handsome student Augsburg University of Applied Sciences has ever had. And while you’re still laughing, I’ll already be sailing off into the sunset on my yacht—paid for solely by my high IQ—with a very lightly clothed Selena Gomez in my arms. Or something like that.

Meeting a Master

This semester, we took part in a workshop with the popular Hungarian artist István Horkay as part of our Werkwoche at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg. His collage posters are famous and have been exhibited in galleries all over the world.

István Horkay embarked on his journey by graduating from the School of Fine Arts in Budapest. Following this, he was offered an opportunity to enrich his skills at the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow, where he earned his Master of Fine Arts. And he taught us exactly that: The fine arts.

István Horkay’s art is epitomic in the double meaning of the word. A fragment, an incised part of something that already exists, and, because of this incision, a violation of the finished surface, the tangle of writing or a finished picture. This is based on the experience that people, by transmitting themselves through signs, feign a kind of meaningfulness.

In István Horkay’s work, this textual meaningfulness always appears differently, as contrasting colors appear on the surface in separate places. His posters are not only experimental but life itself.

It was a great experience to work with István Horkay and his lovely wife and design some works under his personal guidance. I was allowed to design a total of three posters, which I called The Book of Love, The Bachelor of Arts and Jazz.

The workshop was complemented by an exhibition that took place together with a display of the most beautiful German books.

The Werkwoche was a great opportunity to creatively break out of the daily routine of studying and try something completely new. I’m looking forward to taking part again in the near future.

My second semester was rewarding—I had a great time, made new connections, and deepened existing ones. That’s what college is all about. At least for me.

In the semester after next I have the chance to spend it abroad and was asked to choose a university in a country that interests me. After some thoughtful consideration, I’ve narrowed down my options to Japan, Taiwan, and Lithuania.

In a few weeks, I will know where my journey will take me. I would agree with all the choices. Simply because each of them offers opportunities that I will never have again.

Let’s see where destiny will take me to. Until then I’m looking forward to my fourth semester with new courses, new people, and new adventures. Yeah.

Time to Grow Up

Since the beginning of my college attendance and the subsequent move to a new city, my entire circle of friends consists of my fellow students. That wouldn’t really be a problem. After all, they are all great people with their very own dreams, hopes, and goals. And I’ve grown very fond of some of them over time.

We’ve partied the night away together, sunbathed by the lake, cooked delicious food, danced, played tabletop role-playing games, watched anime, and had profound conversations about the meaning of it all. The time I spend with these people means a lot to me.

But I’m realizing that the age difference between me and them is leading to interpersonal difficulties. After all, I am now 40 years old and most of them are around 20. And that’s not a very healthy relationship.

When we celebrated my birthday in a trendy bar in the city center a few days ago, we had a lot of fun. Expensive drinks, loud music, and a few colorful drugs. Everything I need to have a good time.

But of course, I noticed that I was the oldest person there. I couldn’t flirt with anyone because otherwise, I would have felt like a creep. And that’s not all: I’m generally not allowed to develop feelings for my fellow students that go beyond friendship. No matter how much I would like to sometimes.

Because otherwise, I feel like I’m abusing their trust in me as a friend. But since I would like to be in a romantic relationship again because I honestly miss that in my life, I now feel a little trapped in this adolescent world.

I have therefore resolved to finally grow up. At least partially. I need to expand my circle of friends. Get to know people who will help me grow. Mentally. And with whom I have the chance to develop intimate relationships that are not possible in my current environment for various reasons.

However, I don’t yet know how I’m going to do this. Maybe I should find a new hobby. Or go to places that are frequented by people of the same age. Or maybe it’s enough to walk through the world a little more consciously and be more open to new folks.

The important thing is not to get too comfortable in my present surroundings. Otherwise, I will deny myself opportunities that are currently hidden from me.

Midlife Crisis Outfit

As of today, I am 40 years old. So it’s about time to talk about my midlife crisis. Strictly speaking, I’ve been in it for four decades now, but in order to have a good starting point for today’s topic, let’s just assume that it’s reached its peak today.

My midlife crisis manifests itself internally through constant reflection, depression, and self-destructive tendencies and externally through continuous optimization of my, at least in my eyes, perfect outfit.

I am a great advocate of a single appearance. While normal people wear a different wardrobe every day, consisting of all kinds of colors, shapes, and brands, I have made it my mission to find the ideal piece of clothing for every part of my body. And, yes, I know that this behavior is the result of some error in my head. But let’s call it minimalism.

I quickly realized that the majority of my individual uniform had to be black. That way I don’t have to worry about any color combinations. Black always fits, looks good, and is also slimming. No other color has so many wins.

What’s more, my outfit has to be cheap, basic, and available everywhere. Even if, for whatever reason, I end up in Guatemala, I need to be able to go into town and replace a used item of clothing there.

That’s why I’ve chosen a few international companies whose products I use to present myself to the world. Of course, I always adapt this decision. After all, my outfit is alive. Like me. I’m not dead. Yet.

Most of my clothes are from H&M. Because the quality is good, the price is reasonable, and availability is guaranteed. One plus point is that the basics are not printed with logos. They are simple, modern, and have a good shape. I can also dye them if they are washed out.

So I’ve bought the same black pants, T-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, jackets, underpants, scarves, and gloves several times so that I can change them every day.

Of course, I can’t wear too many nameless basics, otherwise I have no character. That’s why my cap printed with the New York Yankees logo is from New Era. Because I wanted something American.

And since black only looks good with white accents, because otherwise you seem like a mortician, I’m wearing a pair of white Nike Air Force 1 with white Nike Everyday Cushioned Training Crew socks. Because it’s the default right now.

My outfit is rounded off with black Jisco glasses, a vintage Casio watch, and Apple AirPod Pros. Done. This is how stylish a midlife crisis can be. At least in my head.

The Death of Social Media

When websites like MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter emerged in the early 2000s, I was fascinated by the possibilities they brought. Whether I was chatting with buddies, flirting with girls, or discussing the latest One Piece episode with other fans, social media turned the internet into a place where strangers could become acquaintances, and acquaintances could become friends.

Social media shaped who I am today. Facebook took me to Berlin, Twitter to Japan, and Instagram to America. I reveled in the benefits of this universe, but I watched with regret as these platforms gradually became breeding grounds for hate, ignorance, and depression.

Suddenly, social media was no longer fun. Still, I didn’t want to abandon the dream of a connected world, because there were people on these platforms who meant something to me. For far too long, I ignored my inner voice telling me it was time to say goodbye to the hollow shell that social media had become.

Maybe I was just afraid, or perhaps I was hoping I’d find a reason to keep denying the inevitable. But the longer I stayed, the more out of place I felt amid the angry voices, blunt propaganda, and false promises. So, I had only one choice to finally shed this mental burden that had weighed on me for years: delete social media. And now, I’ve done it.

Besides my retreat from social media, I’ve also stopped using emojis in emails, chats, and text messages. I’ve disabled the buttons that let me decorate my thoughts with colorful little pictures on my phone and computer. My words have to stand on their own. And if they can’t, then I’ve failed as a writer—and as a decent human being.

Of course, emojis serve a purpose. They’re meant to fill the gaps where words fall short. Without them, there will be misunderstandings, arguments, and, ultimately, conflicts. But I don’t care about that. As usual, the world should revolve around me and my decisions, no matter how arbitrary or illogical they may seem.

Men of Culture

When a brave adventurer has spent the entire day climbing mountains, recovering treasures, and battling giants, while trying to keep every single one of his limbs attached to his body, there are three things that drive him to look forward to the next day: Beer. Meat. And sex.

After all, he’s got tough memories in his head, hard-earned coin in his pocket, and an even harder erection in his pants. And he needs to deal with these potential problem-makers as quickly as possible, so they don’t lead to his downfall in the long run. The only question is: Which establishment will help him the most in this delicate matter for the least amount of money?

Stunk and Zel are two prime examples of these now not-so-theoretical fortune hunters. For the jaded human and the high-spirited elf, real life begins when they step onto the streets, now aglow with the city’s colorful neon signs, after a tingling brew at the Ale & Eats inn, run by the ever-bubbly bird lady Meidri.

From there, they can slip into the well-oiled, frequently used orifices of willing prostitutes. After all, there are plenty available here, in every conceivable shape, color, and function imaginable. One day, they rescue the angel Crimvael from the clutches of a wild monster and introduce the innocent soul to the pleasures of jolly light girls.

I enjoyed Interspecies Reviewers more than I expected. Stunk and Zel are two lovable, horny guys who want to mount anything that breaths. Their boundary-pushing sexcapades are so colorful, amusing, and over the top that I’d love to see a second season. But for various reasons, it will likely never happen.

So I have no choice but to close my eyes, have a few warm thoughts, and imagine myself joining Stunk and Zel’s illustrious troupe, about to get down and dirty in the nearest fantasy brothel. I’m even thinking about getting the manga, just because I want to know which brightly lit establishments my testosterone-fueled friends will end up in next.

Blessed Blow

God had the best cocaine. My friends assured me of that. Nothing was as clear, pure, and effective as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table at weekends.

God was not even twenty years old. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a notorious Catholic boarding school for girls. We should have named her Devil, at least if her stories from there were to be believed.

Since God liked me, I was always allowed to snort for free. But that privilege made me feel like a mooch, so I paid for her food at McDonald’s and her drinks at Bar 25 in return. Sometimes at least.

While I randomly consumed everything I could get my hands on, God only used cocaine to function. Her minimalist usage made a great impression on me.

After a trip to her parents in the south, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor has it there was trouble with a classmate. God had smashed her head so hard against a sink in the restroom during an argument that it broke. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.

Jump, Jump, Jump!

When I think of Japan, my mind drifts to sushi, manga, and suicide. It’s a country of pure contrasts, where neon lights pulse with life, yet shadows loom just as brightly. Recently, I watched Sion Sono’s cult masterpiece Suicide Club, a delirious descent into the bizarre phenomenon of mass suicides sweeping the East Asian nation.

The film from 2001, featuring appearances by Ryo Ishibashi, Akaji Maro, and Masatoshi Nagase, unfolds like a sinister puzzle, with Detective Kuroda and his team fumbling through a trail of cryptic clues: Rancid sports bags, clunky early-internet websites, and a deeply unnerving pop idol group that’s equal parts saccharine and sinister. And I love it.

The opening scene is burned into my head: Dozens of uniformed schoolgirls, hands clasped and faces alight with giddy laughter, throwing themselves in front of a speeding subway train. Blood sprays across the station like something out of a grotesque art installation. It’s horrifying, absurd, and iconic—a tone-setter for the ride that follows.

From there, the movie spirals into a dizzying blend of splatter gore, J-pop surrealism, and psychological labyrinths. What’s it all about? The search for identity? Love? Friendship? Or is it just a meditation on flesh? Sion Sono doesn’t hand out answers. Instead, he dares me to sit with the madness and draw my own conclusions.

There’s something inconceivably irresistible about shows and movies set in Tokyo right around the turn of the millennium. Foldable phones snapping shut with satisfying clicks, Eurobeat tracks pumping through crowded arcades, schoolgirls in sailor suits dashing to catch the last train—it was the very last time when Japan felt like the epicenter of cool, a fever-dream era that unfortunately will never quite return.

Suicide Club captures that strange moment perfectly, preserving it in all its chaotic, messy glory. And if there’s one message I take away from this twisted gem, it’s that you have to treat life like a write-once hard drive. Although, it would be nice to forget the bad things.

I Lost My Heart in Tokyo

Japan is not only a land of cultural traditions, technological achievements, and historical, social, and geographical challenges, but for many enthusiasts it is a nation of great and small wonders waiting to be discovered and explored.

Over the past decades, Tokyo has developed into an international hotspot for pop culture, from fashion and music to art. In Kyoto, you’ll find the most beautiful temples; in Osaka, the most delicious delicacies; in Yokohama, the most exhilarating nightlife.

Those who make it as far as Okinawa, Hokkaido, or Tottori experience Japan in its most multifaceted form. They see that anything is possible here. They realize they are standing in the midst of a cultural treasure trove and need only choose a direction.

In anime and manga, wide-eyed space pirates, power-hungry swordsmen, and brave magical girls come to life. In J-pop and J-rock, both the bright and shadowed sides of life are sung about. And in countless novels—from Banana Yoshimoto and Haruki Murakami to Mieko Kawakami—quiet and outspoken heroes alike search for happiness.

Japanese pop culture is full of love, desire, and passion. It seems to burst outward in every conceivable direction, and with every loud bang a new discovery, a new story, a new potential passion comes to life.

My observations of the Land of the Rising Sun, poured into words, are declarations of love to this seemingly endless universe of creative daydreams—one into which you can immerse yourself at will, whose brightly illuminated gates stand open to all who wander the world with open eyes in search of an inspiring home.

I want to celebrate Japanese pop culture in Germany and beyond. Whether fashion, art, music, films, books, games, travel, technology, food, or life in general—whether anime, manga, or J-pop—whether widely known far beyond the borders of the Far East or long since faded into eternal insider status in its homeland.

For you, I set out on a journey into the distance, in search of an alternative world whose energy can be felt from here, whose courage can be sensed from here, whose love can be felt even from afar. I want to grasp it and understand it—and hold it close to us.

In my texts on Japanese pop culture, which I regularly publish on this blog, I sit beside Spike Spiegel in the cockpit in Cowboy Bebop, save the world with Asuka Langley Soryu and her friends in Neon Genesis Evangelion, and wander with Ginko through the spirit-filled forests of a long-forgotten world in Mushishi.

I dive into the bustling chaos of Takeshita Street in the heart of Harajuku, let myself be swept away by the gaming kids in front of the flickering screens in Akihabara, and settle into a well-hidden jazz café in Shimokitazawa to listen, over a cup of matcha tea, to the lively sounds of Ryo Fukui, Casiopea, and Soil & “Pimp” Sessions.

And now and then, I travel back in time to a Japan that no longer exists: to the exciting 1970s of creative revolution, the brightly glowing 1980s of economic dominance, and the sobering 1990s of financial decline. Each era is as beautiful as it is different, waiting to be discovered and brought back to life.

Every single one of my articles about Japan is a digital homage to the creative spirits of a nation that so often seems far away. If you enjoy looking beyond the cultural horizon, if you are always searching for something new, exciting, and surprising, and if you are not afraid of perhaps losing yourself forever in a labyrinth of otherness, then you are in exactly the right place here.

Discover Japan’s most imaginative side with me, again and again. I look forward to embarking with you, in my upcoming articles about the Land of the Rising Sun, on an unforgettable expedition into the depths of Far Eastern ingenuity—and to uncovering together one or another lost treasure hidden somewhere in the depths of Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka.

Beer, Beer, and More Beer

The second semester of my studies in Interactive Media has just said goodbye to me. Officially it doesn’t end until the end of September but with the semester break starting in the next few days, I can justifiably say that my first year at college is now over.

It has been a year full of new people, experiences, and joy of life. I have learned, designed, and programmed. We made our own movies, build machines, and create animations, tried our hand at programming languages, and almost single-handedly destroyed the university’s beverage budget in the form of beer, beer, and more beer.

I joined the design student council and a Dungeons & Dragons club, helped out at events in front of and behind the scenes, and spent some nights at the campus because I missed the last train home more than once.

While a few months ago, I was still convinced that I wanted to devote myself entirely to visual wonders and thus pursue a Bachelor of Arts, in recent weeks I have come to the decision that I would like to try my hand at the Bachelor of Science after all and thus prove myself in the world of bits and bytes.

The good thing about this plan is that if it fails, I can still crawl back into the art world the following semester. Possibly because the physics-soaked math has taken the fun out of it for me. I would then only have to make up a few missing modules.

In the next semester, we will have to try out various elective modules in the areas of design, computer science, and gaming and decide in which country we would like to spend our semester abroad.

I’m currently leaning towards Japan, Finland, or Estonia, but I still have little a bit of time to think about it in peace. Besides, I have to be accepted there first, and this decision is, sadly, not mine alone. But let’s see in which part of the world I’ll end up in the coming winter.

My versatile studies have given me, and I’m not exaggerating, a sense of life again. A reason to get up early in the morning. To come to campus with joy, smile at familiar faces, and experience new adventures with people I already know or just met for the first time. And for that, I want to thank everyone who has shared this journey with me so far.

I’m really glad I decided to apply at Technical University of Applied Sciences in Augsburg last year for being able to have this opportunity and excited to see what challenges await me next semester.

If I Can’t Be a Part of Your World

Of course I can’t always have what I want. That would be far too easy anyway. My own happiness sometimes collides with the dreams and wishes of others. And I have no right to hurt them just because I hold the questionable belief that I absolutely must be the main character in every single story that is told.

Every now and then I have to admit to myself that, in a play, I only occupy a supporting role and that the spotlight is directed at someone else. No matter how hard that may be on my own ego. Sometimes I am neither Romeo nor Juliet, but simply some random fruit vendor who suffers dutifully in the background.

If the slim, black-clad girl I like—with her white sneakers marked by life, who grins shamelessly at just the right moments—the girl I want to spend time with, experience adventures with, forge memories with, and face the perils of the world alongside, already has someone like that by her side, who—surprise—is not me, then the only correct path I should be capable of taking is the one that leads away.

Away from this captivating girl, away from her supposedly radiant happiness, away from the creeping pain I have grown accustomed to in recent times out of sheer ignorance toward myself and perhaps a touch of masochism.

Above all, away from the inner urge to perhaps still obtain—through some random, completely logic-defying miracle of this universe—the chance to become part of this slowly dissolving hope.

Before I cause irreparable damage. To myself and to the girl I actually wanted to win over. Because all I could achieve with this desperate plan is hatred, anger, and an almost unimaginable loneliness. And I certainly don’t want that. Unless I am already lost. But then everything is too late anyway.

So while she’s lying in bed with her boyfriend late at night, having watched a show, he was allowed to dive into her, and now, without sparing a single thought for me, has fallen asleep tightly cuddled up to him, I stand after a mediocre party in the rain, with two cold, rancid McDonald’s cheeseburgers in a bag, at the main station, waiting for the last train home—only to indulge in the one pastime I desperately wanted to prevent: thinking about her.

These embarrassing and pitiful emotional scars could be avoided if I followed the advice that emerged from a boozy round of others. That I should distract myself. That I should talk to the nice but uninteresting faces about more than just a few irrelevant sentences. That I might thereby find someone who could burn themselves into my emotional world just as deeply as the person whose attention I am trying to draw to myself by every conceivable means.

But of course I don’t want that. Because everyone else is just empty shells compared to this one girl. And even though I know perfectly well that this isn’t true, it’s far easier to regard this both subjective and objective lie as an established truth and thus dissolve undisturbed in my own self-pity. After all, heartbreak is much more fun when I abandon all hope.

Perhaps because this way of dealing with sorrow is also much easier than having to face the uncomfortable reality that I may not actually be infatuated with the girl herself, but with the false expectations I pumped into her from the very beginning.

Because what do I really know about this girl, beyond the scattered stories she so graciously shared with me, and the connections I had to piece together myself—otherwise I would have been staring at a patchwork of other people’s memories? Exactly: nothing. I know absolutely nothing. And realizing this fact is the first step out of my own broken head and into the real world.

On top of that, as could hardly be otherwise, I’m a good person. Of course I am. At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t go completely insane. I don’t want to barge into someone else’s romance, no matter how broken and certainly miserable I might imagine it to be. Such a devious attack would not be my place and would also be deeply misanthropic. And probably very stupid.

Besides—and this is the most important point—it would get me nothing. I wouldn’t be the brave hero rescuing the helpless princess from the clutches of a painful relationship. No, I would simply be some random asshole who got too caught up in his own movie and, from whatever psychopathic abyss, decided that his only chance at happiness was to destroy that of others.

And no one wants anything to do with someone like that. Ever. Least of all the girl far removed from my own crumbling world, whose grin I see before me when I close my eyes. Her happiness should be untouchable. Even if she has decided that I myself may not be a part of it.

So I am left with nothing else but to scrape together the last remnants of my own sanity, my own reason, and perhaps a bit of my own pride, and arrive at the only right decision that is worth pursuing.

Namely, that I must tear down, burn, and blow up these bridges built in the wrong direction as quickly as possible, turn around, and finally walk once more along the ridge of mental health. Before it is possibly too late.

Maybe the other nice faces aren’t just empty shells after all. Maybe one of them can evoke the same feelings in me as the slim, black-clad girl with the white sneakers marked by life. Maybe one of them is just as pretty, smart, and cheeky—if only I allow for that potential instead of dismissing it with irritation from the outset. And if everything goes well, I might even forget why I was so fascinated by that one shamelessly grinning person in the first place.

Hope Dies Last

From up here you can see the lush green meadows, the azure-blue sea, and the clear, sunny sky. Gentle piano melodies echo through the overgrown high-rises. The decaying buildings are the last memorials to a civilization that was not prepared for its sudden departure.

In the distant future, invaders from another world attack Earth without warning and unleash machine lifeforms to take over the planet. Faced with this insurmountable threat, humanity is driven from its home and flees to the Moon.

The Council of the Exiled organizes a technologically seemingly superior resistance force of android soldiers who attempt to reclaim Earth. To finally break the stalemate, the organization deploys a new unit of infantry: YoRHa.

Meanwhile, in the abandoned wasteland that was once a place filled with bustle and laughter, the battle between machines and androids continues to rage. A war that may soon bring to light the long-forgotten truth about this world and the fate of humanity…

Released in 2017, the role-playing game NieR:Automata by the Japanese artist Yoko Taro could easily have disappeared into the depths alongside countless similar titles because of its premise. Alien monsters attack Earth while humanity desperately struggles for survival. As if one had not already seen, heard, and played through something like that thousands of times before…

Yet while all those other works are forgotten shortly after their more or less tedious completion, even years later one keeps thinking back to what was experienced in the visually stunning successor to NieR Replicant. Because the end of the world has rarely been portrayed as so radically depressing, hopeless, and philosophically heavy.

NieR:Automata is an unforgettable experience on many different levels. The characters burn themselves into one’s emotional world. The epic music by Keiichi Okabe continuously shatters even the most cheerful-seeming thoughts. And the fact that you must successfully finish the game multiple times to fully understand the story—only to end up empty-handed again at the very end, after giving it your all—puts the finishing touch on the whole experience.

Anyone who wants to find happiness in a world of merciless hopelessness and ultimately drown in absolute depression cannot avoid NieR:Automata. Before long, they will be fighting side by side with 2B, 9S, and A2 against a seemingly insurmountable fate. And they will become part of a story whose true ending seems to flee with every step taken toward it—only to struggle desperately against its own resolution at the very last moment, by every conceivable means.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Walking

I love walking. Drop me anywhere on this round ball of Earth, point me in any direction, and I’ll set off. From A to B, crisscrossing, straight ahead or in circles. The main thing is to keep going, always further. And when I talk about running, I don’t mean jogging, racing, or sprinting—good God, no—but the most relaxed form of human locomotion: walking.

Over the past few years I’ve gradually increased my walking volume. Not long ago my daily step count was still in the single- or double-digit range, but I kept pushing my limit higher and higher. Three digits soon became four. Four digits eventually became five. And five digits might one day even become six. If that’s humanly possible at all.

The number of ten thousand steps a day—randomly pulled out of thin air by a Japanese company for advertising purposes and scientifically completely irrelevant—I can now easily manage. At the moment I’m hovering around an average of twenty thousand steps, like some kind of elite athlete.

My success—so inspiring to every single human on this planet—rests on three significant pillars of individual achievement: boredom, routine, and distraction. I simply have nothing better to do. I only do things if I’m used to doing them. And I only stick with something if my thoughts are occupied with something else while I’m doing it.

With alternative sporting activities, like jogging for example, I spend every second of the agonizing and seemingly never-ending process hoping that some confused hunter will mistake me for a graceful deer—or at least a somewhat stocky wild boar—and shoot me in the forest so it will finally be over. When I’m walking, on the other hand, I’m often surprised to realize I’ve already been doing it for two, three, sometimes four hours without actively noticing.

During the time when I’m more or less abusing my two still-functioning legs, I prefer listening to some kind of alternative-culture podcasts. For example 8-4 Play. Or Retrograde Amnesia. Or Axe of the Blood God. Anything where a few hardcore nerds passionately talk for hours about a topic that has narrowly missed mainstream mass consumption. The geekier, more multi-voiced, and more lively it is, the better.

Then, armed with my noise-canceling headphones, I stride rapidly through cities, across fields, along the lake. Past cars, people, and nice-smelling cafés, boutiques, and döner stands. Always with just one goal in mind: keep walking, always keep going, until I’m so exhausted I almost have to puke.

In Augsburg, where I’m currently studying as you may know, I have a regular route that has been carefully optimized but still leaves room for experimentation. I like the city a lot because it’s neither too big nor too small, and because you can disappear either into deserted alleyways or into the bustling chaos of the crowds—depending on what you feel like at the moment.

On a day completely at my disposal, I get off two stops before the main station, walk to the university library, treat myself to a coffee and a bit of laptop time, and then take a big loop through the Textile District, one or two parks, and the old town before buying something to eat at Rewe and heading home again.

And I do exactly that every day, over and over again, like a broken robot with no life. But it works. Because it’s routine. Because I like the varied route. Because I know exactly where, along my seemingly random path, I can rest, where I can get online, and where I can go to the bathroom. And that kind of certainty is exactly what mentally disadvantaged autists like me need.

This calculated knowledge drastically reduces the chances of unpleasant surprises while still leaving enough room for new ideas, secrets, and discoveries. And occasionally you even meet people you already know—or haven’t met yet—and can chat with them for a bit. At least that way you don’t feel quite so lonely while stubbornly walking in circles.

But Marcel, if you walk twelve-bazillion kilometers every day, why are you still such a fat pig? To that cheeky and completely unexpected question I have three perfectly thought-out and formulated answers. First: shut up. Second: no idea—how should I know? Third: I’m working on it, okay?! More information will be available in my upcoming self-help book, soon to appear at your trusted bookstore: Boss Transformation: From Battle Colossus to a Line in the Landscape.

While I’m preaching to you here about walking, what I actually want to make clear is that if you, for whatever reason, need more movement in your life, all you have to do is find something that doesn’t completely piss you off while you’re doing it. That can be literally anything. Except maybe sitting on the couch eating chips—unless you’re losing weight while doing it. If you are, then you’ve basically won at life.

The only rule you need to follow is that you must keep trying the different activities available to you until you finally find something where, while doing it, you don’t secretly wish for sudden cardiac arrest as an excuse to stop. Some people get lucky and find it on the first try, others only on the hundredth. That risk is something you just have to accept—but it’s worth it.

And if for me that means walking along paths in spring, summer, autumn, and winter—whether in sunshine, rain, or snow—and hopefully not getting run over by a bus, then for you it might be… who knows… football. Or tennis. Or climbing skyscrapers without safety gear or clothing. If the standard-issue stuff isn’t for you, then you should look beyond the obvious. Life is full of possibilities—you just have to use them.

Alright, enough guru talk for today. I’m going to put on my smelly sports shoes that are already almost crying out loudly for mercy, pick a five-hour podcast about the best Super Nintendo games of the early nineties, and head out into the wide world like little Hans. And if I do end up getting run over by a bus, at least I’ll have died doing something I truly love with all my heart. And not everyone can say that.

Dystopian Decadence

A misaligned photograph of the future, born in the fever of Japan’s growth in the sixties and seventies. Traditions, quiet and fine, threaded through with wabi-sabi as an inner pulse, keep time beneath the noise. Buildings that refuse to shed their rust, that keep a film of dull gray on the fingers, stand as patient witnesses. A floating consolation, and a smell of open country, move down the lanes and linger in the alleys.

The story of Millennium Parade unfolds in a forked-off Tokyo, grown out of this zone – our shared room of side-by-side living. The city has laid aside its earlier addiction to polish and noiseless urbanity. Instead, it sets out toward a strange, beautiful, absurdly ideal future metropolis, nourished by disorder and yet leaning toward transcendence.

The self-titled debut album by the Japanese music group Millennium Parade has been on constant rotation for me since release. After all, the record is packed only with absolute bangers from start to finish. Bon Dance? Slammer. Fly With Me? Slammer. Familia? Slammer.

The only tricky part is explaining the genre, because Millennium Parade simply hurl everything they have, pop, hip-hop, electronic, dance, rock, funk, jazz, and rap, into a single pot, give it a hard stir, and then fling the multicolored mash against the wall to see what dazzles.

It splatters, clings, and somehow composes a picture that feels both chaotic and deliberate, a collage that swings from sugar rush to steel-edged groove, music that keeps its playfulness even while sounding engineered with obsessive care. Unskippable.

Millennium Parade persuade not only with modern songs for modern people, but also with a visual presentation rarely seen. The videos and live appearances by the collective surrounding Daiki Tsuneta of King Gnu overflow with off-the-wall ideas and meticulous craft, mixing animation, stage design, and camera play into a kind of kinetic theater.

Every frame feels engineered, yet the work breathes. Spectacle never strangles the spark. Their aesthetic extends the music’s argument. The future can be unruly and tender at once, a city of images that invites touch. And I can hardly wait to finally hold the new record from this Japanese collective in my own hands, whenever it may choose to appear. Because nothing would make my heart happier than waking in a neon-soaked, alternate-timeline cyberpunk Tokyo.

Cool Guys in Their Hot Rods

Vroom, vroom, vroom—off they go, those daredevil devils in their souped-up death machines. At the Redline, after all, anything goes. The greatest racing competition in the universe only takes place every five years, and that’s exactly why absolutely everyone wants to claim the glory for themselves. All while organized crime and militaristic governments try to exploit the spectacle for their own purposes.

Joshua Punkhead, a reckless hotshot who has clearly never heard of speed limits and who crashes through everything with his ultra-tuned ride that isn’t up a tree by the count of three, has only one goal: to become the winner of the Redline. And that’s despite the fact that his crush, Sonoshee, is also competing—and has absolutely no intention of letting him win.

The murmur among the intergalactic spectators grows loud when it becomes clear that the current race will take place on Roboworld. Its militant inhabitants have absolutely no desire for a bunch of insane sports junkies to tear across their planet and possibly stumble upon one or two secret weapons of mass destruction.

A deadly game begins. Because it’s not just the other racers chasing Joshua—whom everyone simply calls JP—but also the president of Roboworld and his lackeys, who have set their sights on him and his fellow competitors. Can this loudmouthed guy with gasoline in his veins conquer both the Redline and Sonoshee’s heart?

From the first second to the last, Redline is fast-paced and wildly colorful action, occasionally broken up by quieter moments to catch your breath. JP is a likable jerk with his heart in the right place. And both the different drivers and the surrounding characters offer enough depth, soul, or simply fun to keep the audience entertained.

If Redline is anything, it’s stylish. You could pause the film at almost any random moment—every single frame would be a vibrant work of art. Whether it’s the tech-packed racing machines, the densely detailed locations, or the sensual women, Redline bursts with illustrative highlights, all underscored by slick music, bombastic sound effects, and one cool line after another.

By the end, it’s hard to believe what an overwhelming visual spectacle has just unfolded before your eyes, and you almost doubt whether you even caught everything that happened at breakneck speed. After all, the screen practically explodes toward the finale in a firework display of glaring colors. But perhaps that very doubt is what makes you want to watch the film all over again.

You can call Redline many things—but boring is definitely not one of them. Anyone who enjoys cool guys in hot rides and even hotter girls who constantly raise the stakes in every scene will appreciate this anime. Everyone else can keep puttering along in their Fiat Punto through a 30-km/h zone and avoid taking any risks in life.

Something Beautiful Is Going to Happen

The vacation spot outside Vaasa devoured the four Lund girls. With their tiny bones and their tanned skin, an entire era disappeared. Six kilometers of winding coastline, a popular bathing resort in the fifties. Rows of changing cabins, tall reeds rustling in the wind. Here one finds the era the conservatives long for: when parents could send their children to the beach unsupervised, two dollars for ice cream and a bus ticket in the pockets of their summer trousers.

Mom and Dad shook their heads in concern and concealed the news about the children in Messina, Graad, Gottwald, where, it seemed to them, every week the tiny skeleton of a child was found cast into a replacement wall. Regularly, someone’s daughter who had been kept captive in a basement there for thirty years would flee into the street and scream for help.

But not here. Here there is social democracy. And the delicate peach blossoms of social democracy, its gentle aid programs, these progressive things make the broken soul of a person flare up with a kind of hope. This fantasy land will remain forever untouched by that strange technical urge to build a secret underground room, one with a ventilation system whose vents are disguised in the lawn as miniature clay windmills.

These dark fever clouds of the mind cool in the clear mists of open air; the breath of the distant blue glaciers freezes the sick thoughts of a person. Vaasa. One would much rather live here. And then, on a Tuesday morning, clouds beneath a blue sky, the four sisters went swimming.

The computer role-playing game Disco Elysium, released in 2019 by the Estonian studio ZA/UM, takes place in a world that is raw, merciless, and devoid of any sign of empathy. In an era of political upheaval, in which the survivors of a ruthless war still have to wipe the blood from their faces, everyone searches for the remnants of happiness—whether in one of the great metropolises or far away from the depressive bustle.

Harrier Du Bois, a detective of the 41st precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia, called simply Harry by his few friends and many enemies, wakes one morning in a run-down seaside hotel with no memory of his past or of the world around him. He and his temporary partner from the 57th precinct, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, have been called to the once idyllic coastal town of Martinaise to investigate the brutal murder of a loudmouthed soldier.

The decaying world of Disco Elysium is full of interesting stories, viewpoints, and characters. From the first minute, the game is like a talkative book that wants to devour you and take your breath away with its never-ending chronicles. Wherever you lead Harry—through the enchanted church, the small supermarket, or the desolate swamp—with every step the history of a place collapses over you, a place that shouldn’t even exist like this… or perhaps it should?

Disco Elysium thrives on its enormous freedom of choice and the not-to-be-underestimated weight of chance. This begins even before Harry opens his eyes for the first time and continues all the way to the bitter end—when you only then realize the path you have taken, without having had any sense of what you may have missed. But by then it is already too late.

Harry’s limited time in Martinaise is essentially a search for himself disguised as a detective adventure. Do you want to confront the town’s inhabitants as a permanently drunk Nazi? As an all-knowing philosopher? As an unabashed muscleman? As an authoritarian logician? Or rather as a likable charmer? The possibilities in Disco Elysium seem almost limitless.

Anyone who immerses themselves in the world of Disco Elysium must renounce every distraction; they must become one with every single polygon that transforms into a living painting on the screen; they must become Harrier Du Bois. Or rather: Harrier Du Bois must become you.

Disco Elysium is an experience that likely does not exist a second time in this form or with this intensity. Martinaise may cover only a fraction of what the rest of the world—lingering in a fog that continuously approaches you—has to offer, but one can sense the immense drama hidden all around. And with every conversation, every question, every new idea, you come a little closer to this epic—without ever being able to grasp it fully. For the greater whole, one simply is not ready yet—and probably never will be.

The Empty Heart

If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.

I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my greatest sins and fears, and give them the feeling that I understand them and would move even the most unreachable levers just so that, simply by having met me, they might become happier. And that’s despite the fact that we only met for the first time five minutes ago.

In the past, I was almost proud of this ability—to actively switch off my shyness, lethargy, and social phobia and suddenly flip them into their complete opposite. Thanks to a trick I taught myself, which I call spontaneous mental distraction, and which works by thinking about something completely different just before doing something stupid or illogical, I do the boldest, craziest, and most charming things without having the chance to reflect on them beforehand. There simply isn’t enough time.

Those actions then feel completely natural and not wrong at all. And afterward I’m always glad I dared to do them, because it allows you to reach people who would otherwise have remained closed off to you. It’s fun to bend the world to my advantage this way. And I once thought that this absolute accessibility made me a better, more complete—and yes, also more popular—person.

Because of this unconventional character trait, I quickly became a central part of many different circles of friends, some of which only formed because of me. I enjoyed it when people desperately wanted to do things with me, competed for my favor at parties, or fell in love with me simply because they believed I was the first and only person on this planet who truly understood them and their problems. The feeling of emotional superiority eventually became normal to me.

But an oppressive truth that I initially dismissed as nonsense slowly became a sad certainty over time: I am a ghost. An empty heart wrapped in flesh without the slightest trace of empathy. A bus full of loudly wailing orphaned children could explode in front of me and it wouldn’t just be that I didn’t care—I would actually be annoyed that the little brats chose this exact moment to burn in front of me and block my way.

The only reason I can make friends with other people so quickly and easily is that they mean nothing to me. And if I do happen to take a particular liking to someone, I analyze them for so long and so intensely until I’ve finally gotten to the bottom of the fascination that drives me crazy—only to drop them afterward like a hot potato. Because I’ve drained everything from them. And then they become, at best, boring or, at worst, unbearable.

When I look back today, thanks to social media, at the various groups of friends that I once thought I was a fundamental part of, many of them still exist—just without me.

The photos that once showed their faces pressed closely together beside mine now have to make do, years later, with one less forced smile. Friends with whom I spent drunken summer nights and spun countless legends became, as if I had never existed, strangers from one day to the next.

I essentially sucked them dry and moved on. Like a ruthless wanderer of emotions who, just a moment ago, was still in the middle of his loved ones—feeling, celebrating, and fucking—and the next moment, when no one was paying attention, had suddenly disappeared.

Never seen again, on the way to the next adventure, only to pull the same stunt as before—just with different faces. At least I brought a few strangers together, so maybe my hunger for feelings had some good side to it, I lie to myself.

If I want to, I can become friends with a great many people in a very short time. No matter where I am, no matter the situation, no matter who I’m dealing with. Then I’m funny, captivating, and so incredibly openhearted that it feels as if we’ve known each other for a lifetime.

Sometimes I wonder whether I even possess any kind of character at all or whether I’m simply a soulless shapeshifter who only ever reflects whatever brings him closest to his current goal. Ideally into the favor, thoughts, or genitals of the person in front of me.

Always the right answer ready, always a cheeky remark at hand, always the correct balancing act between compassion, seriousness, and humor. And if I do give the wrong response once in a while and feel the inner pain of the resulting mental setback, then I learn from it, adjust a few inner screws, and correct them on the next attempt. But is that really me?

The question of who one actually is is as old and clichéd as life itself. Perhaps I’m simply a Frankenstein’s monster cobbled together from book quotes, television wisdom, and sayings I once picked up from someone I happened to admire—pretending to be a human being, when in truth I am nothing more than a parasite somehow kept alive, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others.

Then I pounce like a starving predator on the first depressed-looking victim who crosses my path, tear them apart skin and hair and bone, and indulge myself in their remains so that something—anything—finally fills me again. A new body, a new thought, a new warmth. Anything other than the tasteless nothingness to which I’ve grown accustomed for so long.

But the hint of satisfaction lasts only a short while and disappears as quickly as it came. Because nothing can fill the seemingly endless emptiness inside me—especially not another person who only wanted to be loved, held, and saved, and who is now nothing more than a vague memory in my continuous bloodlust.

So I move on again, disgusted with myself, toward the next pretty face. Hoping that this time everything will be different. Surely it will be.

Adventures on the Sand Planet

In the future, our planet will transform into a strange new world in which humanity must endure on an Earth without rain or oceans—only vast, desiccated deserts where two teenagers struggle to survive and search for hope.

The sea, the sky, and the land have been completely polluted by humankind when mysterious objects fall from the heavens. These gigantic structures crash onto the planet and absorb the air, the water, and most living beings into their core, stripping the Earth of the very essence of its nature.

The few remaining inhabitants of Earth fight to survive in a hostile environment and against an oppressive ruling race known as the Rodo. A hot-tempered boy named Ran struggles against the Rodo and against a world in which rain has become nothing more than a legend.

Green Legend Ran by Yu Yamamoto and Satoshi Saga, released in 1992 and 1993, is one of those anime titles that rarely appears on cult lists. Sure, Akira, Spirited Away, or Perfect Blue are always represented, but Green Legend Ran has long existed in the shadows—and entirely without justification.

In fact, it was one of the few titles I once ordered from a catalog on VHS. Alongside *El Hazard* and a *Bubblegum Crisis* music video tape. For whatever reason. I had always intended to get the otaku documentary instead—but at the time I was too young, since it was restricted to viewers 18 and older.

As mentioned earlier, Green Legend Ran is set on a post-apocalyptic Earth with a distinct science-fiction aesthetic. After an extraterrestrial invasion in which six of the so-called Rodo—an apparent race of gigantic monoliths—crash down from space, a massive climate shift is triggered that completely eradicates the oceans and rainfall, transforming the planet largely into an immense desert.

By that time, humanity had already devastated the environment, making a kind of apocalypse inevitable—similar to other environmentally themed anime such as Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, or Future Boy Conan.

In this brutal new world, two polarized factions have emerged. The first, the Rodoists, is a fanatical religious sect that worships the Rodo while practicing a form of hydraulic despotism. All communities are clustered around one of the monoliths, as they are the only remaining sources of water and food—most of which is gathered near the monoliths in what is known as the Sacred Green.

Travel between communities is rare, since beyond a certain distance from the monoliths the environment becomes so depleted that even the air is no longer breathable, requiring pressurized, spaceship-like vehicles. The second faction, the Hazard, is a secret revolutionary movement that opposes the Rodoists.

The protagonist, Ran, is a young orphan determined to join the Hazard and seek revenge on the scar-chested man who killed his mother. He becomes caught in the middle of a battle between the Hazard and the Rodoists, during which he meets a mysterious silver-haired girl named Aira.

Ran helps several Hazard scouts escape from his city and joins them. Soon afterward, the Rodoist army attacks the Hazard base. Aira is forcibly evacuated by the Hazard against her will. Ran attempts to board the sandship but fails, and begins pursuing it across the desert in a stolen pressure suit.

He is rescued by traveling water and food merchants just before his air supply runs out. The leader of the traders, a thoughtful man named Jeke, offers to help Ran rescue Aira. The rescue attempt goes awry when the Rodoists attack the Hazard sandship and recapture Aira while Ran and the merchants attempt to infiltrate the same vessel.

Divided into three chapters, Green Legend Ran is a rousing adventure film featuring carefully crafted characters who seek happiness after the apocalypse. What begins in a dusty shantytown quickly evolves into an epic journey across deserts, forests, and sacred cities to uncover the secret behind the Rodo.

Co-developed by the well-known illustrators Kenji Teraoka and Yoshiharu Shimizu, the work brims with action, humor, and occasional touches of romance. At times it is quite brutal and, toward the end, features more exposed breasts than many a hentai manga.

Naturally, Green Legend Ran can be interpreted as a metaphor for the environmental catastrophe toward which our species is undeniably heading. Perhaps the Rodo were summoned by the Earth itself to prevent humanity from causing further harm—who knows.

Anyone who enjoys a densely packed adventure anime filled with rugged characters, gigantic sandships, religious fanatics, and a bit of bloodshed will have just as much fun with Green Legend Ran as I did. Not least because of the outstanding soundtrack by Yoichiro Yoshikawa. And who knows—perhaps the film ultimately presents a not-so-implausible vision of the real world’s future.

The Modern Diet

Honestly, I don’t even know why I’ve been eating less meat in the past few weeks. And when I say less, I actually mean a lot less. It just happened that way. At lunchtime, the cafeteria always served a portion of French fries with ketchup and mayo for a buck—and that was enough for me. Out of curiosity, I picked up a pack of vegan salami at the supermarket, which was actually quite good. And a little avocado, hummus, or pickles with the cheese sandwich: Best.

I’m not concerned about health, climate, taste, culture, or even the animals in my newly discovered meat reduction. Let the critters be chopped up. Preferably quickly and efficiently. Why does everyone want to eat only happy animals? The unhappy ones would be much more worthwhile to be torn out of life. Then, at least, it would be over for them.

I can think of at most three reasons why I don’t have to think like a psychopathic Patrick all day long of roasted pigs, fried chicken, and freshly butchered cows just because I’ve stuffed myself with nothing but fruit, vegetables and cereals for a day.

First, I don’t give a shit about what I eat. I’ve long since reached a redemptive point in terms of nutrition, where the focus is on coffee. And everything else is second to seventh priority. Whether I’m shoving a veal cutlet in my mouth or some soy wheat bean mash-based alternative pudding, I don’t give a fuck. It’s all good—as long as it doesn’t make me throw up.

Second, it makes me feel better than everyone else. At least secretly. When I put the vegan cold cuts on the conveyor belt at the checkout and the guy behind me has his half a kilo of mixed mince for 2.99 dollars, I think to myself that I’m the more modern person of the two of us. Of course, I don’t tell him that. But I let him know it by placing the sliced, rancid sunflower seed porridge with shredded vegetables in it in such an optimal position that he can read what’s written there in big letters under the supermarket logo: I’m better than you!

Third, I am a follower. And that’s probably the most important reason of all. You just have to tell me certain things often enough, and eventually, I’ll believe them. When I watch more or less secret recordings of some redneck slaughterhouses, where chickens are trampled, piglets are castrated, and cows are mistreated, then it has at most a short-term effect on me. But the more often I witness such things, the more I think to myself: Okay, okay, from now on more cucumbers, tomatoes, and potatoes should suffer. I get it.

A few years ago, I wrote an insanely important literary text with the brilliant title Vegetarians, fuck you! Meat is for eating, in which I vehemently defended my desire for dead animals. And when I read through this, you can’t call it anything else, philosophical masterpiece, I actually continue to stand by everything I wrote back then. Especially the first three words of the headline are still very close to my heart.

But I have learned in recent months that it is extremely important to try something new and only then decide whether you want to continue on this path—or not. After all, we live in a time that often seems overwhelming and thus equally depressing due to its countless possibilities, but on the other hand, it has never been made easier for us to simply dare to do something different and thereby develop an eclectic view of the world, society and, hopefully, ourselves.

By the way, before any militant vegetarians or even, God forbid, vegans celebrate me now for being the first person on this planet who has at least somewhat reduced his meat consumption, I would like to clarify something. Because I have three more than important rules with this newly discovered life feeling, which I use myself to keep almost rigorously.

First, although I actively do not buy meat and sausage produced from cattle, pigs, chickens, turkeys or, what do I know, monkeys. But I do eat these products when they are offered to me somewhere. For example, when people invite me to eat. The reason is that a little meat can’t hurt. Possibly to prevent some ominous nutritional deficiency. Besides, I assume that this meat, in restaurants or at people’s homes, is of higher quality than when I get a bag of frozen Chicken McNuggets at Aldi.

Secondly, I am not a vegan. It doesn’t matter if it’s milk, cheese, butter, yogurt, eggs, honey, or whatever else you can squeeze out of the critter: It ends up in my mouth. I don’t feel like giving up eighty percent of all food just because, for whatever reason, it contains milk proteins, has been filtered through some fish bladders, or once a chicken egg flew past it. Give it a bone! That amount of boomer mentality is necessary.

Third, I eat fish. Ha! I can already see the surprised look on your face. I love fish. Salmon, pike perch, dorado, trout, halibut, herring, scampi, tuna, clams, crabs, eel, squid, cod, mackerel, plaice, oysters, shrimp, and sardines. Whatever is crawling around in the sea, I will find it, catch it, and inhale it on the spot. And you can send me as many links as you want to some pseudo-scandalous documentaries in which seventy thousand fish have to spend the rest of their lives squeezed into a rain barrel, just so I can slap them on my sushi: I don’t care.

As I write this, I’m stuffing myself with a cheese sandwich with the last vegan salami slice that was still lying around somewhere at home, and I just can’t find a reason why I should have bought the ones with cows, pigs, or horses in them instead. But maybe this is just the beginning of my journey. Possibly I will eventually evolve into a higher being who can live on nothing but sun, air, and coffee. And probably only then would I be truly satisfied with myself and the world.

Terror of the Underworld

When Arano steps out of the station in Shibuya, his fate is already sealed. The young man came to Tokyo to make his dreams come true: he wants knives to rain down—preferably into the hearts of the Yakuza, toward whom he harbors an inexplicable and ruthless hatred. There are too many superfluous elements in this world, is the credo he keeps murmuring to himself.

Before long, the otherwise rather taciturn Arano, played by Chihara Junia, finds himself caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and, amid the chaos, befriends the club owner Kamijo, portrayed by Onimaru, as well as the outspoken skater Alice, brought to life by Rin Ozawa. Yet the fragile bonds he forms are quickly torn apart again by greed, revenge, and arrogance.

The film Pornostar, released in 1998, is the debut work of Japanese director Toshiaki Toyoda and can at least not claim one thing: to be normal. Somewhere between drama, thriller, and gangster film—and with a bucket of stage blood thrown in—a hint of a love story even begins to grow, all within the restless backdrop of a Tokyo on the brink of the new millennium.

Pornostar is full of blood, violence, and death. And yet all of this unfolds almost matter-of-factly, incidentally, and with such raw craftsmanship that one almost feels as if sitting in the same room, witnessing one human life after another being extinguished—only to end up back out on the street afterward with a cigarette in one’s mouth, blowing one’s hard-earned yen in the nearest arcade.

The film lacks sympathetic characters with whom one might identify. Arano’s motive for wanting to cleanse the world of the Yakuza can be sensed, but for the most part it remains hidden from the viewer. Kamijo’s fateful step into the clutches of the underworld happens just as casually as the final meeting with Alice, who, of all the characters, might have represented a possible way out for Arano and his dream of raining knives.

But perhaps it is precisely this narrative flaw that makes Pornostar so special. Perhaps one does not even want these people to find happiness. Why should they? They chose of their own free will to take part in this cruel game of the underworld. Perhaps they practically deserve Arano as an avenging angel. And perhaps he too, with the first murder, plunges himself into an abyss from which there can be no escape.

In fact, Pornostar reminded me of the film Love & Pop by Hideaki Anno, which was released the same year—without sharing any other similarity beyond the fact that both are set in the same city. Yet the raw, almost documentary-style filmmaking of both directors could be seen as two sides of the same coin. Only that one side is filled with misbehaving schoolgirls, and the other is… well… filled with blood.

Anyone who watches Pornostar expecting to feel satisfied, inspired, or even happy by the end is mistaken. The film takes no prisoners—quite the opposite. One might wish for one or another character to experience the Grand Summer of Love on Fiji and blissfully slide into the year 2000, but as the Bible already says: For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. And in this heartless world, defying that sacred prophecy seems almost impossible.

I Only Dreamed of You

Mima Kirigoe is ready to leave her career as a celebrated pop idol behind and pursue a dazzling future as an actress. However, shedding her former image proves far more difficult than she ever imagined, and the dark world of show business threatens to drag her into the depths of despair.

Is Mima able to keep a firm grasp on the things that define her while the strains of her new career path take their toll and a menacing presence from her pop-star past lurks in the background? And as delusions, fiction, and reality begin to blur in her mind, what is it that truly defines her in the first place?

Without a doubt, the 1997 film Perfect Blue by Satoshi Kon, based on the novel of the same name by Yoshikazu Takeuchi, is one of those anime you must see before you die. And just last night, I was finally able to cross that very point off my bucket list. What begins as a story about a starlet and her stalker becomes increasingly entangled with each successive scene in a web of shattered dreams and dubious memories.

As an enthralled viewer, you break through one meta-layer after another with each of Mima’s thoughts—only to be utterly drained in the end by the torrent of psychotic impressions that has just washed over you. Who is Mima? Where is Mima? And above all: why is Mima?

Step by step, you witness how the initially sweet, cheerful, and naïve Mima is cast into a hell of depression, murder, and rape. Who can be trusted—and who cannot? When do you stop being yourself? And in the end, which decision was right—and which was wrong?

Perfect Blue is a visually striking and, thanks to Masahiro Ikumi’s fantastic soundtrack, sonically powerful journey into the deepest abysses of the human soul. The film shows that hope and despair are often separated by nothing more than a single unintended step, and that truth is frequently nothing more than a long-forgotten thought that may once have existed but was quietly replaced by fear, panic, and the longing for a redeeming answer.

The Pop Terrorists

While the whole world celebrates South Korea’s cultural boom and it seems like half my classmates are studying abroad in the country’s colorful capital because of it, we must remember a unique collective alongside veterans like Blackpink, Red Velvet, and BTS, and newcomers like Ive, Le Sserafim, and NewJeans: Balming Tiger, the quirky pioneers of Seoul’s idiosyncratic rap scene.

This special group is a blend of multimedia outsiders who throw K-pop from its glittery, polished world into the underground. Imagine Girls’ Generation meets Brockhampton, or Keith Ape meets Abra. I’m hoping to see them live soon, because that would be more than amazing.

Balming Tiger, the self-proclaimed multinational alternative K-pop band, aims to conquer our boring world with their unorthodox style. The collective consists of performers Omega Sapien, Sogumm, BJ Wnjn, and Mudd the Student, producers San Yawn and Unsinkable, video directors Jan’ Qui and Leesuho, visual artist Chanhee Hong, DJ Abyss, and writer Henson Hwang.

Each artist in this ensemble brings a distinct artistic identity and energy, showcasing a broad range of versatility. They approach music with a focus on diversity rather than adhering to a single genre. I especially love Sogumm’s soulful additions to the group’s artistic repertory.

Named after the infamous Asian Tiger Balm ointment, the band’s core creative vision is to reflect and represent the current young generation. Their music is a call to trust in our collective selves, move forward, and embrace love.

Their debut album January Never Dies, along with their first extended play and other works, are vibrant expressions of today’s hyper-expressive Asian youth, drawing from a wide array of Western influences in hip-hop, electronic, and alternative genres.

Songs like Sexy Nukem, Just Fun, and Loop? are as original as they are diverse, appealing even to those listeners who might be skeptical about the aggressive South Korean pop wave.

Don’t Stop Shooting!

I finally watched Shinichiro Ueda’s 2017 film One Cut of the Dead the other day. And what can I say? It is, as anyone who has seen it can attest, absolutely fantastic. The big problem is that I really shouldn’t reveal anything about it, not even the genre, because otherwise I strip away all the fun.

Only this much: One Cut of the Dead opens in a run-down, abandoned warehouse where a small film crew is in the middle of shooting a zombie picture… But of course it’s not an ordinary warehouse. Rumor has it that military experiments were carried out here… on human beings! Then, as if from nowhere, real zombies suddenly appear and terrorize the crew. A bloody struggle for survival begins…

What sounds like off-the-shelf junk from the recycling bin turns into one of the most entertaining indie films in recent years, half an hour in. Born in 1984, the same year as me, Shinichiro Ueda succeeds in playing with the audience’s expectations and, in one fell swoop, swings the mood of the entire film around so abruptly that I no longer know what’s up, what’s down, or where front and back even are.

The shift isn’t just clever, it’s brazen, gleeful, and meticulously prepared. Choices that first read as mistakes reassemble into punch lines and reveals. From that point on, the movie’s confidence is unmistakable, and I watch, grinning, as it keeps tightening screws I didn’t realize were there.

One Cut of the Dead lives on the goofs, mishaps, and blunders during the shoot, and on the fact that, while watching those legendary thirty minutes for the first time, I was thinking exactly the things that later suddenly make sense. That some scenes run far too long, that the actors often stare off in arbitrary directions, that the action sometimes unfolds entirely outside the frame. I’d say that, deep down,

One Cut of the Dead is a film about family—for reasons that, of course, only reveal themselves at the end. At the very least, Ueda’s work is full of surprises and grows not only funnier by the minute but also more coherent. If you want to escape the same old mush for nearly two hours, this zombie splatterfest has you covered. Don’t stop shooting!

Rebellious Girls

The Japanese music label Wack, itself belonging to the J-pop giant Avex, is famous for its eccentric groups, among them BiSH, EMPiRE, and Gang Parade.

Founded in 2014 by Junnosuke Watanabe, the company declared a clear mission: To offer a proper stage to artists who are a little more experimental, a little stranger, and not immediately comfortable inside conventional idol frameworks. Crucially, that support doesn’t mean indifference to results.

Even while foregrounding otherness and odd textures, Wack aims its performers toward success and plans their activities with that outcome in mind. The label’s identity sits between provocation and pragmatism, pairing freedom to try unusual ideas with careful presentation and smart promotion so that unorthodox performers can still reach large audiences across Japan.

ASP is one of Wack’s newer workhorses, arriving at a moment when the label has to reorient after the breakup of the exceptional unit BiSH.

To keep up in Japan’s fiercely competitive music market, the group now opens itself even more to alternative directions, trying approaches that are off to the side of mainstream idol pop while still jostling for attention.

Their first album bore a telling, tone-setting title Anal Sex Penis, which makes plain how seriously they take themselves: not at all.

The provocation operates like a wink and a shrug, announcing a willingness to poke at taboos and to laugh at expectations, even as the underlying aim, to succeed within that crowded field, remains in view. From the outset, the band signaled that irreverence was part of their method.

The lineup, Yumeka Nowkana, Nameless, Mog Ryan, Matilder Twins, Wonker Twins, CCCCCC, and Riontown, cheerfully kicks at the fixed rules laid down by their predecessors, especially in live performances, where expectations are treated with irreverence.

Yet they never completely hide what they are at heart: a cast pop-punk band full of shy girls who from time to time prefer to strike quieter, more reflective notes, like in I Won’t Let You Go, my personal favorite.

That mix of brashness and modesty, of noise and pause, shapes ASP’s character. Precisely this seemingly paradoxical spectrum sets them apart from the competition and gives them an unusual opportunity to extend their otherwise rather short half-life, in contrast to the countless peers whose momentum fades quickly in the same crowded, fast-moving idol environment. It keeps curiosity alive while allowing growth without abandoning their origin.

Four Sisters and a Funeral

The three sisters Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika live together in a large old house in the Japanese coastal city of Kamakura. When they learn of the death of their estranged father, they decide to travel to the countryside for his funeral.

There, they meet their shy half-sister Suzu for the first time. They quickly grow fond of her and invite her to live with them. Suzu happily agrees and begins a new life with her older sisters.

In Hirokazu Kore-eda’s movie Our Little Sister, set against the vivid backdrop of Kamakura’s changing seasons, the four sisters navigate the full spectrum of human emotion and sustain one another through life’s trials, forging a profoundly intimate bond.

Against the backdrop of the summer ocean sparkling in the sunlight, the glowing autumn leaves, an avenue of magnificent yet fleeting cherry blossom trees, hydrangeas dampened by the rainy season, and a brilliant fireworks display announcing the arrival of a new summer, their moving and deeply relatable story portrays the irreplaceable moments that make up a true family.

Accompanied by the wonderful music of the legendary composer Yoko Kanno—who previously created soundtracks for works such as Tokyo Sora, Petal Dance, and Kamikaze Girls—the audience shares in the sisters’ emotions and challenges in every scene. Every touch of the piano keys carries meaning; every stroke of the violin tells a story.

Our Little Sister is an airy, gentle yet sorrow-tinged drama about people in different stages of life who, though marked by the past, refuse to let it dictate their fate. Sachi, Yoshino, and Chika do not hesitate for a second to take in their young half-sister Suzu and offer her the family she never had.

And when the four young women stand on the beach after yet another trial, laughing as they gaze into the distance, one feels grateful to have met them and the other residents of the small town—to have shared in both the joyful and sorrowful changes.

I hope that the future of the four sisters will shine as brightly as the small fireworks display that had only moments before illuminated the overgrown garden of the large old house.

The Pointless Love

As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that happens to come to mind. The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.

The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise so clear air. I only watch her go for a brief moment; I can’t bear the sight—and the cold that gradually embraces me—any longer. I open the heavy glass door and step once more into the building bursting with other people’s dreams, which over the past months has turned into our refuge from the usually loud, chaotic world outside, seemingly abandoned by all good spirits.

I deliberately want to miss the moment when she disappears completely behind the walls. Maybe because deep down I really am a coward, and this way it takes longer to sink in that without her, here in these light-flooded halls, it’s quite lonely.

There is no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. Perhaps because there are simply too many differences between myself and the one on the other side. Because the girl of my affection already has someone who occupies the position I’d like to hold myself. Or because the girl I keep thinking about, at the most impossible times—maybe even constantly—simply doesn’t share the same emotions I so vulnerably hold out to her. And if things go really badly, then all of these points apply at once and hit me all the harder.

One almost insurmountable truth seems certain: this love makes no sense, has no future, and therefore no value. And there’s nothing I can do to change that, no matter how much I turn it over in my mind or wish it were otherwise.

With all my might, I try to find objective arguments for why it would be far more logical if I didn’t feel any affection for the shamelessly grinning person opposite me. But no matter how meticulously I search for them, they simply don’t exist—anywhere.

The lists, tables, and diagrams of negative reasons remain empty again today—as always. Because there’s absolutely nothing that argues against wanting to immerse myself in this body that seems almost ready to burst with different talents.

How could one possibly resist the sober, disarming, and sharp-witted charm of this girl? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s cheeky. She always has a stupid quip at the ready, either glows with energy or sinks apathetically into her thoughts, and every time I talk to her she opens up like a human incarnation of a lucky bag full of interesting stories.

Her manner flows seamlessly from brazen brat to motivating muse, without entirely dispensing with rules, guidelines, and socially relevant conventions. At heart, she’s one of the good ones—no matter how much she sometimes tries to conceal that with her abrasive ways and loose tongue.

I collect every new detail of her life like puzzle pieces scattered all over the globe, which, piece by piece, assemble into a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map I can use to orient myself as I discover still more adventures, memories, and inspirations.

Then I sit there, listen, marvel, and travel back with her once more to those fateful moments that made her the—quite literally—wonderful personality she is today.

And no matter how great, meaningful, or varied I may consider my own existence, it’s nothing compared to the plays unfolding before my mind’s eye. I watch, transfixed, and can only gape in astonishment.

This pointless love is not a shock, not a jolt, not an earthquake. It gnaws at me, always a little—sometimes more, sometimes less. Usually in situations when I least expect it, or when I catch sight again of a certain smile shaped by the experiences of a young but exciting life. For a brief moment I am happy, only to remember shortly afterward that there was a reason my heart would soon feel a little heavier again.

Yet contrary to appearances, this pointless love is not an ominous feeling—quite the opposite. Far more bleak would be to deny myself this emotion from the outset. For the fact that I can feel this pointless love anywhere at all in my stunted, empathy-stripped soul is proof that I haven’t completely closed myself off from the world, that I’m not yet dead inside, that there’s still hope I won’t someday drown irretrievably in my minimalist melancholy.

As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that comes to mind. There are no lies hidden in my words, no mockery, and no false expectations. I am fully aware of the position from which I’m almost shouting after her, and that her small world is already fully occupied by figures I can neither replace nor wish to.

The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.

The only hope rests on a future in which I may continue to follow that pretty face and listen to its stories. After all, our time together is limited. But the psychologically perhaps not entirely sound fact that other people bore me or even get on my nerves after the shortest time, while this girl does not, is sometimes so new, so rare, so unusual that I simply can’t help staying close to her and waiting with curiosity to see what might still come.

Of course, I have to be careful not to fall into the same traps so many others have fallen into before me. Because unrequited affection can tip over in the blink of an eye, leaving me not only with the sad certainty of an unfulfilled romance but also standing amid the ruins of a friendship turned to dust and ash. And I should obviously avoid that at all costs; otherwise this depressing journey will end not only empty-handed, but with a wounded soul as well.

There’s no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. And yet, secretly, I’m a little glad about it. Because it also says a great deal about me and the path I have taken so far.

After all, this emotion, classified as negative from the very beginning, can—with a different perspective—transform in no time into a veritable treasure trove of consciousness-expanding ideas. I just have to draw the right conclusions from it and must not act according to outdated patterns of thought.

This pointless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can draw insights, gather inspiration, and gain a lesson or two about myself and others. It gives me the opportunity to enrich my own life with the experiences of the girl, which she shares so trustingly.

I should by no means close myself off to this chance—on the contrary, I should face it as open-heartedly as possible. Even if, or perhaps precisely because, I will probably never reach the actual goal: becoming a part of the world of the one to whom this pointless love is directed.

But hope—no matter how small, feeble, or unrealistic it may be—is known to die last. And sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this usually so loud, chaotic world abandoned by all good spirits that waits for me out there, beyond these light-flooded halls.

God Is Chill

To live up to my rediscovered campaign of unconditional openness, I of course don’t want to withhold how my first semester in the Interactive Media program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences went. After all, we’ve just received the grades for our exams. And let’s put it this way: it went better than expected. Really.

It borders on an organizational miracle that I survived the scientific area so unscathed. Maybe the evening group prayers with my fellow students via one or two text messages actually did help after all. And that despite having learned that you should never demand anything from God, only ask politely. And also: if you only turn to God in a crisis but don’t think of him when things are going well, then he’s first busy forgiving you before he helps you. But apparently God is more laid-back than one might think. So, in that sense: thx. And: lots of love.

Of course, I didn’t miss out on a clichéd bit of fun: trying to crash the university’s online administration server with one reload after another until the grades finally became visible. But it didn’t work. Probably I should have reloaded not every five minutes, but every five seconds. Oh well—now I know for next time.

My lawyer, by the way, advises me to make it clear at this point that I will not attempt to crash the university’s server—or any other server, or anything else in this world—in any way whatsoever. Neither intentionally nor accidentally. These days, you can never be too careful. Many thanks to Mr. Goldberg of the law firm Goldberg and Partners. Props where props are due.

I’m quite satisfied with the results of my first semester, but I’m also aware that I’ll only manage the coming years if I cram the material into my head more consistently, more regularly, and with far more commitment. With the right mix of Anki, repetition, and the Pomodoro technique. At least those are the three strategies I plan to focus on. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. What do I know about proper studying anyway.

I’ve also realized something else—something I hadn’t definitively decided at the beginning of my studies: which degree I want to pursue. Bachelor of Arts or Bachelor of Science. We have to know by the third semester.

But if the computer science exam offers even a small glimpse of what’s still to come, then I will cling to the Bachelor of Arts with all my might. Because otherwise I might end up standing there empty-handed. After all, good and bad art can always somehow be argued for—but computer science is like a killer robot gone out of control. It knows no mercy, only zeros and ones. Pass or fail. Life or death. And I know which side I’d be on.

Apart from that, I can say that the Interactive Media program at Augsburg University of Applied Sciences is a lot of fun, very varied, and should be interesting for anyone who feels reasonably at home in both the artistic and the technical worlds.

A large part of the entertainment value also comes, of course, from the fellow students with whom you battle through lectures, practicals, and exams—but that’s probably the case in any degree program. And in that respect, I’ve been really lucky. Shout-outs to Group C, which a perhaps slightly too clever person rightly described as those who always sat in the back row at school.

Unfortunately, I can no longer claim to be a freshman. This very time-limited term, in combination with my not-quite-so-dewy person, had always caused wide eyes and the occasional stammer in people standing opposite me.

In any case, I’m curious to see what new adventures await us in the second semester, and I’ll be spending the next few weeks reviewing the fundamentals of programming so that I can also pass the postponed exam successfully. Hopefully. But at least I’m not the only one who hasn’t yet managed to get this topic behind them—for whatever reasons.

And with that, we close another chapter of my rediscovered campaign of unconditional openness. I hope you’ll join me again next time as the more or less exciting journey of Marcel Winatschek as a student continues.

Will he crash a certain server? Will he be the first person to be awarded a master’s degree in the second semester because he is finally recognized as the global genius he always claimed to be? So handsome, so smart, and yet so modest. Or will he be exmatriculated because the glass buildings of the university simply aren’t fireproof enough for him and his—let’s call them—accidents? Stay tuned; we’ll know more soon. Hooray.

A Single Moment

Sometimes all it takes is a single instant, a moment, even the tiniest thought—and suddenly I’m falling again. Just a second ago I was laughing, content with my life because, for once, something had finally worked out the way I had always wished it would, or at least I had no reason, for a change, to hate the world and every single person in it. And then, a second later, I plunge back into the same old, worn-out abyss from which it becomes a little harder to climb out every time.

Then there seems to be no gray, no gradations. Only black and white. I am either saturated with the pure joy of eternal existence, or nothing has any meaning and it would be better if I disappeared from the face of the earth right here and now, because then I wouldn’t have to think anymore about why, for God’s sake, everything was shit again—even though just a few minutes ago it had been going so well. There is nothing in between. No rope, no safety net. I either soar or I crash.

What I had just considered secure, good, and immune to negative thoughts is suddenly put back on trial. I start to brood. To doubt. To question everything I had already regarded as settled. Mistrust then envelops me like a leaden cloak that wraps itself smoothly around my body and slowly presses me down to the ground—where, apparently, I belong.

Was that comment this morning really meant kindly? The emphasis was a bit too ironic, the accompanying look just a little too mocking. Is it possible that everything this person has ever said to me and about me wasn’t meant seriously at all? Is there any proof that we actually get along well? He’s probably just making a fool of me. Because in the end he’s just like everyone else. And I have no choice but to see through him before it’s too late—for whatever that might mean.

Often it’s enough if the other person doesn’t immediately reply to a supposedly totally casual, funny WhatsApp message that is definitely not dripping with self-doubt. No one could have guessed that the spontaneous-sounding remark had been painstakingly crafted over hours in a specially opened word-processing document and adorned with the perfect mix of emojis, punctuation, and colloquial touches to come across as humanly normal as possible when I finally send it at the optimally calculated time. After all, not everyone is such a complete psychopath as I am.

Then I suddenly find myself back on the same roller coaster as thousands of times before, with the familiar loops of thought that I keep trying to break—of course without success. Because in every mental decision I stubbornly take the same directions I have always chosen. As if I had learned absolutely nothing since the last collapse. And that, even though I had sworn to myself that next time everything would be better—or at least different.

So once again I rattle through all the stations of inner turmoil in my little, rusty cart of questionable metaphors and at the end of the ride arrive at the one single true realization I have always arrived at: that I am not worth it—whatever it is that happens to matter to me at that moment.

I am not worth having friends. I am not worth experiencing love. I am not worth being attractive. I am not worth being taken seriously. I am not worth being successful. I am not worth being an equal. I am not worth being allowed to be happy. Everyone else is worthy—just not me.

But I should have known that from the start. Why had I even bothered to build up hopes in the form of this fragile house of cards when it was obvious that the slightest gust of wind would make everything collapse again? I could really have spared myself the effort. How foolish. If you won’t listen, you have to feel. Your own fault.

These extreme mood swings always come when I need them least. When I had finally made peace with myself, when I had found myself again, when the world wasn’t actually so bad. But no such luck. The world was bad. Really bad. It had conspired against the one person who simply wanted to find happiness. And that person was me.

Of course, it went without saying that I myself was responsible for the misery I had just thought myself into. As always, it was the others who were to blame. After all, I only wanted the best for myself, for them, for everyone. Didn’t they sense that? Didn’t they know that? Maybe I should have tried a little harder to convince them of my deeply good intentions…

Once I’ve hit the ground, I’m left with only two options: to remain there and come to terms with the bitter truth that I’m simply a bad person, or to reach upward again in the hope of somehow finding a way to change my fate carved in stone—however that might be possible.

Sometimes all it takes is a single instant, a moment, the tiniest thought—and suddenly I’m falling again. Perhaps it’s impossible to defend myself against these external and internal influences. Perhaps they always hit me, and with such force that I no longer know which way is up or down. Like an enemy who knows me inside and out and always aims precisely at the most exposed weak spot. Which makes sense. Because that enemy is me—and no one else.

And yet perhaps I can set up mental safety nets in advance that will catch me when these mood swings take aim at me again. A bag full of good, safe thoughts that protect me from falling back into the familiar abyss. Comforting truths that remain valid even when everything else has fallen victim to despair. And a solid basic trust in myself—that despite my psychological shortcomings, I have worth. As a person. As a friend. And as someone whose love for themselves will, hopefully, overcome even the greatest fears.

Literature for Sheep

Japanese music is a collection of anthems for my own little messed-up world. Whether it reminds me of sad anime episodes, the churning background music in video games, heartbreak, or my first few moments at Narita airport, stepping through the Welcome to Japan banner into an universe of cultural, technological, and human wonder, J-pop and J-rock are always there for me.

They plug a little of the constant melancholy in my small, perpetually annoyed and bored heart. The energetic music of bands like Indigo la End, King Gnu, and Asian Kung-Fu Generation is a frequent soundtrack to my thoughts, worries, and desires. And so are Hitsujibungaku.

For decades, rock music from the Land of the Rising Sun was in a creative crisis. There was little sign of anarchy, change, or revolution. Artists in the genre seemed content to strum away as a copy of a copy of a copy, delivering a run-of-the-mill sound that, for good reasons, didn’t resonate outside Japan. They were simply too tame, too dull, and too boring, like rebels without hate—or even drugs.

Hitsujibungaku, however, also don’t aim for destruction, decline, or chaos—but that doesn’t really matter. Celebrated by the Japanese press as a smooth whirlwind, Hitsujibungaku, roughly translating to literature for sheep, quickly made their musical breakthrough.

Hitsujibungaku’s songs speak of the search for happiness, dancing in the moonlight, and dreams of an endless summer. When I hear Moeka Shiotsuka’s voice, accompanied by Yurika Kasai and Hiroa Fukuda, I know they mean what they play.

In a world full of unknowns, even if you pretend to be smart, you’ll still get hurt, she sings. At some point, you became focused on avoiding failure, giving up what you really want, without even knowing what that is. Not seeing it, overlooking it, becoming skilled only in despair. It’s a bit too early to decide it’s already too late. If anything is worth preserving in our superficial world, it’s this kind of emotional sincerity.

I Can Have Alone Time When I’m Dead

When I started my studies, my biggest concern wasn’t the course material, the professors, or fears about what the hell I would do with my degree once I had it in my pocket, but rather how the other students would react to me. After all, at the end of my 30s, I was twice their age. Most of them could have been my children. Maybe they were. One or two faces did look familiar…

During the introductory week, my suspicion that I was the oldest person there was confirmed. By a long shot. Not just in my degree program, but generally within a 500-meter radius. Even the janitor was probably younger than me. And he was about to retire.

Should that have given me pause? Yes, perhaps. But now that I was here, I had to make the best of it. In any case, I was mentally preparing myself to spend the next few years in isolation at the senior citizens’ table, slurping porridge and philosophizing with myself about the good old days.

When MySpace was still the measure of all things. When I still had to rewind VHS tapes before returning them to the video store. When the song of the year was a techno remix of the Smurfs. Every Smurf loves to listen to the radio, full blast anyway. The rhythm crashes into every leg—that’s how dance music for Smurfs should be!

While the university president gave his third welcome speech of the day, and seemed just as enthusiastic as he had been during his first, the campus was packed with young people who were equally confused and nervous, scurrying back and forth.

Their T-shirts were decorated with more-or-less creative graduation slogans: 12 Years of Walk of Fame – The Stars Leave, the Fans Stay. And: Graduate Today, Captain Tomorrow. Or even: With Their High School Diplomas in Hand, Heroes Become Legends.

With so much concentrated youthfulness, I felt like throwing up. However, I had of course expected this sight beforehand. Because I’m extremely clever. What else could I have expected? Exactly. After all, these people were the norm here—not me. They were the crowd; I was the outsider.

Between the tours of the building, the city, and the room where the beer fridge was located, I got into conversation with my fellow students. Little by little, the uniform mass of more or less fashionably dressed bodies transformed into interesting characters with names, pasts, and humor.

I quickly realized that they were just normal people, each with their own fears, hopes, and dreams. And they were all as excited as I was—if not more so—just for different reasons.

A week full of get-to-know-you tours, various house parties, and a boozy study trip to the Bavarian Forest later, I no longer felt any fear of not being able to fit in because of my advanced age. When I entered the cafeteria the following Monday, the first familiar faces were already beaming at me. Hey, Marcel! I heard someone call cheerfully from one of the tables.

I grinned back, followed the lively crowd, and sat down in a free seat among my new companions. Of course, I’m still the old fart. Just like Jenny is the pothead, Tim is the farting guy, and Fiona is the one who got plowed in a fire truck. I’m not the only one who gets stupid looks from strange students—no, everyone has their own baggage to carry, in one way or another.

The key to happiness in this case is unconditional openness and a positive attitude—no matter how difficult that may be at times. Being part of a group means being aware of my possibly not-so-glorious shortcomings and taking it with humor when they are in the spotlight. The important thing is to have a good line ready to keep the wheel turning and shift the focus to the next person. It’s a game I only lose if I don’t participate.

Since that fateful first week, hundreds of encounters have blossomed into friendships that have taken me all over the city—to various apartments, clubs, and bars. No matter where I go, I see familiar faces everywhere. Not only from my degree program, the student council, and the courses I took, but also from friends, roommates, and acquaintances who didn’t shy away from me because of my differences but, on the contrary, invited me into their lives.

Of course, I still have to listen to the occasional stupid comment. But that’s part of it. Today, it’s completely normal for me to walk the streets with them, exchange stories, create memories, and delay the morning a little longer. I’m happy to learn more about those who confide in me, to support them with advice, action, and some jokes, and to help them solve one problem or another conscientiously—provided they want that at all.

If you think you hate people, that you don’t need anyone but yourself, that you’re better off closing yourself off from everything and everyone, then you need to pack your bags, set your old life on fire, and go somewhere else. With new people, new opportunities, and new adventures. And as quickly as possible.

Of course, these relationships are not permanent either. I will soon forget many names, faces, and encounters. And they will forget me. Because they have moved on. Or because I have taken a different path. And that’s perfectly fine. Because new people will come into my life again, over and over, as long as I make it possible, in whatever way I can. Some of them will stay—for longer, maybe even forever.

But these opportunities only arise if you don’t nip every conceivable contact in the bud just because you’ve convinced yourself at some point that you’re happier alone. Out of fear, out of pain, out of feeling overwhelmed. Because no matter how strong you think you are in this matter, at some point you will break down. And then it will be too late.

As we stumble out of Iveta’s apartment door, shouting loudly and smelling of tequila, wine, and popcorn schnapps, to grab a few more beers to go, I glance briefly down the brightly lit street. New people are streaming through it, and in the buildings people are laughing, singing, and dancing.

Right now, at this moment, I am part of this backdrop, this ensemble, these stories. Because I took a chance and didn’t close myself off to the unknown, even though that would have been so much easier. Because one thing is certain: I can have alone time when I’m dead.

The Boy and the Murderer

Mr. Long is not a man of many words. In fact, he hardly speaks at all. His talents lie more in… let’s say… practical work. Mr. Long is a Taiwanese contract killer. One of the good kind—someone who doesn’t ask questions when you give him a place, a time, and a target. Mr. Long simply does what needs to be done. And he’s pretty good at it. Usually.

After his assignment to kill a Yakuza boss goes terribly wrong, Mr. Long, played by Chen Chang, finds himself stranded in a remote Japanese town. With only five days to scrape together the money for his journey home, he receives unexpected help from a little boy named Jun, portrayed by Junyin Bai, and from the unsuspecting townspeople who have fallen in love with his culinary talents. With a makeshift food stand set up by his new friends, he begins cooking and selling Taiwanese noodle soup in front of the local Buddhist temple.

Trouble catches up with this unusual group when a drug dealer tracks down Jun’s mother Lily, brought to life by Yiti Yao, and through her eventually finds Mr. Long as well. Yet despite the inevitable confrontation with his violent past, Mr. Long will find it difficult to give up his new life.

A cold-hearted hitman is showered with altruistic love and forced to surrender to it. The Japanese director Sabu masters the art of blending the ordinary with the unexpected. With a sly touch, he sends his protagonists into unfamiliar territory that expands both their minds and their hearts. Mr. Long shows me that happiness can be found in the most unlikely places.

Mr. Long is difficult to assign to a single genre. With this film, Sabu created a drama whose unexpected moments are amusing, tragic, and shocking all at once—often at times when I least expect it. Just when I think I’ve figured the film out, around the next corner there’s either a clown, a chopped onion, or a knife that can hardly wait to strike again.

I wish for a happy ending for Mr. Long, Jun, and Lily—a place where the three of them can be happy and left alone by the merciless world. But the past of this small patchwork family catches up with them just when I’ve finally stopped resisting the tears welling up in my eyes.

In the end, I myself turn into one of those dreadful cliché viewers who laugh and cry at the same time—and I don’t even care. When Mr. Long looks out the café window to the other side of the street and his life suddenly gains a new meaning, I’m simply glad to have accompanied him on his turbulent journey of few words.

Feelings Without a Name

In the most unexpected situations, I encounter girls whose sheer existence fascinates me so much that I can hardly comprehend it. It’s not as if I’m overwhelmed by love, hate, or pity, because the tentative affection I feel for the girl on the other side doesn’t fit into the emotional templates into which I’ve almost instinctively pressed all my previous encounters.

It’s not love, because I’m not consumed by jealousy, desire, or grief. It’s not hate, because I finally feel a touch of empathy again. I’m happy when the girl is happy, and sad when the girl is sad. And it’s not pity, because any supposed fragility I see in the girl is merely a reflection of my own inadequacies.

The more interesting I find a girl, the more I naturally want to learn about her. Even the smallest banalities that no one else is aware of—perhaps not even the girl in the spotlight—become significant, important, even overrated.

What kind of music does she listen to? What clothes does she wear? How exactly did she become the collection of ideas, ideals, and identities that she is today? And what would I even do with the answers to these questions? The incomprehensibility of otherness can drive me mad if I’m not careful.

Not only can I find no definition for my own feelings, I can’t even manage to pigeonhole the girl into neat categories. Every encounter brings new insights, and I feel compelled to shatter the theories I carved in stone the day before.

Then the floor, littered with dust and debris, bears witness to the fact that the irrefutable knowledge of human nature—which I had been convinced of all these years—was worth about as much as the time I wasted trying to find answers to questions that may not even exist. After all, not even the girl in whom I suspect this enlightenment knows of its existence.

Perhaps I project too much onto the girl. Perhaps there’s nothing there. Perhaps she’s just a normal girl who simply wants to come to terms with herself and the world around her and already has enough to deal with.

Maybe I’m just imagining that I’m a little infatuated with her and her supposed secrets because it allows me to ignore the complexity of my own life for a short time. After all, I can only receive my own happiness once I’ve figured out how the girl defines happiness. Reality can wait for me until then.

I rack my brains trying to figure out exactly what feeling I’m experiencing. Because if I could come up with a name for it—a definition—it would be easier to find a way to deal with it, to put it behind me, to come to terms with it. I’m not even sure if what’s buzzing around in my head is a real feeling at all, or if it’s just my imagination because I have too much time to think again.

The feeling without a name is too strong to ignore but too weak to fully engage with. So I carry it around with me out of slowly creeping habit and wait almost anxiously for the moment when it knocks on the door of my chaotic world of thoughts again—usually when the mischievously smiling face that first led me down this strange path, in the truest sense of the word, enters the room.

But perhaps this gap in my own emotional spectrum is also sad proof that I’ve lived my life so far in a predetermined manner, in which even my feelings were copies of copies of copies—from television, from books, from the lies of society. Their names are rules—no, almost laws—for how I should behave when I stumble into one of these feelings.

Do I feel love? Then I despise the relationship the girl is in, burst with jealousy when she even looks at someone else, and cry alone at night, masturbating into my pillow, because I will never be part of her colorful world.

Do I feel hatred? Then I turn the girl’s life into a hell on earth, set fire to her pet, her family, and her entire apartment building, spin the threads of manipulation so skillfully that she ends up collapsing in the street, screaming, because life no longer has any meaning.

Do I feel pity? Then I turn myself into a more or less invisible guardian angel who will do anything to ensure that the victim of my favor never, ever suffers harm again—and I make sure to feel really good and great and important about myself while I’m doing it, because otherwise it all makes no sense.

In the end, it’s all about me and no one else. Just like always. What’s the point of helping someone else if I can’t reap the rewards? Exactly. The worst thing about this nameless feeling is that I may not even have a right to it.

After all, there are far more important people in the life of the girl I want to impose my worn-out template on. I’m nothing more than a fleeting minor character whose stage appearance is so brief that I’m not even explicitly mentioned in the script—at most, perhaps, as a passerby, spectator, or guy no. 5.

But perhaps this insight is enough to make peace with the nameless feeling. Maybe it makes no sense to find meaning in it, because it’s not permanent and can disappear as quickly as it came—at the latest when the girl whose accessible gaze triggered it in the first place has moved on.

On to new scenes, people, stories. While I myself linger in the backdrop that has just been abandoned by the spotlight and is about to dissolve, watching the silhouette that once smiled so disarmingly, only to forget shortly afterwards that the nameless feeling ever existed.

A Student for Life

After the more or less sudden end of AMY&PINK, I felt lost. For fifteen years, I had put all my energy into a project that was full of fun, passion, and hope at the beginning, but by the end had become nothing more than a slowly fading burden. When the bright lettering finally disappeared, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I sank into idleness, the days just passing me by. Was today Tuesday or already Friday? February or September? What year was it anyway? I couldn’t bring myself to do anything productive anymore and spent days, weeks, and months going for walks, watching TV shows, and going through depressive phases where I just lay there, switching between scrolling through Reddit, YouTube, and Pornhub. From sunrise to sunset. And vice versa.

In my late 30s, my life seemed to be over. What else was there to look forward to? Except maybe a heart attack caused by too many frozen pizzas and too little exercise. The only things that kept me alive were the voice messages from my good friend Hannah, who probably knew me better than I knew myself at that point; the programming course I was forced to take by the employment office so that I would at least be busy with something; and the fact that I was far too lazy to commit suicide.

On a much too hot summer day in June, I took the cheap ticket to nearby Munich to run around in circles and listen to a few podcasts. After all, I knew the streets of my hometown so well that they were getting on my nerves. At least there was life in Munich, even if there was none left inside me.

After buying a picture book about Japanese pop culture in a bookstore—because that was the only topic that still interested me even remotely—I sat down on a free bench on my way back to the city center to leaf through it a little and, at the same time, press the ice-cold can of Diet Coke I had bought at the nearby supermarket to my mouth. Its contents had been my main source of nutrition for several weeks—after all, I didn’t want to get any fatter.

When I looked up, I noticed that the bench I was sitting on was in front of the city university. Young people were buzzing all over the grounds, chatting and laughing. Some were in a hurry; others were sitting on the grass. There was a lively atmosphere. The large buildings watched over the small, mostly hectic figures whose futures would be shaped within them.

The setting reminded me of TV shows such as Gilmore Girls, Community, and Greek, and I found it a little sad that I had never had the opportunity to lead what was surely a pretty exciting student life.

My secondary school diploma wasn’t good enough for that, and after completing my training as a media designer, I had simply ignored the option of being allowed to study. After all, I wanted to earn money. With AMY&PINK. And that would undoubtedly live forever and soon become an international media empire. Like Vice. Or the New York Times. Or Russia Today, for that matter. Who needed a degree?

So there I was, in my late 30s, sitting on this bench with nothing but a book and a can of Diet Coke to my name, feeling sorry for myself. Two young women had taken a seat next to me. The blonde proudly told me that her little sister had just registered in time for the entrance exam for the coming winter semester. The brunette was a little overly surprised. I hope she gets accepted! She definitely will!

When I got home, I became interested in what I could have studied with the qualifications I had gained through my vocational training. Communication Design was listed. Graphic Design. Interactive Media.

I was a little annoyed that I hadn’t taken advantage of this opportunity, but had instead been so stubborn as to consistently ignore any path that led me away from my very own trip. At the time, I was even proud of that stubbornness.

While lethargically clicking around on the internet, I came across the website of the Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, which had been offering a combination of design and computer science in its Interactive Media program for several years and advertised it with flowery words.

The program sounded like a colorful grab bag of everything I enjoyed. Designing. Programming. I would even learn how to create video games. It was pure madness.

Before I could sink back into self-pity over never having taken advantage of this opportunity, a date caught my eye. There was still one week left to apply for the program. The admission requirements stated that not only a high school diploma but also a vocational qualification would be sufficient—provided that I passed the necessary entrance exam.

I took a sip from my seventh can of Diet Coke that day, thought for a moment, and filled out the linked application form. I can give it a try, became my motto from that day on. After that, everything happened very quickly.

I was invited to take the entrance exam, which I passed. I was invited to an interview, which I passed. I was sent the application for enrollment, which I submitted on time. At the beginning of October, I entered the campus of Augsburg University of Applied Sciences, sat down in a lecture hall for the first time, and suddenly I was a student.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had thought that my life would be over by the time I reached my late 30s—that there was nothing more to come, that all my dreams had been dreamed and all my hopes buried. Suddenly, I found myself in a completely new story, with new goals, new tasks, and new people. An unexpected adventure had begun—after all, I’m a student for life.

Men Who Stare at Streets

Yusuke looks out of the window. Accompanied by the voice of his deceased wife, houses, trees, and the sea fly past him. He doesn’t notice that there is another person sitting in the red Saab 900 Turbo in front of him as he fills in the gaps in the sentences with his own words. Misaki will soon drive him to a place where he can finally find himself.

Last night, I saw Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Drive My Car for the second time. The Oscar-winning Best International Feature Film is based on the short story of the same name from Haruki Murakami’s 2014 book Men Without Women and tells the story of two people whose fateful encounter no one could have foreseen—least of all themselves.

Yusuke is a successful stage actor and director who is married to the mysterious Oto, a beautiful playwright with whom he shares a peaceful life despite a painful past. When Oto suddenly dies, Yusuke is left with unanswered questions and the regret that he could not really understand her—nor did he want to.

Two years later, still struggling with Oto’s death, Yusuke accepts an offer to direct a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima. He drives his beloved fire-red Saab 900 Turbo to the big city in the west, where, upon arrival, he learns to his surprise and disappointment that, for legal reasons, he is forced to let Misaki, a young chauffeur who hides her own traumatic past, drive his car.

Rehearsals progress, and eventually Yusuke and Misaki develop a routine, with the Saab increasingly becoming an unexpected confessional for both driver and passenger. Less pleasant for Yusuke, however, is the decision to cast Koji, a handsome young television actor with an unwanted connection to his late wife, in the lead role.

As the premiere approaches, tensions between the cast and crew grow, and Yusuke’s increasingly intimate conversations with Misaki force him to face uncomfortable truths and uncover haunting secrets left behind by his wife.

I’m glad I’ve now seen Drive My Car for the second time, because with each new encounter I have different expectations of the characters, whose thoughts and actions seem to reflect my understanding of human interaction.

The character of Misaki, for example, now vaguely reminds me of someone I met recently. Her sober, disarming, and astute manner invites me to want to learn more about her. What does she think? Why does she think that way? And who—or what—made her who she is today?

The flowing conversations in Drive My Car are like intimate dances whose intention is to build bridges to the other person—brick by brick, meter by meter. With each new day that dawns in Hiroshima, there is a chance that two people will open up a little more to each other, only to be rewarded with new insights, no matter how painful they may be. And these insights apply not only to the other person, but often to myself as well.

Only those who have not even attempted to understand Drive My Car would describe it as calm. Every scene is seething with tension: Yusuke, who cannot forgive himself for his wife’s death and searches for answers that may not even exist; Misaki, whose observations only become words of trust when she assesses the chances of further hurt as low; and Koji, whose search for meaning can only save others, but not himself.

Eiko Ishibashi’s selectively used music dispels the absolute silence at just the right moments, which is otherwise interrupted only by glances, touches, and conversations. Extensive tracking shots across the autumnal Japanese backdrop make the characters appear as if in a diorama, their desires, hopes, and dreams seeming small and lonely.

A meta-level runs through the entire film: the story of Uncle Vanya, who is confronted with his life and his missteps in Anton Chekhov’s world-famous play. The character of Vanya represents someone who has spent his life working toward something that never came to fruition. It is a reflection on time and emotions wasted—a theme that both Yusuke and Misaki grapple with throughout the film, as both deeply regret their past relationships.

Drive My Car is mature in the truest sense of the word. Its characters have shed all childishness, all banality—indeed, all traces of joie de vivre—and try, with their last ounce of strength, to maneuver safely through the thicket of painful memories, only to have to admit in the end that they cannot drive away from the past, not even in a red Saab 900 Turbo.

Songs of Rebellion and Loneliness

I recently watched the documentary Our Lies and Truths about the rise and downfall of the Japanese girl group Keyakizaka46. After all, in recent years Techi and her comrades have been the idols I listened to most.

Songs like Silent Majority, Ambivalent, and especially 黒い羊 still play on endless loop for me today, and the accompanying music videos are performative masterworks.

Yasushi Akimoto, who has been responsible for acts such as AKB48, Onyanko Club, and Iz*One and also created Keyakizaka46, is not for nothing Japan’s most gifted and at the same time most hated producer. Some people say Yasushi Akimoto destroyed the Japanese music industry, and I agree, noted Agency for Cultural Affairs Commissioner Shunichi Tokura in cutting words.

The most striking thing about Keyakizaka46, first sister group to Nogizaka46, once slated to debut as Toriizaka46, and already missing two members before its first show, is neither the music nor the choreography, and certainly not the powerful man behind them.

It is the force with which their center, Yurina Hirate, seized the group’s inner climate and public face in no time, then year by year slipped toward madness, until, after much back-and-forth, she finally announced her departure in 2020.

Soon after, the band renamed itself Sakurazaka46, unable to cope with the hole left by Yurina Techi Hirate, who had joined at fourteen. The 2020 label-made film Lies and Truths depicts sustained decay—depression, burnout, and total overextension from Techi, and a strange mix of envy, fury, and admiration among her colleagues.

Techi was a prodigy, and no one could handle it—least of all herself. In interviews, former members recall Yurina Hirate’s impact and search for when everything went wrong.

No one knows what turned her, hailed as a reborn Momoe Yamaguchi and, at fifteen, among the year’s most attractive idols, from a cheerful girl into someone alone and apathetic in dark corners. Only she does, and she won’t say. Maybe someday, she hinted in a 2020 radio interview.

Even in the film she appears in fragments: She dances, sometimes falls, draws gazes, then implodes, sobbing I can’t! before backstage staff force on a new costume.

Keyakizaka46 sang of youth, rebellion, and being different—messages that pierced schoolgirls and traumatized outsiders. What remains is brief brilliance, lingering remnants, and a restless soul seeking happiness elsewhere.

When the Voice of an Entire Generation Fell Silent

Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me—by email, letter, and by shouting through open windows—what actually happened to AMY&PINK. The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days straight at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality.

The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why AMY&PINK no longer exists is: No idea. And that wouldn’t even be a lie. Because I really don’t know. Maybe it just happened that way at some point. Maybe there was no longer any place for it in today’s media world. Maybe things just have to end at some point before they are kept alive artificially (even longer) for reasons that are incomprehensible.

AMY&PINK saw the light of day in 2007 as the successor to my private blog, Tokyopunk, just as I was on my way to Berlin to begin my training as a designer in the field of conception and visualization at a digital new media agency. Everything was new, everything was exciting, everything in my life suddenly revolved around the German capital and the colorful people who bustled around in it.

I filled my new project with personal stories, finds from the internet, and the occasional fresh music video, and found passionate writers such as Hannah, Caro, Ines, Misha, Wenke, Sara, Meltem, Jana, Daniela, and Leni to take the site to the next level. AMY&PINK transformed from a small blog into one of the nation’s most widely read online magazines.

In the early years of the new decade, AMY&PINK was the digital go-to for young rebels, hipsters, and avant-gardists—and those who wanted to be just that, or at least know what these chaotic guys were up to and spouting nonsense about.

We were invited by brands such as Mercedes, Microsoft, and Deutsche Telekom to events throughout Germany and around the world: New York, Toronto, London. Rome, Shenzhen, Los Angeles. Lisbon, Monaco, Las Vegas. To get drunk there with Kendrick Lamar, Tokio Hotel, and Frank Ocean. And all because we wrote strange things on the internet, constantly used swear words, and there were people who wanted to read exactly that.

And every now and then there were bare breasts to be seen. Or girls throwing up. Or swastikas made of cocaine. The more provocative, the better. The press loved and hated us at the same time—much like our readers.

Unfortunately, the problem was that I continuously maneuvered AMY&PINK into a spiral of what the fucks from which I soon couldn’t get the site out. At first, everything was funny, ironic, and over the top, but at some point a completely far-fetched professionalization of the content took hold. On the one hand, we had to be even more outrageous than everyone else to keep readers interested; on the other hand, advertisers demanded fewer exposed genitals on the homepage.

On top of that, the Wild West days of the internet were over by the mid-2010s. Any visual content that wasn’t contractually approved by the copyright holder, rights manager, and preferably three to twelve additional lawyers couldn’t be published. The site lost its visual punch because everything consisted of official press photos, the texts became increasingly absurd and unrealistic, and AMY&PINK transformed from a radiant rock star into a washed-up madman who drunkenly assured strangers on the street that he was still cool—really now, you, burp, stupid cunts!

With the departure of important AMY&PINK authors, the diversity of voices that had long ensured balance in the site’s content also disappeared. Before the decline, every photo series about fucking teenagers was accompanied by an intimate text about heartbreak, every LSD-soaked music video by an amusing travelogue, every bizarre triviality by a story about the small and big experiences of those who had chosen AMY&PINK as the medium to realize themselves digitally. After all, they could have published their texts in Vice, Huck, or the local newspaper.

But at some point, there were only empty shock articles left—attracting attention at any cost, when no one had been interested for a long time. I tried to save AMY&PINK. Really. God is not my witness, but my friend Hannah is—without whom I might have drowned in my own madness long ago. The poor thing had to listen to the drama every day, for years on end. You have to be able to make something out of this! That can’t be all there is! Maybe try again in another language?

I was caught in an endless cycle of brooding, doubting, and trying things out. If I were even a fraction as cool as I always pretended to be in my countless articles, I would have poured gasoline on AMY&PINK years ago, lit it on fire, and let it explode behind me in cinematic slow motion while I walked toward the camera with a crazy smile on my face. But I’m not cool. And I can’t just let go that easily.

After all, visitor numbers were still quite good, the content we had built up over the years was being clicked on diligently, and any SEO expert would have been happy with such metrics. But in the end, I spent far too much time trying to save AMY&PINK—time that I should have invested in more important things. Finding a real job, for example. Having children, planting trees, building houses, whatever.

Only to admit to myself at some point that AMY&PINK wasn’t going to work out. Not because the website itself wasn’t working anymore, but because I had outgrown the whole thing and it was finally time to say goodbye. AMY&PINK had been fun at one point, but now it wasn’t anymore. And no number of clicks in the world could change that feeling.

So one fine morning, I sat down in front of my laptop with a hot coffee, made a backup of the site, and then deleted it from the server. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I was simply done with the whole thing. AMY&PINK was dead. And I didn’t care. I finished my coffee, got up, and went for a walk.

Even today, people I don’t really know still ask me—by email, letter, and shouting through open windows—what actually happened to AMY&PINK. The portal of good cheer. The party ship of Berlin’s newcomers. The voice of a generation that never wanted to grow up, partied for three days at Berghain, and woke up one morning in the ruins of their own denial of reality.

The reflexive answer to the highly individual question of why AMY&PINK no longer exists is: Because I wasn’t enjoying it anymore. And it took me a long time to admit to myself that this reason alone was enough to end it, even though logic said otherwise.

Instead, I now have my own little blog again, which I can fill with content that really interests me, and where it doesn’t matter if I’m the only one who reads it or likes it. Here, it doesn’t matter if I write about my current favorite Japanese band or publish a short story about a city at the end of the world. I can even rescue some articles from AMY&PINK and post them here if I think they would fit in well. Why not? I can now (once again) do what I want. Hurray.

I learned a lot from AMY&PINK and the people who had anything to do with it. But now it’s time to let the subject rest and start something new. The world out there is huge, and the possibilities for finding happiness are limitless. You just have to have the courage to let go, reach out to the unknown, and let it lead you to new adventures—before it’s too late.

The Transience of Written Words

This website has undergone many changes over the years. From a small blog by a Bavarian media designer to a collection of stories by creative minds from all over Germany. From the Bible of Berlin nightlife to a gonzo magazine for hipsters. From a digital news site to a never-sleeping ticker of viral events. Until, at some point, I was faced with a sheer monster of false expectations and hopeless prospects.

This blog wanted to be everything, but collapsed as a result, unable to do anything right anymore. For various reasons. I had forgotten what this was really about and wanted to remain relevant at all costs in this fast-paced media world. With my eyes fixed on the future, there was only one choice: keep up. Keep up with the news. Keep up with the trends. Keep up with the loud, shiny, and flashy. I had to be even more extreme than everyone else.

At some point, I just blindly churned out news, lookbooks, gossip, YouTube videos, shitstorms, and tits in a completely irrelevant mix. The main thing was that something was happening. Whether I liked it or not didn’t matter. Stand out at any cost. Fake it till you make it. The future could only get better. But it didn’t.

I broke down in a battle I could neither win nor wanted to win. This website had filled itself to bursting with nonsense and bullshit. Of course, I didn’t want to admit it, while everyone else was already shaking their heads. It had to be wilder and wilder, bigger and bigger—stand out at any cost.

A relaunch every year. Every year the same promise, packed into a pseudo-epic article, that now everything would be like it used to be. That I understood what readers really wanted. That this blog finally wanted to be good again.

But I broke that promise again and again. Because the world around me was getting louder and brighter and flashier, and I couldn’t stop the carousel I was on until my bad metaphors blew up in my face and this website literally broke under the weight of verbal and illustrated shit.

In the end, I just wanted it to be over. I was about to delete the site, the archives, all the files. This blog had failed. I wanted world domination. But what I got was a glimpse into the absolute emptiness of a possibly bright future that I had ruined for myself. None of the fun, the expectations, the hope remained.

On a final night drenched in wine, I rummaged through the old texts—the ones that were published on this website when blogs were just becoming popular. When life was still a game. When the world still seemed to be in order. They had long since been lost in digital nirvana and crushed under a cement block of meaninglessness. I read them. And they were good.

These ten-year-old texts about love, about dreams, about the expectations of an entire generation—they were good. Just good. These texts were better than most of what had been published on this website in recent years. All the fast-paced dramas and rumors and deeds of some walking, breathing attention deficit disorder. All the digital constructs of a money-hungry industry whose little cogs had long since been ravaged by burnout and depression. All the never-ending news of a world that seemed to spin a little faster with each passing day.

They were obsolete the moment they were written. Wasted words without meaning. Without resonance. Without weight. I realized that there was only one way to save this blog. And that was to do the exact opposite of what I had considered my task in recent years. To get off this metaphorically still incredibly stupid carousel—which today seems to almost take off due to its speed—to look at it from a safe distance and to go my own way, with my own definition of time.

What does that mean now? I want the texts that appear on this website to be relevant not only in the next ten minutes, but also in the next ten years. Someone in the distant future, when hoverboards can really hover and we fly to Space Spring Break on Mars for the weekend, should read them and think: That speaks to my soul. That inspires me to try something new. I should show this to the people I like and love.

You shouldn’t be able to tell how old the content is. Because it’s completely irrelevant. Of course, no sentence is written for eternity. Texts written from the heart are always a snapshot of a moment in time—a portrait of the era in which they were written. But We’re Too Young for True Love has a different half-life than Miley Cyrus Pissed on the Floor Again. Although the latter does have its appeal, in a way. For some people, at least.

What does that mean for this blog? I want it to become a colorful grab bag full of surprises again, with something wonderful for everyone. Whether you want to read a fascinating review of an apocalyptic film or the emotional thoughts of me traveling through Japan. Whether it’s about the enamored introduction of a new band or the painful experiences of growing up. Whether you just want to look at a few digital treasures or witness an epic story in the depths of Berlin.

It’s important to me that the articles that appear on this website from now on are so great, so beautiful, so worth reading that they will still be relevant in one, two, five—maybe even ten—years, without losing the rough edges that move me when I write.

Cowboy Bebop will still be a cult classic in a decade. Haruki Murakami’s books will still be important in a decade. Texts about heartbreak will still inspire people, a decade from now, to take control of their lives again—or at least to wallow in self-pity a little more beautifully.

To make a fresh start, I have completely archived this blog, wiped the server, and started again from scratch with a just do it mentality. Little by little, I will now select old articles, revise them, correct them, improve them, and polish them up so that I can publish them again. But of course, I will also regularly add new content and mix it in so that there is always something exciting to discover.

With each new day, my digital diary will grow a little more—slowly, steadily, and with joy. For this purpose, I’ve created a design that is as minimalistic, spartan, and brutal as possible, because nothing should distract from the content.

The irony of this text lies in two points, of course. Firstly, it is basically just another one of those repetitive pseudo-epic texts that praise the resurrection of this website and swear solemnly that everything will now be as it used to be. After all, that has always worked very well so far. And secondly, it denounces the transience of words and is itself one of those texts that, for reasons of content, will lose its relevance in no time at all.

I simply want my blog to become a peaceful garden in the middle of an unmanageable digital jungle full of nonsense—where everyone can have fun, whether they want to indulge in the profoundly formulated transience of being or just a few short notes from my chaotic mind.

Everyone is welcome here, free to look around and take away the thoughts and opinions they consider important and right. Or not. I would be delighted to continue accompanying, entertaining, and inspiring you, my readers, on your turbulent journey through life. In my own way.

Fantasy for Pedophiles

Have you ever sat in front of the TV or your laptop and wondered what the dumbest thing to watch might be, after binging every single episode of The Big Bang Theory, Two and a Half Men, and How I Met Your Mother? The answer is: In Another World with My Smartphone. That’s the dumbest thing. Not the dumbest anime—no—but simply the dumbest thing that has ever been created and then broadcast anywhere, at any time, in any way. By a mile. By a mile the dumbest.

What’s it about? The fifteen-year-old Touya Mochizuki is accidentally killed by God with a lightning bolt. As an apology, God lets him live again—but since he can’t send him back to his old world, he reincarnates him in a fantasy world instead, granting him one free wish.

Touya uses that wish to take his smartphone with him into the new world, which God kindly upgrades as well. He can’t contact his old world with it, but the phone can easily be recharged with magic and otherwise works just like it did before. He can read news websites from his world and even use Google Maps for his new fantasy world.

Since God happens to be having a pretty good day, he also boosts Touya’s physical, magical, and cognitive abilities on top of that—basically as compensation for accidentally murdering him. Touya makes full use of his second chance at life and befriends lots of different people, mainly women and high-ranking figures in the new world. He begins traveling from country to country, resolving political disputes, completing small quests, and casually enjoying himself with his newly found allies.

What at first sounds like a nice little anime adventure you could watch in between other things soon turns out, after the opening episodes, to be a pointless parade of boobs. After Touya meets about ten different run-of-the-mill girls in the first few episodes—ranging from toddlers to sex bombs to a 600-year-old vampire queen in a teenage body—the story quickly devolves into nothing but the question of which of the under-served minors Touya will eventually marry.

In Another World with My Smartphone feels like it was written by a pubescent twelve-year-old who has absolutely no idea how social interactions are supposed to work in order to make even the slightest bit of sense.

For example, one episode revolves solely around the extremely important question of which of the ten walking fantasy pin-ups for perverts gets to show Touya her more-or-less existent underwear first. Every now and then a few ninjas, monsters, or dragons show up, but they’re dealt with within five minutes so the show can quickly return to what it considers the important stuff.

I watched In Another World with My Smartphone all the way to the end. Not because I hoped the series might somehow turn things around and tell an adventurous story in what initially looks like a cliché fantasy world—no. After the first three episodes it was already clear to me that this was all garbage.

And In Another World with My Smartphone isn’t stupid in a funny way or dumb in an entertaining way. No—it’s simply awful. Plain and simple. Honestly, I was just too lazy to turn it off and find something else to play in the background while I jotted down stock market prices or something.

Everyone responsible for In Another World with My Smartphone, or involved in its creation, should be sued into the ground. You know me: I like breasts. Small ones, big ones, young ones, old ones, light ones, dark ones. And I don’t care if feminism gets trampled underfoot, as long as it makes sense within the world being presented to me.

That’s the great thing about movies and TV shows: they can show whatever they want. They don’t have to be role models. They can go over the top. Just because some poor idiot gets shot every week in CSI: Miami doesn’t automatically mean every viewer thinks murder is a good thing.

But In Another World with My Smartphone simply makes no sense—for anyone. Neither for the audience nor for the characters. And just when you’ve finally settled a bit into the characters and the world and think, Well, it’s not that bad, the creators throw a few more half-naked lunatics into the animated harem for idiots.

What haven’t we had yet? Robots with boobs? Here you go! A scientist in stockings? Here you go! A twelve-year-old with a marriage fetish? Here you go! Now everyone fight over Touya—the uptight loser in the white pimp coat whose only defining trait is a magical phone. Even the most pedophilic Harald would probably feel like he’s being thoroughly messed with while watching In Another World with My Smartphone.

If you’re thinking about giving In Another World with My Smartphone a try just to form your own opinion, then I can only say: No. I forbid it. Every raccoon run over multiple times on the Route 66 can give you a better story than whatever was cobbled together here into an anime while the creators sat at their drawing boards with their pants open and eventually threw any semblance of plot overboard so that irrelevant fantasy girls could outdo each other minute by minute in their desperate horniness. In Another World with My Smartphone is the dumbest thing. By a mile. By a mile the dumbest.

Of Beasts and Breasts

Let’s get this out of the way right away: Monster Girls is not exactly the deepest, smartest, or even remotely the most beautiful anime under the sun. Quite the opposite. The utterly idiotic story fits on a cum-stained biscuit, the dialogue mostly consists of swearing, screaming, and moaning, and the illustrations look like they came straight out of one of those seventh-rate hentai dating simulations made by some Russian backwoods developers that you regularly get thrown at you on Steam in ten-packs for about two bucks.

So what’s it about? For years the Japanese government had kept a secret: mythical creatures such as centaurs, mermaids, harpies, and lamias are real. Three years before the events of Monster Girls begin, the government revealed the existence of these beings and introduced a kind of cultural exchange program.

Since then, these creatures have become part of human society and live with ordinary families like exchange students or au-pair participants, though with different duties and restrictions. For example, humans are not allowed to mate with the strange beings. For whatever reason.

Enter Kimihito Kurusu, a typical run-of-the-mill Japanese fuckboy. When Kuroko Smith, a coordinator for the Japanese cultural exchange program and a female copy of a certain agent from the film Matrix, accidentally delivers the very frightened and embarrassed lamia Mia to his door, he doesn’t have the nerve to send her away and lets her move in. Naturally.

As the story progresses, Kimihito meets other female monsters, each belonging to a different species, and gives them shelter as well. Some arrive more or less by chance, others are forced on him by Kuroko or push themselves into his life, and it doesn’t take long before he finds himself in a chaotic situation in which he tries to live in harmony with his new housemates while dealing with their constant wishes, fears, and the drama that results from helping them adjust to life in the human world.

However, the situation takes a new turn after Kimihito is more or less charmingly informed that, due to an expected change in the law concerning relationships between species, he is expected—essentially as a test subject—to marry one of the girls, which greatly intensifies the competition for his attention.

Over time, episode by episode, other liminal beings also become attracted to him and start trying to win him over, much to Kimihito’s embarrassment and to the utter annoyance of his already outrageously horny housemates.

Monster Girls is one of those typical harem anime that has been told a thousand times before, in which a nose-bleeding protagonist is pursued by around ten extremely horny female characters. The only difference is that this time they happen to be monsters with more or less large breasts who absolutely want to be mounted right here and now.

We have Mia, the snake with the big breasts; Papi, the harpy with the small breasts; Zentrea, the centaur with the gigantic breasts; Sue, the slime creature with flexible breasts; Melu, the mermaid with big breasts; Rachnera, the spider with enormous breasts; Lala, the dullahan with big breasts; Zombina, the zombie with thick breasts; Tionisha, the ogre with huge breasts; Manako, the cyclops with small breasts; Doppel, the shapeshifter with average-sized breasts; Polt, the kobold with big breasts; Ki, the dryad with massive breasts; Lilith, the devil with small breasts; Cattle, the minotaur with enormous breasts; Luz, the fox with small breasts; Merino, the sheep with big breasts; and of course agent Kuroko, who is likewise blessed with a generous chest. By whoever.

In Monster Girls, the viewer is constantly bombarded from all sides by exposed secondary sexual characteristics—usually straight into Kimihito’s face, which causes him to cry, complain, or bleed. Often all three at once. The series doesn’t offer much more narrative depth than that. But that’s fine. Monster Girls doesn’t convince through an emotional story, clever twists, or even its drawing style.

Just watch the first five minutes of Monster Girls and you’ll know exactly what to expect from the following episodes. The series really only aims to do one thing: be fun. Anyone who has ever wanted to see an angry horse with big, wet boobs take down a motorcycle pickpocket will be in exactly the right place with Monster Girls. It doesn’t get any smarter than that—but not much dumber either. And in today’s otherwise unpredictable world, that’s worth something too.

For some, Monster Girls is a contemporary critique of the ongoing racism and sexism in 21st-century Japanese society. For others, it’s a colorful masturbation aid for perverts who have always wondered what sex with a moist, big-breasted snake might feel like.

Or, as the famous German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel supposedly always used to say: Why not both?

Fuck the Teacher

As Rui lies sweaty on her stomach in bed in front of Natsuo, her bottom clad in skimpy underwear thrust toward him, his heart begins to beat faster with every passing second. Rui coughs. The cold seems to be bothering her. The only thing that will help now is the freshly unwrapped suppository that Natsuo is holding in his hand.

He gently pulls down his little stepsister’s damp panties. Natsuo’s youthful modesty prevents him from looking directly at Rui’s most intimate parts, so he carefully feels his way between her legs with the white suppository. The girl whimpers.

The first opening Natsuo reaches with his fingertips doesn’t seem to be the right one. Higher… Rui gasps quietly, her face pressed into a pillow as her older stepbrother tries to gently push the suppository into her moist entrance.

I’m sorry… is all Natsuo can say before feeling his way a few inches higher and then lovingly pushing the medicine into her tight, conception-longing exit. Only Rui’s gurgling moans break the silence in her dimly lit bedroom. Soon she will feel better again.

Welcome to the scandalous world of Domestic Girlfriend, the anime for people who somehow find incest and sexual intercourse with wards quite acceptable, but would rather not promote blood libel and horny teachers. Here, there is kissing, fondling, and fooling around until the break bell rings, but somehow everything is quite nice, cute, and funny. At least until the first feelings develop.

Natsuo Fuji has a crush on one of his teachers, Hina Tachibana, but since he knows he has no chance of ever getting into a relationship with her, he lets his friends talk him into going to a party where he meets the quiet Rui.

One thing leads to another and then, well, neither of them is a virgin anymore. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what they expected, but that’s okay. They’re just ships passing in the night and will never have to see each other again, right?

But when Natsuo’s father announces that he is getting remarried, Natsuo learns that he will also have two new stepsisters. Now there’s a problem, because, what a coincidence, one of them is his teacher Hina and the other is Rui. Yes, the family dinners at Natsuo’s house are about to become more or less really awkward in Domestic Girlfriend.

What sounds like a nice love story with a little physical contact quickly develops into a drama harem with hentai elements. Rarely have I wished so much for a protagonist to fail in all his endeavors and for karma to really kick him in his constantly swollen soft parts as I do for Natsuo in Domestic Girlfriend.

Natsuo cheats, lies, and fibs his way through every interpersonal relationship, hurting everyone who crosses his path within a ten-kilometer radius. Of course, Natsuo is unaware of any guilt. He’s just looking for true love. And if people who develop feelings for him get hurt in the process, that’s not his problem. After all, it’s their own fault for falling for his innocent ways.

But instead of punishing him for breaking his little stepsister’s heart and hymen, massaging his suicidal classmate’s breasts, and then fucking his teacher, he ends up winning an award for best young writer, because after all, it’s his big dream to become an author. And Rui, whom he has been messing with from the very beginning, spreads her legs for him again to celebrate the occasion.

If the credits hadn’t come before, Natsuo would probably have won the lottery too. Because Domestic Girlfriend teaches us that karma can’t hurt you if you simply praise improvement after every misstep and smile away all signs of remorse in a sympathetic manner. After all, Natsuo is the main character in his own life story and, hehe, hoho, if you have tits and, for whatever reason, ended up near him, then you’re just out of luck.

Instead of having to listen to Natsuo’s annoying whining all the time, I would have preferred to learn more about his boss Masaki, the gay and adorable flamboyant restaurant owner with a yakuza past. But there probably wouldn’t have been much room for underage breasts in his colorful annals.

The best thing for Domestic Girlfriend would have been if Natsuo, after his well-deserved fall down the stairs caused by his literature club friend Miu, simply hadn’t woken up. Because then we would have been spared the schmaltzy and completely far-fetched rest of the so-called story, and Rui would have found her well-deserved happiness. With me, for example. Right, I’m going to stick a suppository up my rear end now—Domestic Girlfriend has made me sick.

In Love With a Goddess

Back in the day, as everyone knows, everything was better. The music. The weather. The food. The love. And of course television, too. These days it’s nothing but crap. But were anime better back then as well? You might think so. Sailor Moon. Cowboy Bebop. Neon Genesis Evangelion. All classics from that era that still convince today through their likable characters, their great stories, or simply their sheer epic scale.

Oh! My Goddess is without a doubt a classic. The anime released in 2005, based on a manga, is still celebrated decades later as one of the most popular animated series from the Land of the Rising Sun. Likable characters? Definitely! A great story? Uh, well… if you want to call it that. Sheer epicness? Eh.

So what’s it about? Keiichi Morisato is a second-year college student who accidentally calls the Technical Goddess Hotline. The goddess Belldandy appears and informs him that her agency has received a system request from him and that she is supposed to grant him a single wish. Believing someone is playing a prank on him, he wishes that she would stay with him forever. And his wish is granted.

Since he cannot live with Belldandy in his all-male dormitory, they are forced to look for alternative accommodation and eventually find shelter in an old Buddhist temple.

They are allowed to stay there indefinitely because the monk who lives there has gone on a pilgrimage to India after being impressed by Belldandy’s innate kindness. Keiichi’s life with Belldandy becomes even more hectic when her older sister Urd and her younger sister Skuld also move in. A series of adventures follows as his relationship with Belldandy develops.

There’s a reason anime series today are no longer made the way they were back then. And that reason is: lack of ideas. Keiichi is the typical shy, run-of-the-mill Japanese loser who gets nosebleeds just from seeing two cloud formations shaped like breasts. Belldandy is perfect. Period. And all the other characters are… there.

In Oh! My Goddess, 26 episodes attempt to connect the creative beginning with the emotional ending. What happens in between is completely irrelevant. While the creators initially tried to portray the unusual situation Keiichi finds himself in after his wish—sometimes humorously, sometimes sadly—the stories become increasingly absurd over time. And not in a good way.

By the midpoint of the series at the latest, it’s basically just random goddesses and demonesses insulting each other. Then suddenly they’re racing cars, unleashing robots on one another, and eventually something explodes while a pseudo-homosexual motorcycle club cheers. The end. Next episode. The same thing again. And if they only had about three yen of budget left for an episode, then it takes place entirely inside a house. Occasionally you see the garden. Wow.

Some episodes aren’t worth the celluloid they were recorded on. The intro plays, then shortly afterward the credits roll, and you’re left wondering: what actually happened there? Did anything happen at all? The little goddess and her older sister had an argument and Keiichi fell down. That’s it. The theme song was the best part of the episode.

Oh! My Goddess is the perfect background-watch adventure. It has the charm of an Kids’ WB anime series, the kind where you just drift from episode to episode and it didn’t matter if you missed one because you actually got up and went to play soccer with your friends.

Basically, you can watch the first five and the last five episodes of Oh! My Goddess and you won’t have missed anything. And if you find yourself wondering what relevance some previously unseen character has? The answer is always: none. They just suddenly appeared. And cause trouble. That’s all.

Oh! My Goddess would have been a better series if it had simply focused on the relationship between Keiichi and Belldandy. And whoever suggested that it would be funny if Belldandy’s entire family gradually showed up should have been fired on the spot before they even finished the sentence. Back then everything was better. Except Oh! My Goddess.

Maybe Not Today, but a Huge Sun May Rise Tomorrow

Tatsuya Egawa’s Golden Boy was the first anime that made me realize that Japanese cartoons weren’t just for little boys and girls but could also go in a more adult direction. This was despite the fact that the series aired on MTV in a heavily edited version—if you still remember MTV.

What’s Golden Boy about? Kintaro Oe was top of his class at Tokyo University’s Faculty of Law, one of the most prestigious in the whole world. Having mastered the entire curriculum without any problems, he disappears shortly before graduating. Now, he rides his bicycle through Japan searching for the most important things in life: the lessons you can’t learn in a classroom. That’s one way to put it.

In essence, each story revolves around Kintaro encountering a more or less big city somewhere along the road where he spots an attractive girl and immediately decides to pursue her. Literally and figuratively, as while the girl has no interest in him, he does everything possible to impress her. And when I say everything, I mean absolutely everything.

Kintaro tutors a wealthy daughter in math, cooks ramen at some restaurant and even cleans dirty toilets at a software company—all just to disappear again before actually getting what he wants. Golden Boy may only have six episodes in total, all fairly similar, but this anime still holds a very special place in my heart even today.

Tatsuya Egawa introduced me to the concept of adult themes in anime and inspired an entire generation of horny teenagers to give it a chance as an adult medium. If you’ve only ever associated anime with Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Spirited Away, Golden Boy will open both your eyes and the door to a sticky world that long-lost souls call hentai. It will even take your mental virginity.

Before you know it, you will find yourself standing in a forest of pulsating tentacle penises, with one hand down your pants, watching Japanese schoolgirls being fucked across some parallel dimension until they ultimately explode. But that, my dear and innocent children, is a story for another time…

The Queen of J-Pop

What Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, or Mariah Carey might be in Western realms, that is what women named Hikaru Utada, Namie Amuro, and Seiko Matsuda are in Japan. Grand shows, powerful voices, and an abundance of feminine energy—this is how the Far Eastern audience knows and loves its female superstars. They dazzle with charisma, glamour, and emotional performances that blend strength with elegance.

These artists are more than singers, they are icons who have shaped the image of Japanese pop culture for decades, inspiring countless fans across generations. Their concerts fill arenas, their songs dominate the charts, and their influence stretches far beyond Japan’s borders, defining what it means to be a pop legend in Asia’s ever-evolving music scene.

Whoever ventures into this alternative glittering world will not escape it easily. Suddenly they find themselves clicking through one fascinating J-Pop playlist after another, trying to sing along with Arashi, Morning Musume, and Akina Nakamori using fragments of learned words like 世界, こころ, and 愛してる.

Yet no one reaches the heights of one particular artist—the uncrowned, immortal, and one true queen of Japanese pop music: Ayumi Hamasaki. With more than twenty studio albums and numerous best-of compilations, Ayumi Hamasaki stands among the greatest stars the Land of the Rising Sun has ever produced. After a brief detour into hip-hop, her name alone now evokes admiration and nostalgia, symbolizing an entire era of musical brilliance and emotional expression.

Albums such as A Song for ×, LOVEppears, and Duty have sold millions of copies and, thanks to file sharing and passionate CD importers, have found many fans abroad. International audiences discovered her partly through the popularity of Japanese animated series like Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball, and Ranma ½, which brought attention to Asian singers and pop culture.

Born in Fukuoka, Ayumi Hamasaki sang and wrote her way into the radios and hearts of listeners with self-written and often self-composed songs like Voyage, Boys & Girls, and Dearest. She is the Queen of J-Pop. Her songs will outlast time itself, and her passion for music has inspired a new generation of Japanese artists such as Aimyon, Yoasobi, and Kenshi Yonezu.

D Is for Dragon

It is well known that when you’re drunk, you do the stupidest things. Sending your ex a WhatsApp message with a shirtless selfie attached, for example. Convincing yourself that one more vodka Red Bull will go down just fine and that an hour later you definitely won’t be vomiting into your own pillow at home. Or getting into a fight with a bouncer. All three very stupid things. But you do what you have to do.

Kobayashi also enjoys getting drunk. The Japanese programmer is alone. And she has time. Enough time to head into the city with a bottle of sake and then back out again. That she doesn’t stay sober for long goes without saying. And because Kobayashi is in such a good mood, she drives into the forest. As one does. As a drunk programmer.

Among all the dark trees and the nighttime grass, she encounters a dragon. Tohru. As one does. As a drunk programmer. And she invites her to come live with her. As one does. As a drunk programmer. That’s how the story of Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid begins—and it doesn’t get any less absurd from there.

Anyone looking for normality in this anime series will be quickly disappointed, again and again. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a cliché bomb like no other. But it’s fun. Unlike other cliché-filled anime. Here, madness is still written with a capital M. When Tohru enters Kobayashi’s small apartment, she transforms into a pretty maid—and stays that way.

There’s not much to say about the remaining characters. Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid knows it’s an anime. And because it knows it’s an anime, all its characters are pure anime archetypes. We have the cute loli. The unhinged otaku. The busty sex bomb. The shy student. The gluttonous office worker. The perpetually annoyed grouch. And my personal favorite: the kindergarten friend who’s in love with the cute loli—initially a bit of a brat, but soon bursting with joy at the slightest touch from her beloved.

So in Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid, we follow the daily life of Kobayashi and her housekeeper from another world. We go shopping with them. We visit a bathhouse. We attend a comic convention. Of course, together with all sorts of other colorful characters who gradually appear out of nowhere and create even more chaos.

The series Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is, above all, one thing: fun, fun, fun. From the first to the last second, one anime bomb explodes after another. Sometimes small, sometimes big. Sometimes quiet, sometimes loud. Sometimes intimate, sometimes hilarious. But always with a great deal of love for the characters and the audience.

As a first anime experience, I wouldn’t necessarily recommend Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid. Films by Studio Ghibli are more suitable for that. Or Your Name. Or perhaps Cowboy Bebop. But if you’ve watched enough anime to playfully engage with its stereotypes, then Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid is a guaranteed firework display of good vibes.

A Balm for Depression

Sure, sex is pretty great. But have you ever watched all the episodes of K-On! in one sitting, only to feel such a massive void in your heart afterward that you immediately started all over again just to even begin to fill it? Exactly. K-On! is pure joie de vivre, a love letter to cheerfulness, to carefree days, to the plans and hopes we all once had at some point.

When the daydreamer Yui starts high school, she firmly resolves to finally get off her lazy butt and join a school club so she won’t end up being a loser. The only question is: which one? Luckily, the newly formed school band is desperately looking for a guitarist.

This could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship and an amazing musical career for Yui. Unfortunately, she hasn’t the faintest clue how to play the guitar and has zero stage experience. On top of that, she’s easily distracted, and whenever she learns something new, she forgets something else. This is going to be a tough challenge for the other band members…

K-On! isn’t about an epic legend, grand heroic deeds, or saving the world. K-On! is about Yui—so warm-hearted, lazy, gluttonous, clumsy, naive, and adorable that it’s an absolute joy to watch her little everyday school adventures.

And it’s about her four best friends—Mio, Ritsu, Mugi, and Azusa (whom Yui affectionately calls Azumiau)—their shared, unstoppable ambition to become the best rock band in the world with After School Tea Time, and the sweet Papua softshell turtle Ton-chan, who diligently swims back and forth in the background. And about Yui’s little sister Ui, without whom nothing would probably function at all, and whose self-sacrificing devotion will undoubtedly one day become a case for the nearest psychiatrist.

If you ever feel lonely, depressed, and abandoned by the entire world, just watch an episode of K-On! before reaching for the bottle, the pillbox, or even the rope. And then another episode. And another. Until you eventually start all over again. Again and again. Forever.

K-On! makes you realize what life is really about: overcoming fears, gathering new experiences, and perhaps even finding friends for life who will stick with you through thick and thin. And maybe you’ll even rediscover your love for breezy, lighthearted pop music—the kind you once traded in for hip hop and electronic beats.

Anyone who doesn’t feel comfortable, welcomed, and at home here from the very first minute is truly beyond help. K-On! proves that sometimes it’s the small stories that truly melt your heart.

And no matter how much your soul has already been eaten away by cynicism and the general suffering of the world, after a personally prescribed K-On! cure, you’ll automatically feel more content, happier, and more positively inclined toward the entire universe.

Because Yui’s carefree nature—quite literally—rubs off even on the most sarcastic grump. Guaranteed. K-On! is sugary sweet, melodic, and absolutely iconic. And on top of that, there’s a generous dollop of whipped cream—because life is hard enough as it is.

Songs From Another World

When I finally got my driver’s license in my early 20s and raced through the streets of my uptight hometown in my mother’s bright red Seat Ibiza, criss-crossing back and forth, there was no hip hop, no techno, and no Britney Spears shouting from my speakers. No. It was the then-new single by a Japanese pop musician. Her name was Kumi Koda. The song was Butterfly.

My girlfriend at the time, who was sitting huddled in the passenger seat, was mortified as we sped past the local ice cream parlor, the school, and the outdoor pool. With Butterfly blaring at full volume. The fact that she let me back in her life after that is probably one of the most mysterious wonders of the world in human history.

Of course, it makes absolutely no sense for me to listen to Japanese music. I’m not Japanese and I don’t speak Japanese. No matter how much I sometimes wish I did and no matter how many Japanese courses I’ve endured. And believe me, there have been quite a few.

My teachers are utterly desperate with me. Greetings go out to Mr. Hasegawa, Ms. Takeda, and Mr. Sugimoto. To Ms. Ikeda, Ms. Takahashi, and Ms. Watanabe. To Mr. Fujiwara, Mr. Noguchi, and Ms. Yokoyama. To Ms. Ota, Ms. Sato, and Mr. Suzuki. And to Ms. Weatherby-Harrington.

After about 20 years and countless Japanese lessons, on a good day I can count to seven, distinguish between こころ for heart and こども for children, and shout はじめまして、わたしはマセルです！ for Hello, my name is Marcel! That’s it. Really.

You’d think that after all the Japanese anime, comics, series, films, concerts, books, dramas, video games, and what feels like hundreds of thousands of songs, I’d be able to do a little more. But no. Even for my great love, Japanese pop culture, I’m still too lazy to seriously learn Japanese.

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I’ve met enough Japanese students in my life who wanted to turn their hobby into a career, and with every new word they learned, they became less and less interested in consuming anything Japanese. Perhaps because that’s when you really realize that Japan is just a normal country with problems, boredom, and a relatively average entertainment industry. Like Germany. Or America. Or Romania.

Hundreds of Japanese people wouldn’t throw themselves off strategically well-placed bridges, skyscrapers, and train stations every year if the nation in the far, far East were as great as it is portrayed in K-On!. And that’s despite the fact that the show is virtually an all-around credible documentary about the everyday school life of young adolescents in the Land of the Rising Sun.

But due to my complete mental block, I can’t even begin to comprehend any further meaning of a Japanese word. To me, everything Japanese sounds great. Everything is wonderful. Everything has something magical about it. If you get wet when Jacques from some Parisian suburb asks you for directions to the nearest public toilet in the worst French accent, then Japanese has the same effect on me. What are you saying, little Japanese girl? Your dog has warts on its balls? Kawaii!

I’m that typical, fat, run-of-the-mill nerd who’s always one step away from his first heart attack, who considers Japan to be the Mecca of evolutionary creativity and celebrates everything with even a single Japanese character on it, even though he couldn’t tell it apart from Chinese, with a completely unnatural level of obsession.

Soon I’ll be buying cuddly pillows with childlike, half-clothed waifus on them, who are of course actually thousand-year-old vampire queens. I’ll only eat rice drizzled with sake. And I’ll officially change my name to Marcel-san.

When musical gods like Hikaru Utada, Scandal, or Asian Kung-Fu Generation pound on the keys, strings, and microphones, roaring, screaming, and strumming, I don’t hear hackneyed lyrics about love, pain, and freedom. I hear the pulse of Tokyo. The vibration of Osaka. The voice of Kyoto. And sometimes even the fart of Los Angeles.

With songs like First Love, Secret Base, or Rewrite, I can piece together my own stories in my head. Imagine my own personal credits. Fantasize about my life on the other side of the world.

J-pop exudes the same kind of magic you had as a child when you heard English-language songs on the radio and didn’t yet have to understand what nonsense was being sung about. Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby? Uh, no thanks, I’d rather not.

Of course, I could look up the translations of these songs on the internet. But that would be very stupid. Then I would know that my creative heroes, whom I’ve been listening to ever since there was a Japanese song on some Sailor Moon soundtrack CD that forever changed my taste to, let’s say, alternative, so that now I have no friends left, spout the same pop-rock-backed brain shit as Taylor Swift, The Weeknd, and Adele. Only in Japanese. And then I might as well hang myself.

Nevertheless, I would argue at this point that J-pop is the best music genre humanity has ever produced. Jazz is dead. Hip hop is murky. Even the otherwise universally celebrated K-pop is nothing more than colorful.

Japanese pop music, on the other hand, is melodic, emotional, and captivating with an incredible power that you otherwise only experience when you accidentally find yourself at an anime convention surrounded by sweaty weebs armed with two to seven Canon SLR cameras and a sixteen-year-old dressed as Rem from Re:Zero.

Because when you don’t have to pay attention to the lyrics, but only to the musical performance as a whole, you realize the sophistication, skill, and sonic perfection that many Japanese artists put into their completely authentic work. And I can rightly claim, notice, and evaluate this. After all, I studied music history for 63 years. At the Moon University.

Maybe J-pop just broke me. Because in their four-minute songs, they like to mix eight different music genres, three orchestras, and a singer screaming at the top of her lungs, stir it all up, and turn the epic switch up to 11. So that you might think the universe is about to explode while God dies and the Keio Girls Senior High School choir cries in the background.

J-pop is the anthem of my own little messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They’re not marketed to me through TV commercials, radio slots, and newsletters. I don’t exist for them.

I can figure out their meaning for myself. I know nothing about their scandals or problems or rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me. Because everyone else thinks the songs are crap.

Its emotional range has something for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. Whether they remind me of sad anime episodes or the stirring background music in video games or heartbreak or my first minutes at Narita Airport, when I stepped through the Welcome to Japan banner into a world full of cultural, technological, and human wonders. J-pop is always there for me and fills the void of wanderlust in my small, constantly annoyed and bored heart.

Of course, J-pop isn’t cool. Even Japanese people don’t think J-pop is cool. When I once mentioned at a picnic in Yoyogi Park that I like AKB48, I was allowed to spend the rest of my trip to Japan alone.

Apparently, a report about me was repeated every hour on state television, warning the population about me and saying that it was better to stay away from me. A gaijin who likes AKB48 and admits it publicly? If you see this walking hentai, drop everything! Including your children and pets. And run for your bare life!

Cool Japanese people like Swedish indie bands, American rappers, and British DJs. But definitely not a bunch of plastered Yukis from next door who have been thrown together into a so-called band by sleazy pimp managers and now have to jump up and down and back and forth to pop dance music until something inside them breaks.

They realize that only overweight, middle-aged office workers want to celebrate them and have sex with them at the same time. And then, after their identity crisis, often accompanied by shaving their heads and crying in front of TV cameras, they are replaced by younger models. On the other hand, this is probably the case throughout the entertainment industry. Everywhere. All over the world.

And when you watch interviews with Japanese bands and musicians, there is no pride in what they have created. No arrogance. Not even a hint of self-confidence. Rather, the exact opposite. A collective apology for being responsible for such noise, which is falsely labeled and sold as music by record companies. As if they should be ashamed of following their dreams. Instead of taking over their fathers’ cement factories, as befits true Japanese descendants. After all, they have brought shame upon Otosan. Shame!

Not even they themselves seem to like J-pop. For whatever reason. But maybe that’s just Japanese reserve and politeness, which is clichédly admired and celebrated in every travelogue, no matter how lacking in individuality. They are very shy, you see. The Japanese. All Japanese people. There are no exceptions. Every child knows that.

But maybe I’m just weird. Not in a cool way. Oh God, definitely not in a cool way. More in a Should we commit him now or wait two weeks? kind of way.

When I hear even a single beat of any Ed Sheeran memorial song on the radio, I want to turn into a mass murderer on the spot. But put me in front of a ten-hour YouTube video of The Best Anime Theme Songs from 1980 to Today at full volume and I’ll starve and die of thirst at the same time. Because I just can’t turn it off. A Cruel Angel’s Thesis is just such a banger.

I’m fully aware that with this revelation, I have forever ruined any chance of future sexual intercourse. But I just can’t pretend to like people like Katy Perry, Justin Timberlake, or Sabrina Carpenter anymore. I just can’t. Their songs. Their stories. Their thoughts. They just mean nothing to me. Pure. Utter. Nothing.

Instead, I sit here, close my eyes with pleasure, and listen to Perfume, Kyary Pamyu Pamyu, and Babymetal. How they sing about せかい, ドキドキ, and はなび. And I’m happy. Even though, or maybe even because, I don’t understand a single word.

What If…?

Sometimes I lie awake at night and in my head only one almost essential question keeps circling: What if. What if. What. If. While others late at night quietly masturbate or kindly let their partner fuck them into seventh heaven and then drift off to sleep with a faint smile on their face—ready to wake up the next day fit and cheerful to continue successfully building their résumé—I spend the night beating myself up with thinking.

It is always the same question. What if. What if I had made tea instead of coffee this morning. What if I had been nicer to the woman at the station kiosk yesterday. What if I had gotten Apple Music instead of Spotify. What if I had moved to Hamburg instead of Berlin back then. What if I had confessed my love to the cute girl from the parallel class. What if I weren’t so fat. What if I hadn’t cheated on my ex-girlfriends so often. What if I weren’t so lazy. What if I weren’t such an asshole. What if I didn’t think so often about the question of what would have happened if I had done something differently.

In the silence of the dark my thoughts ride a roller coaster, taking every imaginable route I can conceive of, just to show me how much cooler, more successful, and happier I might have been if at some completely arbitrary point in my life I had simply tried a little harder. My career would be more impressive. My girlfriend would be prettier. My house would be bigger. My penis would be longer. My existence would simply be worth more overall. And maybe not quite so wasted.

Companions I haven’t seen for years—maybe even decades—suddenly take shape in my head and reenact where I might have made a devastating mistake back then. Because I didn’t say, do, or think the right thing. And now I receive the mental bill for it. Because in kindergarten I kissed stupid-as-hell Steffi instead of the likeable Anne, just because Steffi was blonde and the other one wasn’t. Because in seventh grade I gave in to peer pressure and spat on Jonas’s back. Because I turned down an interview with German television and instead got drunk on sangria in the park. Because I ignored good advice and let my inflated ego make the decisions.

Life becomes a farce when everything is indifferent to you and you still get away with it. When things somehow work out even though you’re not really making much effort. Your relationship is falling apart because you simply don’t listen? Well, whatever—there’ll be another girl. You don’t have to sleep on the street even though you handle your money as if it had Monopoly printed on it? Well, whatever—the next cash will come along. You don’t have any friends left because you just don’t reply to text messages anymore? Well, whatever—new people will come along.

But what if at some point it’s over? When no more girls, no more money, and no more people come along that you can burn up in your lifelong ego trip? When you’ve taken the wrong turn on the road of your existence one too many times and now you stand in front of the shattered remains of yourself? In a dead end? With only a single thought left that will haunt and mock you for the rest of your life: What if. What if. What if.

The terrible thing is that you don’t actually know what would have happened. Would my life really have turned out better if I had confessed my love to the cute girl from the parallel class? Would we now be living in a townhouse in some suburb with two kids and a dog, going about a completely normal everyday life? Or would we have steered our car into oncoming traffic on the highway during a massive argument?

Would my life really have turned out better if I hadn’t spat on Jonas’s back? Would we have become best friends and still meet twice a year at our regular pub to chat about the good old days? Or would my classmates have mentally destroyed me over the next four years so badly that even today the mere mention of the word “school” would make me burst into tears, gasping for air and calling for my mommy?

Would my life really have turned out better if I hadn’t fallen out with the people who counted on me, who strengthened me and simply wanted to be taken seriously and not ignored? The people who meant something to me and to whom I meant something? The ones who shaped my life? And whom I should at least have listened to instead of brushing their dreams, wishes, and objections aside like trash and going my own way regardless of the consequences?

Sometimes I lie awake at night and in my head only one almost essential question keeps circling: What if. What if. What. If. While others late at night quietly masturbate or kindly let their partner fuck them into seventh heaven and then drift off to sleep with a faint smile on their face—ready to wake up the next day fit and cheerful to continue successfully building their résumé—I spend the night beating myself up with thinking.

And no matter how hard I try, how much I want it, how much I beg for it, this constant rattling in my head doesn’t stop. Time rushes past me, and every decision I made—or didn’t make—pulls me further away from what I once was and wanted to be. I am losing myself. And the more I try to row back, to catch up with and preserve some part of that time, the more it feels cheated, the more it turns into fuel that has only one use: to keep my thoughts running. What if. What if. What if…

Tales From China

That we were both born in the same year connects us, Luo Yang and me. 1984. I don’t think about politics very much, she tells me when I ask about the country she lives in. And I don’t believe it has any influence on my work or my life. I prefer to focus on the people around me, even though their lives are, of course, influenced by politics. A little.

Ai Weiwei is a pioneer and an artist I deeply respect, she replies when I ask about the Chinese rebel the world knows and admires. But we come from two different generations. His work is more rooted in society and politics, whereas I’m more concerned with the emotions of the people around me. His issues therefore don’t confront me directly.

I ask about Ren Hang, who passed away last year. He was a good friend of mine. I started photographing shortly before he did, and we met at one of my exhibitions in 2009, when he was still searching for his own style. His persistence and effort prevailed against the harsh Chinese reality and earned him the attention of the West.

Will Ren’s rather provocative and alternative art leave a mark in China and around the world, I ask Luo. It’s hard to say whether he changed China for the better, but at the very least he gave more Chinese artists and young people the courage and strength to pursue their true selves, and he brought the young generation of China closer to people in the West. Ren was a brave man.

I tell Luo that I love Mian Mian. I know her books are very well known in the West, but I don’t know her particularly well. She is one of the pioneers who writes from her own experiences and with her body. We have a few mutual friends, and I know about her early, wild life. The girls I photograph share some similarities with her. They are brave, young, lost, and beautiful.

The Chinese generation of the 1980s is caught in a gap, Luo replies when I ask about our shared birth year. We inherited the traditional cultures of our predecessors and, since the country opened up, have been living in conflict with ourselves. We want to be freer, but we are held back by our family values. I don’t know Western peers particularly well, but fundamentally we are all the same. We all share the same emotions and problems, regardless of geographic and cultural differences.

I do have one last, almost clichéd question. What would Luo like to tell Germans about China and its young, new generation? I’ve been working as a photographer for more than ten years now and have seen major changes in the generations of the ’80s and ’90s. The new generation seems more relaxed and more loyal to themselves. And because China continues to develop and change every second, there will be more and more young, interesting people. Perhaps the internet and social media have brought the world closer together. Come to China and get to know the country and its young people better!

All the Witches in the Sky

Actually, what we all really want in life is the feeling we get when we watch the first three or four Harry Potter films back-to-back. It’s warm, adventurous, and full of friendship. And if there is such a thing as a perfect emotion, it’s exactly that mixture. Unfortunately, even the most beautiful feelings eventually fade in life. But I’ve found a way to revive them—by taking a bit of a detour.

We simply take the most beautiful, affectionate, and cozy elements from the now slightly less radiant Harry Potter epic, mix them with another world we love—say, Sailor Moon—and suddenly we have something new that’s packed with all those old, wonderful, almost legendary emotions. How does that work? Very simple: with Little Witch Academia.

If I had to explain Little Witch Academia in one sentence, I’d say: just imagine putting Usagi Tsukino into Hogwarts. That’s it. You really don’t need to know much more about this anime series, which grew out of a successful short film. Sailor Moon meets Harry Potter—as a series. That should make everything clear now, every doubt removed, every question answered.

At the center of Little Witch Academia is the 16-year-old Atsuko Akko Kagari, who is sent to a prestigious magic school called Luna Nova Magical Academy to learn everything about magic. The problem is that while all her classmates are gifted witches, Akko has no clue about any of this hocus-pocus. In fact, she can’t even ride a broom.

Together with her two new best friends, Lotte Jansson and Sucy Manbavaran, the rather arrogant Diana Cavendish, and the mysterious teacher Ursula, Akko tries to make the best of things. She soon realizes that behind the façade of Luna Nova Magical Academy there are not only countless ancient mysteries hidden away—but that she herself might be destined for something greater.

Little Witch Academia thrives on the small adventures Akko experiences around the academy and on the countless colorful characters scattered throughout its lovingly crafted world: Constanze Amalie von Braunschbank Albrechtsberger, the grim German who prefers tinkering with her robots; Jasminka Antonenko, the Russian glutton; or Amanda O’Neill, the cheeky American who loves causing trouble.

Akko herself is basically a brunette version of Usagi Tsukino. She’s cheeky, impatient, and stuffs herself with cake whenever she’s stressed. Her temperament not only constantly gets her into trouble, but also helps her turn seemingly hopeless situations around and uncover one or two small—and sometimes big—secrets that would otherwise have remained hidden.

The all-girls Luna Nova Magical Academy is essentially nothing more than a Hogwarts packed with all kinds of new legends. There are potion classes with eccentric professors, sealed corridors where death and disaster lurk, and dark schemes threatening to surface. In other words: everything a grand story needs.

The episodes are pleasantly mixed up. Sometimes it’s about Akko’s destiny-shaping past, sometimes about a magical competition gone wrong. One time it’s the search for a grumpy yeti, another time the resurrection of a crazed skeleton. Sometimes it’s a deadly moss disease, other times a debt-collecting dragon. Little Witch Academia is never boring.

And although the small adventures are the most entertaining, a big secret casts its shadow over every single episode. Little Witch Academia does a lot of things right, and we could all take a page from Akko’s boundless naivety and joy for life. Without her, half the fun would be gone. If you like Sailor Moon and Harry Potter, you’ll love Little Witch Academia.

Melodies for Rebels

I love Japanese pop music. J-pop, those are the anthems of my small, private, messed-up world. The Japanese music industry doesn’t care whether I listen to the songs or not. Whether I worship the stars or not. Whether I watch the music videos or not. They are not marketed to me through TV ads and radio slots and newsletters.

I don’t exist for them. I can piece together their meaning on my own. I know nothing about their scandals, their problems, or their rumors. J-pop is a huge, personal playlist. Just for me and folks who are a little bit different as well.

Its emotional range has something ready for every situation in my life. For dancing. For laughing. For crying. And one of the modern greats of this musical wonder world doesn’t even exist anymore: BiSH.

Girl groups belong to Japan like sushi, sake, and an underwear fetish. The ensembles called idol groups, AKB48, Nogizaka46, or Passpo, show up anywhere and everywhere. On television, on the radio, on billboards, in constant rotation.

In metropolises like Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka you can hardly escape their perfect smiles. In smaller cities there are often local copies of the big role models, not quite so thoroughly styled.

The band BiSH went at it a little harder than the well-known groupings. Situated somewhere between Scandal, Stereopony, and Morning Musume, Aina The End, Cent Chihiro Chittiii, Momoko Gumi Company, Lingling, Hashiyasume Atsuko, and Ayuni D tried to bless the Far Eastern music world with an audiovisual alternative.

They were not anti, not opposed, not averse to the cliché—quite the opposite. The members of BiSH, an abbreviation for Brand-new idol SHiT, made the sweet idolhood their own, and for that very reason sometimes didn’t seem like themselves. Whether that is good or bad, their homeland decided long ago. There they are unforgettable.

Songs like PAiNT it BLACK, SMACK baby SMACK, and GiANT KiLLERS have made the girls of BiSH immortal. Their afterglow lingers: evidence that candy-coated idol shine and a rougher bite can make something that sticks, even after the band is gone for good and only its voices remain. I can still hear their songs in convenience stores, karaoke rooms, and late-night variety shows. And, of course, BiSH will live on in my private playlists—forever.

Freedom Over Convenience

I was never cool. Not in kindergarten, not in school, not in working life. While everyone around me listened to the latest songs by American hip-hop artists, wore the trendiest Nike Air Max, and took drugs I had never even heard of, I nerded around in my little cosmos, listened to the Chrono Trigger soundtrack on my iPod that was threatening to fall apart, wore Superstars for 15 years straight, and already felt pretty badass if I took a puff from a joint once in a while.

Whenever I wanted to get my hands on music, series, or movies, I was a big fan of torrents. Every month there was an indie rock playlist via download link featuring the most bizarre alternative tracks. I subscribed to anime series via RSS, and movies usually came to me on some shared hard drive on a university server. Life was beautiful. And simple.

When Spotify started getting big, I completely ignored it. I didn’t care. Why should I pay money to rent music that doesn’t even belong to me and that I would never listen to 99 percent of in my life anyway? Spotify was a small, insignificant niche trend that people mocked in forums and that I dismissed with a simple Nope.

While I happily browsed The Pirate Bay for the newest One Piece episodes and celebrated Lykke Li, Bat for Lashes, and Santigold on illegal playlists, the technological climate was changing. More and more of my friends and acquaintances in Berlin suddenly had the dark green Spotify logo on their iPhones and laptops.

Look, I can listen to the new Kanye West album without buying it! Wooooow…, I thought. Welcome to my world from ten years ago! My ignorance turned into mockery. At the time, I had no idea that this Spotify thing would one day lead to a personal crisis in my cozy little nerd world.

While the people around me slowly but surely joined the collective streaming party, I celebrated myself with my beloved MP3 collection, listened my way through albums and singles that some PR agencies sent me for free, and even started buying tracks from artists I really liked on Bandcamp.

My crisis began the day Apple suddenly introduced Apple Music. Before that, iTunes had been a gathering place for personal favorite albums, but now even the computer manufacturer of my choice was celebrating the trend toward streaming. Suddenly streaming was no longer just some parallel world out there—it was invading my personal cosmos.

I might not have been cool, but at least I had always been ahead of the curve technologically. While you were installing Windows XP, I already had my first Mac at home. While you were still jogging with a Discman, I was copying my first 128-kbps MP3s onto my iPod. And while you were drooling in front of NBC’s afternoon programming, I was downloading the latest HBO shows. I wasn’t cool, but I was better.

But thanks to Spotify, Netflix, and Apple Music, I suddenly had the feeling that I was no longer technologically up to date. Owning media was no longer contemporary. Piracy was no longer associated with geeky teenagers but with Polish money launderers. Streaming became the norm; everything else suddenly belonged to the past.

Little by little, more and more high-school dropouts gained access to the internet and continuously demolished it in a way that, in retrospect, I see as an attack on my digital personality. People who had no idea about technology—who used their €800 phones for duckface selfies and Candy Crush—had destroyed my world.

Now technology was no longer made for people who understood it, but for those who were already mentally overwhelmed by a 12-minute YouTube video without a hard cut.

Why can’t I touch the desktop screen? Why can’t I oppose Facebook’s terms and conditions with a shared image full of spelling mistakes? Why can’t I vote for the AfD without being considered a dim-witted idiot?

People gradually moved voluntarily into closed ecosystems because the open internet overwhelmed them. Who needs websites if you have Facebook? Who needs blogs if you have YouTube? Who needs MP3s if you have Spotify? Digital freedom is simply too exhausting for most people.

At the latest when Apple began marketing the iPad as a Mac replacement, when people considered Dropbox a real backup substitute, and when Netflix series advanced into universal pop-culture goods, I realized that my technological worldview was threatening to become obsolete. Like paper. Or SMS. Or the fax machine.

So I packed all my files onto an external hard drive, reinstalled my operating system, and tried to live a mobile, torrent-free life. I signed up for Spotify, Netflix, and Dropbox. I wanted to be just like the people celebrating Silicon Valley and swallowing everything it throws out into the world without criticism. How hard can it be? I asked myself.

From now on I’ll only watch Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, and whatever sad licensing leftovers remain on German Crunchyroll. After all, VPNs are for criminals and pedophiles. From now on I’ll only listen to Ed Sheeran, Post Malone, and Joe Rogan. Other people manage it too. And from now on torrents, MP3s, and Mega downloads are taboo. Adults who operate digitally don’t need such things.

The resolution lasted one week. Spotify drove me crazy because I couldn’t find half of my favorite artists and songs disappeared from playlists I had added to my library. Just like that. Without explanation. Some albums had only three playable songs. Most of the songs suggested to me were German rap nonsense and Starbucks background elevator music. Wow.

And when I did find a few songs that I convinced myself were modern and cool, I listened to them twice and then switched back to some nerdy radio station on YouTube. So those ten euros a month were already unnecessary. Yes, I have a pretty strange taste in music—and yes, that doesn’t exactly make life easier.

Most of my time on Netflix was spent lethargically clicking through menus for half an hour because I couldn’t decide whether to watch Mean Girls for the twentieth time or maybe Men in Black. Eventually I had to tell myself that I wasn’t allowed to download Made in Abyss, even though half of Reddit was raving about it.

My new digital self was censored, localized, and useless. It wasn’t just difficult to squeeze myself into these modern cages that were supposed to make life so easy—it was practically impossible. I simply couldn’t flip that mental switch that was supposed to turn me into a new person.

It’s not really about the money. Or about having to subscribe to ten different services at ten euros a month just to simulate even a fraction of the internet’s available bandwidth of consumable content. It’s about the fact that I find it difficult to follow this path of creative restriction.

Maybe it’s easier if you’re born directly into the world of Netflix, Spotify & Co. Or if you simply have a more ordinary taste in music and films and don’t enjoy looking beyond the cultural horizon anyway. I can hardly expect Ed Sheeran fans to protest when they can’t immediately listen to the newest Suran song.

I wanted to be cool and modern and technologically at the forefront. But if being cool and modern and technologically at the forefront means turning away from the infinite expanses of the internet and only consuming the pre-selected bites served to me, then I probably belong to the past now. And I’m not proud of it. Quite the opposite.

It scares me. Because officially that means I now belong to those who can no longer adapt to the future. The ones who demonize Snapchat, hate YouTubers, and think touchscreens are stupid. The ones who want to preserve the status quo as long as possible and react to every innovation by first mocking it, then condemning it, and eventually fighting it.

Streaming would actually be a fantastic invention—if a few gatekeepers like Netflix, Spotify, and Amazon didn’t control what comes out on the other end. The more money we pour into these few corporations, the more dependent we become on them and their corporate manifestos. The internet began as a network of open ideas. We should not allow ourselves to end up in a past disguised as the future.

Soon there will probably be a rift running through society. The majority who feel comfortable in walled gardens and have no problem with pre-chewed, localized, and censored content—and the renegade groups gathering on the dark edges of the brightly lit Spotify, Netflix, and Apple Music theme parks, celebrating the last remnants of a free internet in their tattered clothes. You just have to decide which side you will belong to…

Small Talk Is Hitler

So we’re standing at the counter in this hotel lobby, staring into space. The girl’s name is Irina and she’s plump, the guy’s name is Erik and he’s important, my name is Marcel and I want to go home. But that’s not possible. Business appointments are essential for business. So instead of telling Irina that I want to penetrate her anally in her single room at around 9 p.m. tonight and carefully stapling my bank details to Erik’s forehead so he can transfer his inherited fortune to me, we first have to perform the social dance of dances.

I hate small talk. And I hate the attentive I don’t really give a shit about your life, but yes, nice weather smile with the dull looks, all of which have been trained so as not to yawn at each other. And I hate most people anyway. So why bother? Dogs sniff each other’s behinds, humans get closer through small talk. Which is definitely less fun. Imagine how many wonderful hours we could save if we got straight to the point.

Because let’s be honest. Rudimentary conversations are a fraction of the general German chatter. Exchanging information is important. Your aunt’s cute dog is not. Yelling at someone out of deep hatred because they dropped my ice cream on the ground is important. Farmer Wants a Wife is not. When I throw myself drunk in front of a girl in the park at night to tell her how much I love her and that she has the most beautiful knees in the world, that’s important. Ninety-nine percent, no, what am I saying, 100 percent of all tweets are not.

However, I am also the master of double standards. While I would like to push my way to the top without saying much, I can’t stand people who try to do the same to me. Anyone who wants something from me had better know my favorite color, rant about Munich in the summer, and say something the moment I think it. The importance of this rule decreases in inverse proportion to the chest size of my counterpart and the number of hours on my cheap Swatch watch.

Let’s summarize. Small talk is Hitler when I have to endure it, but it’s a fucking law if anyone else even thinks about ignoring it. Immediately acting like buddies without preparing your face for a counterattack. Stand in front of me, shake my hand, and tell me who you are. And give me money. Lots of money. Then we can continue talking.

So while skinny Erik babbles on about his plans for some idiotic web project and Irina’s lips seem to melt, I try to telepathically convey to the bartender that he should bring me a sharp knife or set off the fire alarm or recite dirty jokes in opera form at the top of his lungs. None of that happens; I’m handed a glass of champagne. I nod amiably, clink glasses with the two of them, and laugh insincerely at a more than lousy pun. God, I’m fake.

War in Wonderland

Anyone who thinks of online role-playing games imagines a fantasy world garnished with dragons, magic, and knights—made up of forests, ice, and lava caves—where, as a poorly dressed loser, you have to slaughter rats and beetles for months just to stand a chance of emulating the veterans in their glittering armor and enormous mounts.

Final Fantasy 14 is no exception. The successor to various Super Nintendo and PlayStation legends appears at first glance to be a perfectly ordinary MMORPG with tanks and instances and buffs, with players connected via the internet merrily hopping over bridges, rivers, and meadows, facing end bosses that, as a beginner, make you wet yourself in sheer overwhelm.

The story is as old as it is uninspired. A tyrannical empire on the other side of the continent plans to seize world domination using monsters and machines. Together with a busty blonde, a yellow bird, and generally existence-weary people who also pay ten euros a month, the aspiring savior of the world tries to prevent this with skill—by swinging a sword diligently, learning spells, and occasionally hiding behind a shield when things get too wild out front.

Anyone who has ever been enthused by World of Warcraft, Guild Wars, or those countless Korean pseudo-anime games may safely doze off at such a plot—and yet Final Fantasy 14 contains far more soul than most of its competitors. Even in the first hours of gameplay, you sense a certain tragedy pressing down on this world.

The fact that Final Fantasy 14 was, a few years ago, a financial and qualitative fiasco that nearly drove its Japanese manufacturer Square Enix into ruin and was rebuilt from the ground up is not only noticeable in the game; it was also meaningfully integrated into the world of Eorzea’s history—as an apocalyptic catastrophe that was barely survived.

What remained was a barren, devastated desert landscape, in the center of which stretches the Sultanate of Ul’dah—a stone trading metropolis from which one can, and must, explore the surrounding city-states if one wishes to become one of the legendary adventurers who hunt bloodthirsty monsters across the prairie by day and invest their hard-earned gil in the local casino by night.

If you cautiously venture more than five meters beyond the city and accept assignments from residents that might lead you to the nearby mine, a small train station, or the ghostly graveyard, you see them for the first time: the refugees who managed to escape the so-called Garlean Empire.

They wear nothing but dirty rags. They live in damp caves and windswept tent camps. Their corpses line the roadside. The working population insults them, spits at them, and beats them. They had to leave their families behind. They have long since lost hope. Whether they even still want to live, they themselves no longer really know.

So while you cheerfully butcher monsters to the accompaniment of orchestral background music, thinking only of the next golden suit of armor and the diamond sword, you are watched from all sides by people who have lost everything—who had to flee a fanatical nation for whom nothing is sacred, who now vegetate together, crammed and homeless.

And suddenly I start to think. I draw parallels to our world. I think of Syria and the Islamic State and crisis zones we may not even hear much about. I deliberately take on quests that provide digital refugee children with medicine. And then I feel bad. Why am I helping a character in a game instead of real people out there who fear for their lives and those of their families?

No one would seriously have played a game called Refugees 3D—except perhaps the students who programmed it and the journalists who reported on it. But because the theme is embedded in a mass-market title like Final Fantasy 14, available for newer PlayStation consoles and PC, you start to reflect. You have plenty of time for that. The world is large, after all, and your feet are slow.

And when, in the next village, a farmer’s wife once again berates and drives away a group of refugees, I want to intervene. I press X. “Leave these people alone!” I want to shout. “Give them a piece of bread!” But the system ignores me. Compassion is not programmed into this scene. The farmer’s wife starts talking about the weather; the refugees stare blankly into the distance.

I also wonder how many of my fellow players bouncing around me—people with real lives, real friends, real families—actually engage with the deeper substance of this game. With the world, with those placed within it to tell a story. With the problems that arise when unscrupulous fanatics come to power.

Is there even a deeper meaning? Or is what Final Fantasy 14 pretends to be merely an edgy universe draped with a more or less developed scenario designed to lure me into collecting more experience points, growing stronger, checking off lists—more, ever more—so that I won’t cancel my subscription?

Collect ten marmot fillets here, forge three storm blades there, catch eight daggerfish on the other side of the map—perhaps that is all some flesh-and-blood players extract from Final Fantasy 14. Story, what story? Oh yes, that blonde with the big boobs—she’s great! What more could you want? And just because you’ve given a refugee in a video game a warm meal doesn’t mean you’ve truly understood anything—let alone accomplished something.

When I finally stand before the gates of the Garlean Empire, before the manifestation of terror, laden with gleaming armor pieces and a gigantic weapon, everything happens quickly. I am thrown, together with a motley crew of fighters and mages, into the end boss’s catacombs. A massive machine attacks us. Bored, we beat on the thing for fifteen minutes. It explodes. The end. If only saving the world and resolving the refugee crisis were that simple in real life.

Tasty Is the Flesh

Let’s just say it right away: I understand why people become vegetarians or even vegans. I really do. Once you’ve looked into the sad eyes of an innocent lamb, just before it’s led with its little friends and the rest of its loudly bleating family to the fully automated slaughterhouse and torn apart there in front of the wide-open eyes of its loved ones, you start to think differently about the piece of meat lying on your plate.

I, too, have tried several times to join the ever-growing cult of supposedly better people. In vain. With my eating-disordered ex-girlfriend, I spent several months stuffing myself with broccoli, nuts, and hummus until I finally staggered, half-starved, into a Burger King. There a kind employee nursed me back to health with cheap animal leftovers, thick fries, and an extra portion of mayonnaise, before releasing me back into the wild.

The relationship failed shortly afterward. For years afterward I kept turning into a temporary vegetarian whenever I happened to see one of those gruesome PETA videos from slaughterhouses—where newly hatched chicks were immediately thrown into the grinder because they were the wrong sex. Or squealing pigs were beaten to death with shovels simply because the workers were bored at three in the morning.

No, as a meat-eater I don’t want to support this perverse system of factory farming either. Meat is cheaper and more widely available than ever before, but also of poorer quality than ever. One food scandal follows the next. Who can still bite into a bratwurst, a steak, or a döner with a clear conscience?

And yet I still eat meat. Why? Because I like the taste. And because my body practically screams for it when I’ve denied it for a week. Then my thoughts revolve only around torn-apart animals; I feel like I could stuff the entire refrigerated meat counter into myself. Fried, grilled, boiled—give me meat, right now!

Once, while eating with a Japanese friend, I asked him why so few Japanese people are vegetarians. He calmly replied: “Because everything has a soul.” What did he mean by that? That it ultimately doesn’t matter whether we eat meat, fish, or salad. Every meal means suffering for other living beings—whether they can scream loudly or feel pain in ways that we can barely comprehend scientifically or socially.

Just because some of you, for whatever reason, have decided not to shove dead animals into yourselves anymore doesn’t automatically make you better people. Even if you like to believe it does. The future doesn’t mean total abstinence; it means greater awareness. Mass quantities of meat sold at dumping prices—those days should soon be over. But a balanced diet with high-quality products should still be achievable.

Yes, I try to reduce my meat consumption and focus more on fresh fish and crisp vegetables. First, because it’s healthier, and second, because it actually tastes better. A raw piece of salmon with soy sauce and rice—I could die for that again and again. But a good organic steak or a fat cheeseburger from my favorite place a few streets away—those I can’t and don’t want to give up.

Don’t Stop Dancing

There was a time when Netflix offered a solid lineup of shows. That was before they began randomly canceling titles or dragging them out ad nauseam, seemingly unable to strike a middle ground ever again. As I browsed through the countless titles, one series in particular caught my eye. I was determined to watch anything but the 97th rerun of Family Guy. The show’s name? BoJack Horseman.

The protagonist is a horse who starred in a popular sitcom, where he played the caretaker of some orphans. Fast forward twenty years, and BoJack lives in a lavish Hollywood mansion with a good-for-nothing roommate. He’s supposedly writing his memoir—but failing miserably.

Enter Diane Nguyen, a ghostwriter tasked with helping BoJack put his chaotic life into words. What starts as a glimpse into a washed-up comedian’s attempt to reclaim his glory soon spirals into a tale of betrayal, envy, and self-destruction. The looming fear of waking up one day as an old, useless has-been creeps closer with every episode.

BoJack’s life grows more depressing by the minute, and whenever he faces a choice, he almost always makes the wrong one. What about the cast? Stellar. Will Arnett voices BoJack, Alison Brie voices Diane, and Aaron Paul voices Todd—a character who might just be the only level-headed person in BoJack’s bizarre entourage. Or maybe not.

BoJack Horseman is a razor-sharp satire of modern Hollywood, a place that chews up its former idols and spits them into a purgatory of drugs, fleeting fame, and champagne-soaked regrets.

Created by Raphael Bob-Waksberg, the show initially comes across as absurd nonsense but quickly reveals profound layers exploring alcoholism, guilt, and personal doom—all set in a world of anthropomorphic animals.

I recommend this gem of a show to anyone who’s tired of surface-level entertainment and craves something that peels back the glittery facade to show what’s lurking beneath. No matter what, when, or where, BoJack Horseman is for me and you—and no one else.

Ode to Boobs

If I should ever die, then I would like to awaken in a paradise of breasts—large and small, round and flat, white and black. Like hills they rise from the ground, like mountains they stretch along the horizon, like branches they hang from the trees, like stones they lie there.

They are clouds. A river of milk pours out before me, bubbling as it plunges down a slope. I wander through the hairs growing toward the sky, past warts as tall as houses, some dark brown, some light red. Their areolas invite passing travelers to stay the night soon.

Naturally, butts are important. They must be neither too flat nor too bulky, firm yet elastic. Like peaches. Like apples. Never like windfall fruit. But no matter how well-shaped they may be, they cannot hold my gaze for long. The magic lies elsewhere; this is merely the path to it, a divided continent meant only for transit. Please, turn around! I beg them—and find myself once more in my own heaven.

Fitted with small wings, they flutter across the ground. I throw myself upon them and press my head into them until I can no longer breathe. They giggle, they love me. You call them tits, boobs, or honkers—none of it does them justice. I mock your embarrassing attempts to give them a proper name and instead proclaim them God. In every respect I was a blasphemer until I beheld redemption through their creative existence. Call me the Breast Messiah! I will build them a shrine, a church, a temple. Come inside! This sect is the one true faith.

Scientists are charlatans when it comes to my savior. They reduce his wonders and magic, describing him as nothing more than an annoying mash of skin and fat and nerves. Perishable, nothing more. Doctors hack through his connective tissue, glandular lobules, and axillary lymph nodes for a bit of pay, laughing loudly as they do so.

Medical necessity I can still understand; treacherous beauty ideals I cannot. I want to weep. Please, stop it at last—do not desecrate him, leave God in peace! They do not hear me, the human butchers; their faith has long since faded. Nothing and no one can save them now.

Whoever wants to turn me away from my religion stands little chance. My Eldorado truly exists—I have seen it with my own eyes. Why should I renounce it? Nothing speaks in favor of that, so much speaks against it. All you preachers of buttocks, of vaginas, of feet—you are praying to the wrong salvation. Don’t you realize that?

Just look at them—the Kates and Palinas and Emilys of this world—have you learned nothing from them? Let me convert you, you foolish atheists. Look up and open your mouths, or you will never again be happy in your short lives!

My hands wander, my gaze is fixed, my pulse races. Night has fallen, the voices have faded, the coverings drop. There—I feel them. Their warmth, their softness, their history. They are the feminine synonym for intelligent strength; their yielding nature does not come without demands.

No force on this planet can now stop me from devoting myself to them for all eternity. Take my life, you well-proportioned god awakened from puberty—how could I not cling to him, when in return I may dwell forever at your side? If I should ever die, then I would like to awaken in a paradise of breasts—large and small, round and flat, white and black.

Every Person Has Their Own Color

When Tsukuru Tazaki thinks back to his youth in Nagoya, he feels torn between deep gratitude and dark sadness. Today the 36-year-old leads a bleak existence in Tokyo: he builds railway stations and lives a lonely life. For a long time Tsukuru Tazaki was close to death—by his own hand. Only his growing longing for his new acquaintance Sara keeps him going: their conversations, the hope of having sex with her soon, and his tragic past constantly at his heels.

Anyone who listens to Haruki Murakami’s calm and detailed words should do so while enjoying a cup of green tea in daylight, or a glass of expensive whisky at night. There is no other way. It was the same with his earlier works Norwegian Wood, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, and 1Q84.

Tsukuru held no resentment toward his four best friends, who had rejected him without explanation 16 years earlier. He accepted his fate in silence, drowned his worries, tried his hand at love—but failed without much fuss. How might they be doing today? Gentle Shiro, lively Kuro. Strong Ao and clever Aka. He can still remember their last phone call with perfect clarity. He was asked not to contact them again. Never again.

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage is the story of a man who must reopen old wounds so as not to squander his last chance at a happy life. It is interwoven with colorful events that seem not to belong to this world and yet feel as real as possible. Sake, beauty, and six fingers—the fear of the truth never far away. A journey that only someone with nothing left to lose can undertake. Or perhaps everything.

Tsukuru’s thoughts are always somewhat melancholic; they revolve around other people. He must move forward with a decision that others made for him long ago. Could it be that he might actually understand them? Tsukuru searches for answers. But what awaits him out there will not please him.

Haruki Murakami is known for his flawless descriptions. In a very Japanese way, he presents the reader with completed facts—and then wipes them away with a single gesture in one of his notorious jumps in time. Suddenly nothing is the same as before, even though neither the characters involved nor the summer surroundings have changed. If Michael Bay were an author, Haruki Murakami would be his counterpart. No explosions, no noise, no sensory overload—but a great deal of skill.

Everything fits together like a puzzle; every mention has a purpose. When Mr. Tazaki has nothing to do, he buys a train ticket. He gets himself a cup filled with hot coffee and sits on the platform in Shinjuku. Fascinated, he watches the people: how they hurriedly get on and off, how they sink into their seats with relief, how they depart and disappear into the darkness. Getting on himself—he is afraid of that. But perhaps the time has finally come.

Anyone familiar with the previous stories of this East Asian bestselling author will find no surprises in Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage—at least no unpleasant ones. Haruki Murakami remains true to himself and has created the perfect book for the fading days of summer. And in one chapter or another we suddenly feel caught off guard, reminded of ourselves, lost in the past. So put the tea on, pour the whisky, and finally settle down on the sofa.

Little Women

Anyone who, like me, grew up in a small town, or worse, in the countryside, knows the single, unshakable urge: To get away at the first faint excuse. To vanish into the city, among the tall buildings, the loud parties, the cheap drugs. Or something like that.

The point is: gone, gone, gone. Anything but the yokel left behind. And then, after managing it at last, surviving five, ten, perhaps twenty years in the tangle of the metropolis, のんのんびより drifts across my path and drags me backward. Back into a green and lucid place, where things seem better, truer, closer. A slower world that takes my hand and smiles, as if it has been waiting.

The story itself is as uneventful as staring into a still pond. Hotaru, a fifth grader, moves from Tokyo to the sleepy hamlet of Asahigaoka in the far greens of Japan’s countryside because of her father’s work. In the local and mostly empty school, she meets a likeable group of even more likeable girls, each entirely unlike the others. That is all there is to see.

In のんのんびより there are no grand villains, no exploding tentacles, no ominous magic. Only the shy Hotaru, the undersized Komari, the mischievous Natsumi, and the tiny Renge, who speaks as if she suffered a small stroke every few seconds. Renge won me over almost immediately.

Every episode is heartbreakingly calm, unhurried, and idyllic. In truth, Atto’s series is a harmonious refuge for anyone worn thin by life, by work, by love. Nothing feels more vital than to stay there forever, to spend the year in that village where Kaede is known simply as Candy Store, where Kazuho keeps nodding off, where Suguru rarely has anything to say.

It’s so beautiful there that I want to scream and weep at the same time. I already knew I would treasure のんのんびより the moment I felt its pace. Just as I had once fallen for serene series like Jo’s Boys, Anne of Green Gables, and Dog of Flanders. It’s a quiet paradise where every day is good, no matter what disaster might be raging beyond its borders.

Good Things Come to Those Who Chill

Anyone who digs through the sheer masses of new anime series these days gets showered with old clichés, worn-out ideas, and careless style. Gone is the magic, the dedication, the soul. Everywhere, boring kids are sucked into parallel worlds, little sisters flash their underwear, and annoying guys think they have to start trouble.

But they do exist—the shining pearls, the pure masterpieces that hide as animated cartoons on certain corners of the internet. Space Dandy is one of them: a tool that works on many levels to evoke as many emotions as possible, skillfully and never forced.

At its core, a self-absorbed asshole, a horny cat, and a depressed vacuum cleaner travel through the future to capture rare aliens and turn them into cash. Yes, there are bouncing breasts, stupid one-liners, and power-hungry final bosses—but at heart Space Dandy, a dandy guy in space, is drawn devotion to everything that is great.

Almost every episode is both a visual and emotional roller coaster. And not in the wacky, crazy Japan style with tentacles, schoolgirls, and random LOL-kawaii-what-the-hell moments. Quite the opposite. Space Dandy shines through a varied mix of lively nonsense and thoughtful moments.

The episode Plants Are Living Things, Too, Baby for example, is a fever dream of colors, shapes, and sounds. There’s Always Tomorrow, Baby proves to be a charming homage to Groundhog Day, and A Merry Companion Is a Wagon in Space, Baby still holds a place deep in my heart as an emotional roller coaster between budding hope, overwhelming grief, and endless loneliness.

Even though the viewer is bombarded on the surface with colorful planets, bowls of cooked noodle soup, and brainless zombies—and even though some stories end with the protagonists dying—a kind of theater of what-ifs unfolds in the audience’s mind, questions that might even affect our own reality.

What would have happened if a comet had struck Earth that gave plants consciousness and a desire for knowledge? What would a world look like where pure hatred and endless war are the only option left? And what happens when everyday machines suddenly develop passion and feel desire?

Space Dandy is the crown jewel of a genre that for decades has been torn apart by generic franchises and trivialized by a simplistic West. Beautiful, clever, and full of ideas without ever wanting to seem pretentious—and yet often so shallow, embarrassing, and funny that you can feel nothing but pure love. A melty, milky kiss.

The Mecca of Video Games

The Super Nintendo Entertainment System, known as the Super Famicom in Japan, is undoubtedly one of the best things to ever happen to humankind. Games before it were too graphically limited to fully immerse me in their worlds, while everything that came after looked almost too polished to truly spark my imagination.

I’d go even further to say that the Super Nintendo’s colorful pixel art and bombastic 16-bit sound represent the pinnacle of video game history. The grey console’s technical limitations became a perfect framework that challenged every passionate developer out there to push the creativity in their games to new heights—and way beyond.

I visited the legendary Super Potato, a pure video game paradise in the heart of Akihabara, the electric town and more or less official weeb mecca district.

Spanning several floors, the store is packed with treasures that make retro gamers’ hearts race: PlayStation role-playing games, Dreamcast consoles, Zelda guides, and Final Fantasy soundtracks, most of them priced between ten and twenty dollars—though, of course, the rarest gems, like limited edition figures and scarce versions sold out on day one, come with a premium price tag. And naturally, the store is brimming with an impressive collection of beautiful Super Nintendo games.

On the very top floor, I found a bustling arcade and a small kiosk offering sweets, drinks, and merchandise. Because I wanted to get my wonder soft world, whatever the official slogan of Super Potato means, I picked up the Japanese blue edition of the original Pokémon for Game Boy, complete with packaging, instructions, and a map of Kanto—for the equivalent of just ten bucks. A dream come true.

So if you ever find yourself in Tokyo and are a nostalgic gamer, make sure to stop by Super Potato—you won’t regret it. It’s relatively easy to find, just ask any of the other nerdy passersby for directions. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fat Pikachu to catch.

Art Makes Me Angry

I’m standing in front of a wall. It’s huge, and bright, and largely empty. Only two framed pictures are hanging on it. I’m trying to look at them as concentrated as I can, but that doesn’t change the fact that only a couple of stick figures were drawn on the white canvases. They are staring back at me. A sun in the corner, some grass on the ground. Everything’s black and white.

The one next to it doesn’t offer a much more adventurous experience either. The gallery owner is sitting on a wooden chair, quite bored, typing on her iPad. Connoisseurs, patrons, and buyers are buzzing around me. And I just want to scream. Art makes me angry!

Julia and I went to Art Week in Berlin this weekend. Big and small galleries all over the city offer admission, with just a relatively inexpensive ticket, to a kinky world that may otherwise remain hidden to many. So we went to Art Berlin Contemporary, to the Opernwerkstätten, to the Kunst-Werke, to the Hamburger Bahnhof. In between, some coffee. And my anger, deep inside me, grew stronger and stronger.

I saw everything. Huge blocks of fat on the floor. Fists on ropes. Newspaper clippings behind glass. Brains on a table. Memes printed out on cardboard. I waded through a sea of Justin Bieber posters and when I looked up, some guy was jerking off another one on an old color TV. I would have loved to grab the nearest gallantly strutting art lover and yell at him: What am I supposed to feel, what am I supposed to think, what the fuck are you guys trying to tell me?! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!

You have to figure out for yourself what you want art to convey, Julia calmly says as we walk to the next gallery somewhere in Berlin-Mitte. No one can tell you how to feel. At that moment, I feel stupid. Just plain stupid. Because in front of every painting, in front of every installation, in front of every sculpture, someone is standing with someone else, and they are talking about what they see there. They discuss, they praise, they criticize.

What the artist was thinking with this choice of color. What with this material, what with this angle. While behind me there is a veritable orgy of blood with dead animals, fresh vegetables, and young people dressed in white and dictated by a half-dead fat Austrian, I’m standing in front of a picture with stick figures. It costs around 2000 bucks. Would it be worth it to me if I ripped it off the wall right now and beat up gallery owners, creatives, and collectors with it until someone can give me an answer to the only question I have right now: What?

I love the art world. I love those beautiful people who are better dressed than any Fashion Week visitor. I love the big, bright buildings that were once train stations, workshops, or factories and now serve as a parallel universe to a world torn apart by war, hate, and poverty.

I love the large-format magazines and the old books and the breathy red wine and the intellectual chatter and the absurd prices and the girls armed with burlap bags roaming galleries alone on Sundays, positively brimming with impetuous introversion and buzzing sexuality of a cute student living somewhere in an old apartment in the middle of Kreuzberg who you can fuck only after talking to her for hours while sipping on red wine on a Saturday night. It’s just the art itself I don’t get. But that’s the main point of being here, isn’t it?

Then I feel like a New York Post reading Fox News viewer, who votes for something with xenophobia on Sundays and would prefer to rip the balls off child molesters, but at night, when his wrinkled wife is asleep, masturbates to photos of his underage niece.

Anyone who doesn’t appreciate art turns into a junk food eating, lettuce discarding redneck with a Windows PC at home. It’s all artificial. They’d rather watch soccer than go to a museum, prefer fat to carrots, beer to wine, cunts to muses. Too stupid for art, too conventional for beauty.

But there’s light at the end of the tunnel. I scurry past watercolor paintings, leave wax figures on the left, wander through rooms without sense and reason, but they give me nothing and that’s all right. Instead, I like striking photographs. But I already knew that before.

I love to observe people observing art. I pick up the vibes of a world that is so absurd and beautiful at the same time, that suffers and hopes, whose cuts between poverty and wealth are harsh. I like to get upset about stupid art. Does he want to fuck with me, I say. 2000 bugs for that shit, I ask myself. That I could create something better in kindergarten, I splurge.

But that’s not what it’s all about. I’m aware of that myself. But I don’t care. I laugh with and about art and all the trash that sells itself as such and therefore is exactly this at the same time. I tell myself that stick figures, Austrians and Justin Bieber don’t give me anything, but the mere fact that I still think back to what I saw this weekend proves me wrong.

Art makes me angry. Not everyone can say it has that effect on themselves. And even if 99 out of 100 things I see make me angry, they still flood my thoughts, they energize me, they bring back memories and joy and… a whole lot of hate. And the few bright lights that cling to me, I pursue them, I stalk them, I want to know everything about them. Why, I ask myself then. How, I ask myself. Where, I ask myself. And especially I ask myself: What on earth are you trying to tell me?

Failure, Flight, and Freedom

While you’re reading this, I’m sitting on a plane from Tokyo to Abu Dhabi to Düsseldorf—on my way back to Berlin. Barely two months after I had loudly boasted that I was moving to the Japanese capital for a year—no, what am I saying, forever. I had insulted Berlin as a city of stagnation, as a metropolis of frozen creativity, as a place inhabited by a rotting collective of copies, of stereotypes, of people who might already be dead without knowing it. And now I’m crawling back, mangy, broken—but happy.

I love Tokyo. You have to know that. It’s a constantly reinventing experience like no other. Colorful, lively, modern, traditional, perverse. On every corner you can feel how much energy this melting pot of otherness gives you with every second of your presence. You’re constantly swaying between explosive excitement and infinite calm—two extremes only a few steps apart.

Marcel, Tokyo was always your dream! So why are you coming back now? Even though you had a damn long visa?! Because I realized that this place, as great and inspiring as it may be, doesn’t work if you can’t dive into it together with people who truly matter to you. As one of our readers once wrote very accurately: Home is where your friends are. Well.

Strangely enough, that didn’t bother me last summer, when I ended up spending three months in Tokyo. I soaked everything in and tuned the rest out. But this time I constantly had the feeling I was missing so much back home. I suddenly missed things that had previously annoyed and bored me. Parties thrown by random PR agencies. Concerts by some Swedish run-of-the-mill indie bands in run-down Kreuzberg venues. The startup snobs with their MacBooks, café lattes, and ridiculous nerd glasses. In other words, all the things I had actually fled from.

Like a little child who always wants whatever it doesn’t currently have, I realized that Berlin is still the stage for an emerging analog and digital revolution. An open, filthy, bubbling mass full of people I love and people I hate—people who, together with me, define who I am. And when. And how. And everything else. And I want to be there—no, right in the middle of it—when it happens!

My time there felt like a golden cage. Every street, every efficient improvement to daily life, every damn cherry blossom drifting playfully across the nearby park—I stored them deep inside my otherwise shattered heart. But the fact that I couldn’t spontaneously get drunk with the idiots I’ve grown fond of in Görli while the sun shines and a few drugged-up Jonathans throw their own little rave in the background drove me insane night after night. Thanks, Facebook, for constantly showing me all the great things everyone else was doing. You stupid asshole. The same goes for Twitter. And Instagram.

Tokyo may be my future—but right now it was the wrong time in the right place. I’ll travel there again. And again. And again. But next time in a more compressed way—and just for fun. So I can dive into the city without having to worry about everyday life. Because otherwise, life there is like anywhere else.

Long story short: if this plane—or one of the next ones—doesn’t happen to crash and I end up in the local newspaper as a casualty (German porn blogger scattered to the winds!), then I’ll already be back in Berlin tomorrow. And you’re welcome to greet me with bouquets of flowers and nude photos of your much prettier older sister.

One thing is certain though: I won’t be leaving again anytime soon—unless I suddenly feel like becoming part of that cute little travel-incest troupe that keeps hopping around the Maldives. And Ming Lee, you still owe me a cheeseburger! Alright, I’m out—see you in a few hours over a beer.

Welcome to Wonderland

Tokyo is a megacity full of whimsicalities, secrets and awesomeness. If you wander around you may get lost within a moment, but perhaps you’ll find yourself in one of these fantastical wonders. Like Alice’s Fantasy Restaurant, an establishment which could be right cut out of a Disney film, in Ginza – the financial district of Tokyo.

Accompanied by friend and travel blogger Christine, I got captured by a bizarre world occupied by colorful pieces of furniture, sweet Hello Kitty formed dishes and a small army of cute dressed waitresses, while remixes from movies like The Little Mermaid buzzed around in my head. The food was awesome, the atmosphere charming and the price okay.

Alice’s Fantasy Restaurant is probably the best address for guys to surprise their girlfriends with a visit to an extraordinary theme eatery, perhaps for Valentine’s Day, her birthday or their anniversary. Or if you’re accidentally in Japan’s capital and want to follow the white rabbit. You can find it in the Taiyo Bldg, 5th floor in Ginza. It’s definitely worth a visit.

An Afternoon in a Cat Café

There are a few essential things to do, as soon as you arrive in Tokyo. Take a photo of the big crossing in Shibuya for example. Or go shopping in the always crowded Takeshita-dori in Harajuku. Or drink an ice cold Asahi Super Dry in Yoyogi Park, where you can watch drama students going crazy and cute couples staring embarrassedly into the nearby pond.

To tell some crazy stories about our journey when we come home again, we visited a cat café right in Shibuya. It’s called Hapi Neko. You pay like $10 each for half an hour to touch the cats. One drink included. That sounds like a great experience, doesn’t it? Yeah… Unfortunately the pussies weren’t quite as excited as Christine and I were.

While we enjoyed our mango juice and tried, together with some other people, to get our paws onto their fur, they hid under the table, pretended to sleep or looked at us like they’re gonna exterminate our whole family, as soon as they find out their addresses. But to be honest: I couldn’t blame them. And now come here, kitty, kitty, it’s fuckin’ photo time!

North Korea’s Target No. 1

It’s been two weeks now that North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un went totally crazy and declared war to anything with a heartbeat. First he wanted to set South Korea on fire, then he dissed the United States and yesterday he announced, his target No. 1 is Tokyo. That’s where I live. And now two nuclear missiles are facing right into my direction. Hello, nuclear missiles!

The truth is: no one here is really afraid, that these missiles could hit us with a wall of fire and turn us into screaming shadows within a millisecond. Wow, just think a second about, what I just said. Japan deployed missile defenses in Ichigaya. That’s in the middle of Tokyo and you can see a photo of the Ministry of Defense, where they are waiting for an North Korean attack, right above. I took it today. Unfortunately I wasn’t allowed to take of a picture of those big missile defenses by myself, but together with a curious couple I was able to catch a glimpse of the machines trough the heavily guarded fence.

I mean, we all know that North Korea is no real threat. At least I hope so. You read in the news, that the United States don’t take the North Korean nuclear missile capability very serious and before anything could hit us, it would be destroyed somewhere over the sea, but you feel the hair-trigger situation quite everywhere in the city.

Just a few hours ago a Japanese official mistakenly announced the launch of a North Korean missile instead of sending an alert about a strong earthquake near Kobe. And that means: Every wrong move could lead to a nuclear war. And I’m right in the middle. And I’m laughing. Like everyone here does. Because we don’t know what to do otherwise.

When I was younger I lay awake thinking about an upcoming Zombie apocalypse. And it was fun. What would I do, where would I go, what would I take with me? It was an adventure in my head. Over and over again. This sound, could it be a zombie? Wow, scary! Hehe, hello sweet dreams… But now it’s different somehow.

The last couple of days I couldn’t sleep, because I was obsessed with one thought: What, if some kind of airraid alarm would suddenly shrill, because crybaby Kim Jong-un got angry, since he fell against his bigger brother in Street Fighter II? Get this fuckin’ weapons started!, he shouts at one of his tired looking officers. And there I am, right in the trajectory of two nuclear missiles. Because Mr. Dictator has a bad day. Hello, nuclear missiles! Again…

What would I do, where would I go, what would I take with me? Would I try to get into the next shelter? But aren’t these only for earthquakes? I could also steal a bike and try to go as fast as I can. Or run? How many seconds, minutes, hours do Taepodong-2 missiles require until they hit Tokyo anyway? Could I get one more coffee from the Konbini nearby?

Perhaps I’m just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hey, did you hear the sad story of Marcel? He was hit by a nuclear missile after this crazy guy in North Korea went totally bananas and tried to bomb Disneyland. What a douche. It’s been two weeks now that North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un went totally crazy and declared war to anything with a heartbeat. And either he finds another target in the next couple of days—or it could get a little bit hot in here.

Worship the Penis!

Because genitalia—both primary and secondary—are, as is well known, something incredibly fascinating in every culture, we set off last weekend for Kawasaki in Japan to attend the annual Kanamara Matsuri, the infamous Penis Festival! And we were not disappointed.

At the otherwise rather idyllic and quiet Kanayama Shrine, right next to the local train station, thousands of people gather every year on the first Sunday in April to pay homage to the steel phallus. With thundering rock music, lollipops in the familiar shape, and a gigantic parade through the streets of the colorful city, in which costumed participants carry enormous penis statues while performing various traditional rituals.

While Christine rode giant wooden phalluses—causing the noses of numerous older gentlemen with DSLR cameras to nearly bleed—and carved questionable sculptures out of turnips, I flirted with transvestites in Sailor Moon costumes before washing down a few octopus balls with beer after all the commotion.

We had already feared that the hype surrounding this event might be nothing more than the visual embodiment of impotence, fueled by ever more outrageous verbal legends. But thanks to the benevolent weather gods and plenty of cheerful locals and tourists, we can recommend the Kanamara Matsuri to anyone who feels like praying for fertility, health, and love—while licking a lollipop with a strawberry-shaped glans.

An Alternative Childhood

After a couple of rainy days, when the sun’s finally showing up again, Tokyo seems to sigh with a relief. The heavy wind with its lost and straying umbrellas is gone, the dark clouds are now causing trouble elsewhere. Hopefully far, far away. When you open your window in the early morning and feel a warm breeze, hear the birds chirp and see the clear blue sky above the ruby colored rooftops of the other houses, you remember why you fell in love with this city after all.

I’m living in Tokyo for exactly one month now. After I spent the summer of 2012 here, with a few side-trips to Kyoto, Osaka and Tottori, I wanted to come back. For a longer term. I found a nice residence in Setagaya, the ward with Tokyo’s largest population and second largest area. My neighbors are an always humping Spanish couple and a guy who loves junk food.

I had to deliver the rent for my apartment to my landlord and it was the first sunny and warm day in April. So I took the chance to ignore the train and went for a walk trough the small streets of my vicinity. Some cats were prowling around the trees, a few kids on skateboards were passing by. And an elderly woman, pouring some flowers on a short wall, smiled gently.

Soon after the beginning of my ramble, I turned into a small avenue and in this moment my eyes spotted everything I love about this country in one immortal, still standing picture. Cherry blossoms were sailing down a bright pink tree, three students with some soft drinks in their hands stood in front of an admirable red shrine in their blue school uniforms.

Surrounded by small little houses, rusty bicycles and cute, green pot plants. It almost seemed as if some kind of supernatural artist wanted to put as many stereotypes and colorful details as possible in his current masterpiece. I was verging on tears. Which was perhaps down to the fact that I’m kind of allergic to cherry blossoms. And stereotypes.

While Yoko Kanno was filling up my head with an idyllic and melodic track, which always reminds me of an alternative perfect retro future, I asked myself, how my life would have looked like, if I had grown up here instead of Germany. In this neighborhood, with these people, influenced by this culture. Perhaps in this pretty house, right next to me. Now.

What kinds of friends would I have had? Would I have been a school system rebel or one of those allegedly soulless career types? Look, it’s Maseru, the Otaku. The heartbreaker. The dishwasher. The president. The globetrotter. The husband. The derelict. The criminal. The girl. The dead one. The one, who had sex with this J-pop idol once and is now a TV host.

I’m one of these strange people who were heavily influenced by an unrealistic impression of Japanese youth culture. Where school was just a place for you and your friends to prepare for battles against an evil supremacy in your shiny robot mechas. And there’s this redheaded tomboy chick who finally fells in love with you and your always hungry best pal and that shy girl with her talking pet. So, now I’m here. Where’s my redhead chick and my super mecha? Hello?

Whenever I talk to one of my Japanese friends about my admiration for this country, they treat me with incomprehension. They are bored of Tokyo, while some foreigners would die to be in this magical metropolis. Some of them are obsessed of Europe. But it seems logical. Both sides are bored of their everyday environment. Only the new holds magic after all.

When I got to my senses a few minutes after I turned into the small avenue, standing there like an idiot, I finally moved on. But I couldn’t get rid of this feeling and these thoughts. What would my alternative childhood and my consequential life have had looked like? Perhaps there’s another Marcel somewhere. In an alternative reality. Far, far away. And I hope he’s hanging around with redheaded tomboy chicks, always hungry best pals – and shiny robot mechas.

I Bought a PlayStation Vita

My 14-year-old self would be insanely proud of me today. I just bought my very first video game console directly in Japan, in a game shop—specifically a PlayStation Vita. And that’s despite passionate industry experts now hyperventilating and virtually screaming in my face: Are you completely insane?! That thing is dead—like, as dead as it gets, you idiot!

Actually, I originally wanted a Nintendo 3DS. But first, the 3D effect bores me; second, the two screens bore me; and third, most of the games bore me. Nintendo just isn’t Nintendo anymore. And here’s the even worse part: if I had bought the thing here, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything with it once I got back home to Germany. Because of regional codes and all that. Pikachu, suck my dick!

And everyone always says, But you’ve got an iPhone, you don’t need handhelds anymore—every game is available on Apple devices anyway. Yeah right, my ass. First, the screen is way too small to actually see anything properly; second, 99 percent of it is some kind of casual garbage game; and third, even there something truly amazing only comes out once every few jubilee years.

So: a PlayStation Vita. Why? (This is going to be the ultimate list post…) First, because the price on the thing was just slashed so much that it was sold out all across Shibuya, and I managed to grab an even further discounted display unit. In black. Wi-Fi only. Second, I can play all kinds of games on it—from anywhere. And third, the PlayStation Network has so many RPG classics at really good prices that I almost had tears of joy in my eyes. Pick one, download it, dive in. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

Almost all the Final Fantasy titles, Breath of Fire, Vagrant Story… all that stuff that was already so good back then that I basically never wanted to leave the house again. All PSP owners will laugh at me now because they’ve known this for years and are already bored of it, but for me an entirely new world is opening up—one so promising that I want to marry this thing on the spot!

I also picked up Persona 4 Golden, which was probably a good choice because the two Japanese schoolgirls next to me bought it too. Emotionally disturbed high school kids slaughter monsters and play basketball. Or something like that. Exactly my kind of thing. And even if Sony abandons this device before the next PlayStation comes out, I’m going to squeeze every possibility and old classic out of the PS Vita until I collapse. Well, sorry, Nintendo. I really did love you once. But Nintendo Wii U? Seriously? Nah. Thanks. Bye.

When We Became the Past

No matter how far we may be swept away—into the crowded streets of New York, to the hot coasts of Australia, or beneath the high ceilings of Berlin’s old apartments—every now and then we return home. To our town. To a world in which time seems to stand still. And we feel superior. Because no one there had the courage to attempt even remotely what we have achieved.

The streets of the small community are still the same ones we rode down on our BMX bikes as children. Walked along. We know them inside and out. Every corner, every shortcut. Even today we dream of the time when these alleyways were the arteries of our childhood existence. And every meter—no, every centimeter—is burdened with memories that break over us at the right moments.

As I stroll along the main street on a sunny summer morning and don’t encounter a single soul, my thoughts begin to wander. They rise up above the town, sketching out a map. Of the houses. Of the paths. Of the fields. And everywhere, markers pop up with mementos that pull me in at the slightest mental touch and replay what has made me who I am.

How, at twelve, we broke into that trailer to use helium stolen from the fair to turn our voices into Mickey Mouse’s. How, at thirteen, we called the emergency doctor in tears because Maria crashed into the fence of the outdoor pool while sledding and so much blood ran down her face that we had to throw up. How, at sixteen, we sat on the slide at the nearby playground while Paula pulled up her white top, bare-chested and waving her middle fingers, to insult the neighbor who had tried to beat us with a shovel the day before.

When I come back to myself, I’m standing on a small bridge just outside town. Near the allotment gardens that seem abandoned. The sun shines into my face, sweat runs down my forehead, and beneath me a small stream makes its way toward the next village. I stare into the clear water and suddenly an unavoidable truth becomes clear to me—one that makes my heart heavy and brings tears to my eyes.

We ruled this place, made it tremble and shake. We were the ones who roamed through its gates at night; we kissed and ate and fought and cried and came and shouted and laughed and drank. Loudly. Fiercely. Boldly. So that we might immortalize ourselves. So that our deeds would still cause murmurs a hundred years from now. So that we could not die, even if we had long since passed.

Our graffiti has faded. Our legends fallen silent. Our markings erased. The generation that now runs wild in these streets has no idea what happened here years ago. What we risked. Whom we touched. How many enemies we made and how many friends stood by us. They don’t care. Our names don’t matter to them. Our places. Our sorrow. Our songs.

And then we realize that we have not a single reason to feel superior. Because we have achieved nothing. Because nothing lasts. Not in this place, nor anywhere else. And that it is completely irrelevant how far we travel and what we experience. With whom we experience it. How often and how intensely we experience it. Because at some point we turn around. And none of it is there anymore.

Our mementos drift through the town only as vague shadows. They have no effect, no longing. Yet they serve as proof that we have been replaced. By young people who consider us irrelevant and write their own legends in the places that once served as the backdrop for our memories. And this is neither the first nor the last time.

But this generation, too, will one day return to this place. And they will stand on this bridge, and they will cry, and they will become aware of the fact that none of their wildest, most passionate, most dramatic actions will lead into eternity. That their youth is a copy of a copy of a copy. And that everything falls apart the moment they turn around.

All that remains to console us is the eternal dream of doing something no one has ever done before. So we are swept away to the crowded streets of New York, to the hot coasts of Australia, or beneath the high ceilings of Berlin’s old apartments. We don’t think of a copied life; we believe in a unique one. That makes us strong. It is the only way not to lose our minds.

We carry on. We fill the empty legends of our memories with new adventures and images and smells and tastes and sounds. And perhaps next year we can return here again. To our town. To a world in which time seems to stand still. And we feel superior. Because no one there had the courage to attempt even remotely what we have achieved.

The Japanese Youth

Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had grown up in Japan rather than Germany. After decades of consuming anime, manga, and video games, this question doesn’t seem too far-fetched. Would I still celebrate Japan and its culture with the same enthusiasm if I hadn’t been born in Germany but instead on the other side of the world?

Would I even find myself drawn to German pop culture the way I am to Japanese pop culture now? Would I secretly listen to Helene Fischer, convinced that her music is some sort of guilty pleasure? Or would my interests have taken an entirely different turn, shaped by an upbringing immersed in Japanese society?

Miri Matsufuji is a photographer from Tokyo, someone I once had the chance to meet in person. It happened on the third floor of Tower Records in Shibuya, a place I had wandered into on a whim. She was there with an American friend, showcasing her latest self-published photo booklet at a stand set up specifically for independent photographers.

I remember thinking how effortlessly cool she looked, as if she had stepped right out of one of her own photographs. It’s not uncommon for Japanese creatives to be seen in public alongside Western-looking people, whether as a fashion statement, a sign of international connections, or simply as part of a cosmopolitan lifestyle.

Miri is living the kind of reality I used to imagine for myself. Whether that reality is as great as it appears in my mind is, of course, debatable. After all, no life is as glamorous as it seems through the lens of a camera. But in her photos, Japanese youth always looks vibrant and full of life, as if every day were a scene from a coming-of-age film.

Miri’s work reflects reality while stripping it of its heaviness, making everyday life appear both colorful and cinematic, almost like a dream that still feels tangible. And that’s exactly what I love about her photography—it’s real, yet it never takes itself too seriously, balancing truth and beauty in a way that makes the ordinary feel extraordinary.

I Love Tomboys

When I was twelve years old and I was stroking my very first so-called girlfriend’s naked, hairy ass in our homemade secret hideout somewhere among cardboard boxes, rat poison, and industrial pallets, I knew what to expect for the rest of my life. Because she wasn’t one of those normal girls who at some point started slapping makeup on their faces like crazy, going for pedicures and shaving their legs, but my best buddy. For several years now.

We jumped over sandbags as Power Rangers, beat each other black and blue in the woods, and watched our first porn movies on TM3 late at night with her little brothers, only to laugh at her own flesh and blood and push her down the stairs with hooting and hollering. I admired Maria with every fiber of my being. She was my first tomboy.

Three years later, we had sex for the first time. She had just come up to her room from waitressing at her mother’s restaurant, and we talked all night. About crazy dreams and the future and Xavier Naidoo. With a flick of my hand, I slipped her light yellow panties off her body and rummaged through her hairy lower abdomen.

A good friend was sleeping next to me, smiling, the full moon shining into the room—how romantic it was. The fact that she confessed to me a year later that she was actually a lesbian and had already wanted Liesl and Beate to hug her during nap time in kindergarten didn’t stop me from continuing this love for female buddies.

In fact, I’ve never been into annoying chicks. With their high heels and handbags and glittery lips. Although I did date some of them. To test them out. What I wanted were girls with brains. And directness. And a sense of roughness. I liked the ones who wore boxer shorts instead of thongs. Who got bloody knees on skateboards instead of burning in tanning beds.

Who could assert themselves and were cheeky and had their own opinions and would rather fuck life than let it penetrate them. Who you got to know as good friends and who suddenly stood in front of you with plump tits and ready pussies, smiling, but who hadn’t changed. And then tried out what was new. Like with Maria. Or Anastasia. Or Wenke.

A good friend once told me that I like this type of girl because I grew up without a father. And that’s why I try to regain lost authority by any means necessary. That may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stand girls who say yes and amen to everything. Who have to conform to the prevailing ideal of beauty. And who giggle and twinkle and never fart or grunt or hit. How boring. I might as well be with a doll.

That’s why I’ve always had the most beautiful and possibly also the most educational times of my life with female beings who were more like buddies than girlfriends. With whom I could drink and do coke and puke and bawl at night, only to be allowed to fuck them on the balcony while Muse played at full volume—because it was summer and the city was threatening to melt in the heat. The small, firm breasts with those insanely great, puffy nipples because God was undecided until the last second about what gender he should give them for his own sake. And I was infinitely grateful to him for that.

And who first went next door to loudly defecate during sex, only to return a few minutes later grinning, recounting their abstruse and crazy adventures on the toilet, and then continuing to copulate with a greasy salami sandwich and a freshly opened bottle of beer in their mouths. Then they took photos of themselves with a crappy digital camera from the discount store and sent them to another one of our buddies the next day. That’s true love, far removed from all the crappy Disney movies and Bravo photo love stories and picture book advice guides. What a load of crap.

So I continue to live my life as normal, occasionally sleeping with boring people whose stories have been told a thousand times before, and secretly hoping that one day I’ll fall head over heels for a cheeky, crazy, uninhibited, burping, farting, beer-drinking, dirty-laughing, makeup-free, small-breasted, self-confident buddy type with freckles and a pretty vagina and a mischievous smile and abstruse experiences, and vice versa, who isn’t afraid of life and laughs just as disgustingly as I do at every hollow blonde joke.

Someone who has a past to dive into. With ups and downs and favorite movies and songs that are so great you want to kneel down and worship them. Who spent more time with other boys on the soccer field than in the Barbie dream house. And who is a she, and you know at first glance: Dude, with her, the rest of your life will be a big mix of sex and beer pong and beating up loudmouths and going on trips and setting cars on fire and admiring the sunset and listening to Slipknot and throwing money around and partying and splashing around naked in the lake and shoving bottles down each other’s throats and smiling at each other with that very specific grin that you only know when you’re fucking your best friend. That’s the best thing. About life. I promise.

Wasted Youth

Sasha Kurmaz won’t be pinned down. Not in a box, not in a label, not even in a single, clean sentence. He slips through categories like smoke through cracked windows, leaving behind a scent of something burning. Perverse voyeur? A prophet of wasted youth? Bisexual excess in human form? His camera eats the world whole.

Flesh, neon, asphalt, ecstasy—anything that shivers in the light. Anything that looks like it might bite back. And somehow, no matter how raw, how grimy, how reckless, it’s absolutely beautiful. The kind of beauty that feels like it shouldn’t be, like it was never meant to be seen this way. But here it is, captured, framed, undeniable. It’s real, it’s true, it’s us.

What matters most is the moment when something ugly becomes hypnotic, when filth turns into poetry, when the world strips down and stands there, raw and waiting. Sasha measures cocks, dissects monkeys, puts a swastika onto the table before snorting it up. Not for shock, not for cheap thrills—there’s something more, something honest.

He shoots what’s there. The things people don’t want to see, but can’t stop looking at. The kind of images that brand themselves deep into my brain and never leave. And what can I do? Nothing. I just stand here, watch, feel it crawl under my skin. The kind of filth that doesn’t wash off. The kind that makes me want more, more, more.

The camera keeps rolling. It’s a silent witness, an accomplice, never flinching, never looking away. Sasha’s work is way too intense, too electric, too alive to turn away from. He moves through the world like a fever dream, sweat-drenched, intoxicating, a little sickly sweet. He pulls me in without a word, makes me complicit without asking for permission.

There’s a kind of violence in that, but also something tender, something disturbingly intimate. A whispered confession that no one remembers making. Maybe he’ll let me in one day. Maybe he never will. Maybe I’m already there, trapped forever inside the frame, watching myself through his eyes, and I just haven’t realized it yet.

The End of the World

By now I had long since resigned myself to the fact that for months I could neither really laugh nor cry. I had degenerated into a feelingless phantom in this endlessly same world, drifting from party to party, from person to person, and yet no longer truly taking part. In life. Everything had decayed into the same everyday mush. No matter how hard I searched.

And then I sit there and, in a single instant, everything changes. I do not see it. No explosion, no scream, no ending. Nothing. Only me and my head and some switch inside it that flipped. Suddenly. And that forces me to burst out of the ruined normality. Out into the night air, out of the loop that had me on repeat.

Then I stagger through the city with tears in my eyes. Not because of love. Or death. Or loss. Or wounded pride. Simply because, from one second to the next, something in me burned that I had long filed under Lost. I can’t cope anymore, don’t understand, wanted with all my might to cling to what was breaking me—and that now was gone.

Drunk and confused I call my friends, demand an order, a watchword, some kind of reason. But no one can give me that, because no one recognizes the problem, neither I nor they nor anyone. What is my problem? So at five in the morning I write pseudo-depressive texts I want to toss, MacBook and all, into a dumpster and rip to shreds.

No playlist on earth can calm me at this forgotten hour, and so I have nothing left but to wait. Whether I’m perhaps just imagining it all. Playing at drama. Too much beer. Or too much human. Or too much darkness, looking at me with a question and shrugging toward the next sunrise. That, surely, will know what to do.

Like a sad madman I now linger in my bed, rocking slightly back and forth. With this colorlessness in my gaze. Waiting for whatever may come. A sentence, a piece of information that will turn me into a furious fireball. So that at least I can still take part. In the destruction of my little universe. For in a single instant everything changes.

Delicious Monotony

Modern television shows have rediscovered the simmering humor and intelligent subtlety that once seemed forgotten. The long-awaited death of intrusive background laughter is here, signaling the end of sledgehammer-induced punchlines. This refreshing trend is gradually, but unmistakably, seeping into animated art as well. Thank goodness.

Among all the Simpsons, Griffins, and Smiths of this world, one exceptional gem has firmly established itself as a Sunday evening staple in the American television landscape: Bob’s Burgers by Loren Bouchard. The charmingly absurd story of a small snack bar owner and his delightfully chaotic family. Somewhere along the East Coast.

After a series of failures in the restaurant business, Bob Belcher decides to put everything on the line. This time, it has to work. A new opening, a fresh start. But what initially seems like a straightforward venture quickly transforms into an odyssey through the trials and tribulations of animated madness.

One savory misadventure follows another. From jealous health officials accusing Bob of using human flesh in his burgers to bizarre mishaps like Bob getting stuck in the walls for inexplicable reasons. Add to the mix fake robberies, kissing contests with cows, and eccentric dance instructors. These punchy episodes evoke the nostalgic charm of classic Nickelodeon cartoons.

Bob’s wife, Linda, is an overenthusiastic dreamer with a flair for theatrical antics. Meanwhile, their three children are a chaotic whirlwind of eccentricities. Gene is a lovable, self-indulgent slob with zero sense of shame, while his younger sister Louise is a pint-sized schemer and every therapist’s dream—or nightmare.

An then there’s Tina, with her raspy voice and boundless enthusiasm for ponies, is basically your Uncle Harry, but with a pair of breasts. The fact that most of the adorably characters are voiced by men lends the series a peculiar monotony that feels soulful and heartfelt in its own twisted way. Welcome to the bizarre world of Bob Belcher and his insane family.

God Is Dead

A hapless drifter falls for a big-boobed girl and, during a botched robbery, meets an absurdly undignified end—shot in the ass. This bizarre opener sets the stage for the surreal anime Mind Game. After his untimely demise, NEET Nishi encounters God, who grants him a second chance at life.

Seizing this opportunity, Nishi embarks on a madcap escape alongside a failed swimmer and her tomboyish sister, fleeing gangsters, exaggerated cartoon figures, and ugly Frenchmen. Somewhere along the way, the narrative takes a turn into the absurd: A space crew feeds on alien excrement while grappling with the revelation that their salvation lies in the most peculiar of places: A vagina.

The ensemble finds themselves in a whale, where they encounter an old man and embark on a search for life’s meaning—one unbound by the constraints of logic or convention. Attempting to encapsulate Mind Game in a tidy summary is a futile endeavor. How do I capture its fever-dream narrative and eye-popping visuals?

Take Nishi, a nice loser with ambitions, who reconnects with his cute childhood crush Myon at a restaurant. A confrontation with yakuza escalates into chaos, culminating in Nishi’s death as he tries to protect Myon. But death is merely a doorway, in a surreal limbo, Nishi defies fate, impresses God, and hurtles back to life with unrelenting determination.

Mind Game’s breakneck pace, sharp cuts, and kaleidoscopic visuals burst forth in an explosion of pure creativity. The film’s audacity left me curled on the floor in a fetal position.

If Walt Disney’s Alice in Wonderland and The Rocky Horror Picture Show once pushed the boundaries of my imagination, Robin Nishi and Masaaki Yuasa’s Mind Game shattered them entirely, leading me on a breathtaking odyssey through the vast landscapes of human emotion.

A colorful masterpiece best approached with an open mind, and perhaps a hard drink in hand, it’s not for the completely sober. But for everyone else, it’s pure, unadulterated joy. Nishi, God, and yes, even big boobs forever.

City Hunger

I have nothing left to do but keep breathing. In and out. For all time. Forever. Until you discover me, sit deep within my soul, and finally feel how wonderful I am for you, how you won’t want anyone else in your life anymore, how you send the vultures home. My nightmares grow stronger, weaker, more colorful. Of coughing trees, blonde girls, graceful horses.

When I open my eyes again, the powder lies carelessly scattered next to you. Your breasts glow blue in the moonlight—such a beautiful sight I haven’t seen in a long time. For hours I watch the rises and falls, the rhythmic up and down of your being.

No trace left of the one-sided numbness after the great tremor; my head clear again and soaked with the murky thoughts of recent times. How much everything could change. You, me, the two of us. Next to your reddish-blonde hair lies Hugo, smiling, drooling, sleeping.

An insatiable hunger penetrates my innermost being; my thoughts circle around soggy cheeseburgers, greasy pizza, fried noodles baked over with eggs and cheese. I almost throw up from appetite, get up without kissing your forehead one more time, and run naked through the apartment.

The refrigerator is filled with beer, Red Bull, and champagne. Not a trace of anything edible anywhere. The room begins to spin, the bright light drills straight into my stomach, my lungs, my legs. I collapse onto the floor, start to cry, starving miserably.

When Sina sees me the next morning curled up in front of the open refrigerator like an embryo in the womb, she begins to kiss me all over my body, doesn’t stop until I open my eyes, take her head between both hands, and look deep into her ocean-blue eyes.

Countless stars shine within them, the end of the world, the meaning of life within reach. My parents strike up a cheerful song, dolphins leap around. And before I can finally uncover the secret of our entire existence, the doorbell rings.

Sina smiles, gets up, and opens the door to the postman without bothering to cover herself first. He doesn’t bat an eye, presses a small package into her hand, and says goodbye as politely as usual, with a couldn’t-care-less attitude toward the two of us. I feel ashamed. Are you hungry? she asks me then. I’ll order us a pizza if you want.

It takes almost an hour before I can finally eat something. We sit on the couch and watch *The O.C.* on DVD. The sun shines through the huge windows of the old apartment building. On the horizon, the television tower rises above everything.

When Ryan holds the dying Marissa in his arms, I run into the bathroom and vomit into the bathtub. In that moment it simply seems more fitting for my spontaneous undertaking. Sina comes after me and we have sex on the cold tile floor. When I’m finished, she asks me, Do you promise me that it will stay like this forever? I nod silently. She climbs off me.

The package contains a new camera that I had ordered online. It’s expensive, it’s beautiful, and the first thing I photograph with it is Sina while she’s cleaning the bathroom. Whenever I look at those pictures today, my heart seizes up—an overwhelming, bone-shattering feeling of why I didn’t take better care of her. Why I wasn’t there sooner, when it happened.

The first time I saw you, you were sitting right in the middle of Alexanderplatz. Huddled together, unwashed, with greasy hair. You were hiding behind a cardboard sign with a scrawled message that flowed straight into my heart: I’m homesick. Please give me money so I can afford a ticket back home. I sat down on some steps a few meters away from you and watched you.

You were crying. People passed by without a glance, avoided you, practically despised you, like the dirt of society. Spring hadn’t really arrived yet and it was slowly getting dark. I couldn’t bear the sad sight anymore, stood up, and slowly walked toward you. Come with me. I’ll invite you to eat. At first you didn’t want to listen at all, resisted my help—resisted me—but then you gave up your fortress. You stood up, brushed a strand of hair out of your face with your long fingers, and then walked beside me at a respectful distance.

My name is Sina, you muttered while stuffing a big bite of cheeseburger into your mouth. I found that disgusting. Why do you look like that? While I waited for an answer and increasingly wondered why I had brought you, you repulsive little thing, here in the first place, my thoughts drifted into Berlin’s nightlife. At that moment I could have given in to my urges, my feelings, my thoughts—granted myself a journey into nirvana and then hooked up with some cheap hipster in my huge apartment.

My companion didn’t seem to miss my wide grin, and so she began to open up, trying to pull the attention back to herself. Paula and I ran away from home. She’s my best friend.

You almost choked and first took a big gulp of your cola. I felt nauseous. From your manners, the smacking, that repulsive smell. I was in the bathroom at the main train station. And when I came back, she was gone. With my backpack, my phone, and my money. The stupid bitch.

A tear ran down your freckled face. And suddenly a feeling of pity flickered inside me. Now I remembered why I had ended up with you in this miserable place, and I smiled as I ordered two more meals. We talked the whole evening. You told me about your horrible family, your stupid ex-boyfriend, school, the feeling of not knowing where you belonged. And that Berlin was the last hope of finally getting your life together. I knew that feeling all too well.

As for me, I babbled on about my job as a party photographer and how I had always wondered how I managed to make so much money with such a completely pointless occupation. However, I didn’t tell you anything about the drugs, the excesses, and the prostitutes who came and went from my place. But I did reveal that my father never took me seriously, that my very first love had sex with my two best friends, and that I had once been in prison. Why, for the time being, remained my secret.

If you want, you can stay at my place tonight, and tomorrow I’ll buy you a ticket back home. You looked pretty bewildered. Why would you do that? Why would I do that? No idea. I have money and you need money. I was raised Catholic. All that stuff about sharing and loving your neighbor and all that crap. Fine by me, but you’d better not touch me! Suddenly you were a cat, with fangs and claws and that look full of mistrust, fear, and self-defense.

I liked the strength in you, bursting with woundedness and inner greatness. In your sparkling blue eyes I seemed to encounter myself, before I had lost the fun in all of this. The voices of many ghosts came over me as we finally kissed beneath the dim light of the streetlamp. You were pale, unaware and unsuspecting, your being so full of pain and strength. That was the most beautiful thing about it all.

We slept together the whole night. In the bed, on the table, against the wall. And the next morning you didn’t want to leave anymore. I tolerated you in my place like my housecat. My little monkey. And step by step I introduced you to my world, which after a short time seemed to give you far more happiness than it had ever managed to give me.

Basically, everything we did revolved around sex. Not love, not dancing. When she let that disgusting junkie screw her in the bathroom at the opening of Chan Shin while I was busy taking funny pictures of the party crowd that disgusted me, it didn’t really bother me at all.

And yet I beat Sina bloody in the parking lot when she told me about it so cheerfully. With every blow, every strike, every kick, his face came to mind—how he mounted her like a wild animal, having no idea about her dreams, her longings.

That she liked to drop three lumps of sugar into her coffee. That she snorted like a little pig when someone said something funny on television. And that she wore pink underwear when she had her period. That jerk didn’t know any of that when he pushed her against the wall and rammed his disgusting cock into her flawless body again and again. And he didn’t give a damn.

When they pulled me away from you, you were lying on the dark concrete, gasping and crying. Blood flowed, gleaming, down your freckled face. You stood up and looked at me the way a mother looks at her son who has done something stupid but incredibly sweet.

You love me, don’t you? you ask me as we lie together in bed at night, taking turns on a joint while I kiss your wounds. How do you get that idea? I ask curtly. Because you were jealous. Because I fucked Cosby in the bathroom. You giggle happily. I hate you, I say, turn my back to you, and fall asleep.

I only wake the next morning because of the clicking sounds from your laptop. I blink, see you sitting on the floor in your white nightgown, and kneel down behind you. Anger starts to boil up inside me—you’re chatting with Cosby early in the morning. I grab the MacBook and throw it out the window, like a Frisbee. You look at me, puzzled, give me a kiss on the cheek, and make us some scrambled eggs with bacon. Buy a new one—I want to listen to music.

My name is Sina. Close friends describe me as a bit of a stubborn mule who can suddenly fall head-over-heels for things and people with the full force of a raging storm—only to grow bored just as quickly and drop them again.

In my short life there are only a few scenarios that truly terrify me to the core. One of them is among my worst fears: that someday I might become wealthier than my father.

Because in my mind the evidence is clear: all that money is the reason that idiot is constantly jetting from one world metropolis to the next with an entourage of blonde, anorexic secretaries who aren’t even older than I am—while his loving family always ends up coming second. My mother doesn’t know that he’s sleeping with at least half of those soulless Barbie dolls. Or maybe she doesn’t want to know.

Another uncontrollable fear I clearly have is of small children. I don’t know how to deal with them, I don’t know what to do with them, and I certainly can’t understand how it can be that eight-year-old gnomes with thick pants and even thicker balls either call me a slut or constantly grab my ass at the bus stop. And if you slap one of them, suddenly they start crying and calling for their bull of a father, who then berates you with a mixture of disgust and dripping lust. Thanks for this lovely morning.

But most of all, I really hate the idea that my bikini might slip off when I take a daring leap into the swimming pool or the Stollensee lake. That’s what happened to my best friend Paula last summer. Since then, the whole school knows that she has the biggest breasts and darkest nipples ever. And it’s not just those precocious bitches from the fifth grade who find it hilarious, no, Johnny, self-proclaimed moron and predestined winner of the BILD newspaper reader of the year award, loves to rub it in.

Although, at that moment, he was probably more preoccupied with rubbing it into me, making disgusting grunting noises, and almost falling off the bed in his failed attempt to finger me while humping me. So he decided to leave it at that.

Which was really better for both of us, because he was just slapping around on my stomach like a crazed lunatic anyway. At least I didn’t have to look him in the eye during his very personal interpretation of World War II, so I took the opportunity to look out the open window at the park on this sunny day and think about the important questions of life.

Whether Paula had also forgotten the history presentation that Mr. Dächler had assigned her. How many women were also kneeling on all fours in front of their loved ones at that moment, concentrating intently on counting the clouds. And whether I should finally redeem my gift certificate at Douglas tonight.

There was a new perfume by Calvin Klein that smelled like a mixture of vanilla and raspberry and went incredibly well with my phenomenal natural scent. I had to have it. Turn around, you little whore! came a shout from behind, and before I knew it, I was lying on my back with Johnny’s miniature version of a cock heading straight for my nose.

The idea of going to Berlin to turn my life around and finally figure out what I really wanted to do with my existence came to me a few minutes after this lively experience in Johnny’s filthy bathroom.

I had just splashed my face with warm water and reached for the towel when I accidentally stared straight into my ocean-blue eyes, which seemed to stare back almost disdainfully. Slowly I examined my face while the post-romantic sounds of Rammstein echoed from the living room. The smell of marijuana drifted into my nose.

At that moment it became clear to me: I was more than just a small, red-haired girl whose face was good for nothing but serving as a graveyard for semen. I had character. I was damn creative. I was something special. And I had great tits, too. With this realization in tow, I walked into the living room, grabbed my clothes, ran past Johnny with a loud Adios, you jerk! and stumbled out the door into the courtyard, relieved.

The deaf-mute elderly couple sitting opposite me on a blue bench against the wall of the building seemed to enjoy my striptease out in the open, at any rate. I took my time getting dressed, pulled a cigarette from my pocket, and headed for the bus station. And heaven help it if there was even a single gnome standing around there!

We ate a lavish dinner on her rooftop terrace. Sina and Eva had cooked—lasagna with salad, pudding with little chunks in it—just the way I liked it best. Adam talked about the business. The club. The Chan Shin. How hard it had become these days to keep a place like that running. There was too much competition in the city. And the customers were getting stranger and stranger—but funnier, too.

He was tall, with monumental tattoos on both arms—lions and eagles, stars and roses. Piercings adorned his face, which seemed eaten away by madness, and his dark voice underscored everything he said with an inescapable emphasis.

Eva, on the other hand, was small, narrow, and slender. Together with her blonde, shoulder-length hair, she often transformed in my imagination into the shape of a bright fairy. Her voice was gentle and thoughtful. I would have loved to have Eva read me a bedtime story sometime.

I nodded incessantly, but in truth I didn’t give a damn about anything Adam was explaining at such length. I was one of the most dazzling figures in the business, and I couldn’t care less. Sina knew that. She looked at me with an understanding glance and took a big bite of the lasagna. Back then I found it cute when she stuffed large pieces of food into her mouth.

Why does this world make you so happy? I asked her as we walked home. Which world do you mean? She loosely wrapped an arm around me and then danced cheerfully across the cobblestones. The parties, the clubs, the over-the-top people. The drugs and all that.

She stopped calmly and slowly turned toward me. Because you live in it. I looked at her in disbelief. But I hate it. And you know that. And why?

Because none of it is real. It’s all exaggerated and artificial. People suppress their problems and worries, wash them down with alcohol, and push themselves into strange mental worlds with drugs—only to crash even harder onto the ground of reality the next morning.

With a smile she stepped toward me, took my hands, and pressed a kiss on my mouth—both tender and passionate. I’m real, she whispered softly. And the two of us live in this world.

A bright beam of light broke through my murky thoughts, long ruled by darkness. Howling and shrieking in pain, the demons of my self exploded into a thousand pieces, making room for a green, healing bud that pushed its way upward through the cold, withered earth.

A grin spread across my face, which only moments before had been so thoughtful and sullen with deep conviction and aversion. See? she said, then ran off and spread her arms wide. Come on, let’s fly! she shouted and disappeared around the next corner. Wait for me!

Sina was like a little child, a whirlwind. She reminded me of my own resolutions and convictions that I had lost through life here. Her temperament was always cheerful, carefree, and full of positive surprises. She was Ernie, I was Bert. Don’t be such a Bert!

I enjoyed every minute I spent with her. At least that’s how it felt in hindsight; in truth, she often annoyed me with her overly naive view of existence. Maybe I was simply jealous.

Often I would look at her bright body, photograph it, caress it. I knew every freckle on her, every scar, every tiny hair. I knew how to stroke her stomach so that she would start giggling like a chicken, which spots she didn’t want to be touched, and how I could drive her to inner despair right up to orgasm.

Sina was an open book to me, and yet so many pages still seemed unread. Perhaps unwritten. And those were the ones I was afraid of. A future waiting for me that I didn’t want to know about—because it would change everything, destroy our world, annihilate our existence.

He collapsed in front of me, dropping to the ground, yelping and gasping. Right in the balls! Paula shouted to me triumphantly, beaming from ear to ear. It was dark, it was cold, but because of that good deed I was practically glowing inside. I felt so liberated. What a victory, what a triumph. Johnny grimaced in pain, his brainless friends stared at me like paralyzed rabbits.

Come on over here, you idiots, I’m in a really good mood today! I shouted at them, glaring as fiercely as I could. I had nothing left to lose, and they should feel that. Johnny wailed.

Sina, hurry up, the damn train’s about to leave! I grabbed my backpack and started running. I was running away from my old life—my boyfriend, my family—just get away from here. Johnny shouted after me: You slut! If I catch you, I’ll kill you! Cuuunt!

At that word we jumped onto the train. The doors slammed shut loudly behind us, and shortly afterward we were on our way to a new, better life. I was so relieved that I dropped to my knees and started crying.

Paula was my best friend. She had big breasts and an even bigger heart. I loved her, I adored her, I would have given my life for her. When I opened my eyes, we were holding each other tightly. Outside, trees, mountains, and houses shot past us. I snuggled into her lilac-colored sweater, which smelled so wonderfully of roses, and breathed in deeply. How much longer? I murmured into her ample bosom. A few hours, came the brief reply from above. Aw, man…

When we arrived at Berlin Central Station, we first trudged happily—yet exhausted—to the nearest Burger King, ordered the fattest menu with bacon and large fries, and celebrated our newfound freedom. I was happy, truly happy.

If you want, you can go to the bathroom quickly. I’ll wait here for you. Paula put on her brightest smile. I nodded eagerly, took another quick sip of my cola, and ran off. When I came back, she was gone. At first I thought it was a joke. I kept smiling and acted completely unfazed so I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction when she jumped out from around the next corner. But she wasn’t behind any corner. She was nowhere.

Slowly, panic crept up inside me. I ran through the station—every platform, every shop, every corner. She had my phone. With my last bit of change I called home and, crying, explained my situation. But my mother only laughed cruelly, said it was my own fault, that I should figure out myself how to get out of it, and muttered something about the mess I’d made for myself. Everything started spinning. I found myself on all fours, doing nothing but calling Paula’s name. But she didn’t hear me.

Sina celebrated her 18th birthday at Bar 25. We danced closely entwined to the dull, pounding bass, completely wasted. In the bathroom, two girls absolutely insisted that I photograph them and began undressing each other. I had a headache and had to fight the constant urge to just vomit loudly. The taller one gave me a blowjob while I counted the white, shiny tiles on the wall. When she finished, I went back to my birthday girl to continue the dance we had interrupted. Can we go home? she asked quietly. I’m tired.

That night Sina’s tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Why do I even put myself through all this shit? she shouted hysterically across the room and threw a basket of apples at my head. I love you, you asshole, but you’re a coward, a freeloader, a hypocrite. You hate this world, but you take advantage of it. You hate these people, but you sleep with them. You hate these drugs, but you keep snorting one line after another.

She threw the packet against the wall. Like snow, the little white grains slowly drifted to the floor. I sat on the bed and watched her crusade without doing anything.

This world means nothing to you. I mean nothing to you. Love means nothing to you. How can I open myself up to someone for whom love means nothing? Explain that to me! I’m not answering that trick question. She grew even angrier.

She stomped into the kitchen, came back with a large knife, and began stabbing the pillows and the mattress. I leaned against the wall, smoked a cigarette, and calmly watched the scene unfold. Feathers flew around the room. Sina looked like a naked, exploding angel.

I have to get out of here! she suddenly screamed and dropped the weapon. She got dressed, began stuffing some clothes into her Hello Kitty backpack, and ran out of the apartment before I even remotely understood what was happening.

When I finally snapped out of my paralysis and ran into the hallway, she had already slammed the door shut behind her. I ran to the balcony and looked down the dark street. When I spotted her reddish-blonde head of hair, I shouted down: Sina, where are you going? No answer, no explanation—she disappeared into the next subway station.

I took some orange juice from the fridge, drank from it, and then hurled the carton against the wall in a fit of rage. A large yellow stain still marks the white surface to this day. Her phone lay on the bed. I grabbed one of her panties, snuggled into the torn-up pillows with it, and tried to suppress the dark time.

That night I had a frightening dream whose abrupt ending remained deep in my bones for hours after I woke up drenched in sweat. I staggered into the kitchen, poured milk and cornflakes into a bowl, and still saw her corpse-white face right in front of me—the face I had held tightly to myself while screaming across half the city.

That peculiar smell still lingered in my nose, and I looked down at myself until the blood I could just make out in the corners of my eyes, which seemed to cover half my body, revealed itself as a cynical play of light and shadow. When I dipped the spoon in and brought a load of cornflakes to my mouth, I recognized the faces from the night before—the ones who had stood with me outside the club shouting her name, loudly, over and over again. In one hand I held my phone, in the other a bottle of tequila.

The people around me told each other that she had supposedly disappeared, completely drunk, with a more than shady guy from the Chan Shin, no longer in control of herself. I screamed for my life. Her name. The louder I screamed, the more everything would turn out alright—that much I was certain of.

Opening the window now seemed like a good idea. The cold, fresh air washed over my throbbing, wounded thoughts, and I tried to chase away the memories—how they showed me the way to her, how I ran, how I cried.

And when I turned the corner and saw her lying there, so defenseless in a filthy backyard, it was all over. All the feelings in the world concentrated into that unreal moment—like a shot, a bang, a blow. I ran to her and screamed words that didn’t even seem to exist, but so loudly that I hoped they might still reach her. The faces around me melted into a huge blur of pity as I held her so tightly that everything around me seemed to burst apart. I choked on blood and tears, and the last thing that burned itself into my mind was the image of her unhappy, restless face, whose dull eyes seemed to admonish me as the one who had not been with her when it happened. The doorbell rang.

I celebrated my 18th birthday at Bar 25. The photographer and I danced closely entwined to the dull, pounding bass. When I opened my eyes, he staggered toward the bathroom, two sun-tanned sluts following him. My world was full of colors, voices, and tragedies, so I hurried after them. When I pushed the door open a crack, I could see his strained face and his open pants, while the two girls fumbled around them. When he came back to me on the dance floor, I looked at him intently and asked, Can we go home? I’m tired.

When we got there, I couldn’t stop crying. Why do I even put myself through all this shit? I shouted in his direction, grabbing random objects and throwing them at his head. I love you, you asshole, but you’re a coward, a freeloader, a hypocrite. You hate this world, but you take advantage of it. You hate these people, but you sleep with them. You hate these drugs, but you keep snorting one line after another.

I realized too late that I was holding our new packet in my hand and, the next moment, hurled it against the wall. Suddenly the whole room was full of white specks. The photographer sat on the bed and stared at me silently.

This world means nothing to you. I mean nothing to you. Love means nothing to you. How can I open myself up to someone for whom love means nothing? Explain that to me! I’m not answering that trick question. Anger boiled inside me.

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find. When I returned to the bedroom, I began stabbing the pillows and the mattress, screaming loudly. The photographer leaned against the wall with a cigarette and smiled now and then while taking a drag. Feathers flew through the room and covered me in an explosion of pale color.

I have to get out of here! I shouted, dropping the knife. I stuffed a few clothes into my backpack, looked at the photographer one last time, and then fled the apartment.

Furious, screaming, crying, I stumbled down the stairwell and burst through the front door. Once outside, I ran straight toward the nearest subway station while a voice from above called my name. I didn’t look back—I wanted nothing more to do with that asshole—and soon found myself underground. The quiet down there freed my mind; I could hear a small heart beating.

Whenever we argued, the photographer wanted to finish the fight on my body. I closed my eyes, and behind my eyelids a colorful world of chaos seemed to open up. Crystal-clear tears ran without stopping. How had I ever ended up in this place?

Love and suffering wore dark velvet robes for me, burying my battered body in the broken dreams of my own self. With the sweet words of a clear night and the organs of a rebel, he had entered my soul—and now, out of amusement, recklessness, and fear, he abused everything I had ever believed in.

Nothing struck my youth as hard as the realization that I could not ease his suffering—the suffering of living in a world whose existence and tragedy he himself had conjured. Not through my love, nor through my breasts. Small, gray fears devoured me from the inside and made my joyful moments seem dull and lonely.

All my life I kept constantly encouraging myself. That I was something special. That one day the just balance of things would catch up with me. And that life held a fascinating ending in store for the little girl with the sparkling eyes in the mirror. My tears tasted bitter, but I smiled with confidence. And when I felt the rush of wind from the train on my skin, I opened my eyes and let myself fall onto the tracks.

Are you satisfied with your life? the little blonde girl asked me openly as we strolled hand in hand through the deserted streets of long-forgotten Berlin. Not a breath of wind could be felt, not a sound could be heard, not a single soul could be seen. The war that had once raged had silenced all activity and burst the houses apart in a fiery breath.

I only looked upward—unable either to give an answer or to ask a question. White clouds on a blue background drifted triumphantly above the ruins of the once magnificent city. How alive these streets once were, and yet no one survived the days of eternal night. My battered body lay somewhere beneath these ruins as well. Forever.

My companion and I turned into a nearby park and walked along a path lined with dead trees. Her bright dress shone in the midday sun, and the honest smile on her face made me forget, for a moment, the endless pain I had been carrying deep in my heart for some time. We giggled, we played around, but suddenly she stopped and pointed forward with her arm stretched out.

My gaze froze when I saw the red-blonde, naked girl standing at the other end of the path. I ran toward her, but when I saw her empty stare, her pale face, and the bloody wounds covering her body, I slowed down and stopped in front of her. The sky turned black, the clouds transformed into glowing sparks raining down upon the dead earth, and the ground opened wide at our feet.

When I come to, Paula is holding me tightly in her arms and pressing a glass of cold water toward my face.

Another one of your nightmares? she asks gently. Her large breasts sway with every movement, and the mere presence of her character—the kisses, the smell of cheap perfume and poor intimate hygiene—strengthens my aversion toward her with every breath we both take. Paula likes orange ties.

The fact alone that she has replaced Sina as my companion of the night leaves me with no doubt that something incredibly wrong is happening in the universe, and that it is up to me to restore the balance of our civilization.

I have to find her, I reply curtly and take a large gulp of the refreshing water. More than three months ago she ran off in a rage, crying with hatred, and since then these visions have been haunting me. They’re making me sick.

The room is soaked in dark blue-black tones, and a few empty syringes have been carelessly thrown onto the floor beside the bed. My body is covered in sticky sweat, and while I vomit over the balcony, I imagine the thousands of fantasies that keep appearing. How she dies. How she suffers. How I can do nothing about it. A storm is coming.

She’s your best friend, you fucking slut! I suddenly scream at Paula and curse the day I ever opened my doors to her. The endless nighttime conversations, the crying, the repeated apologies, and the remorseful sex. Where did she even come from? And since when has she been here?

I mix reality with madness, no longer able to clearly distinguish what is actually happening and which parts of my life story are only playing out in my head. The drugs, the music, the women. And yet I only want one thing: to have Sina back. That’s all that matters right now.

It was one of those incredibly hot summer days whose bright glow burned itself into our skin and souls and kept the night away as if by magic. Eva watched the southern waiter dreamily as he walked away, while I tried to crush the ice cubes in my cocktail with the straw. A group of tourists pushed noisily down the street, shouting and laughing. I watched them go by and felt a little envious.

How’s Adam? I asked hoarsely toward the person sitting across from me—more to break the awkward silence than because I was truly interested. We hadn’t seen each other for so long, and yet her life and that of her partner meant relatively little to me.

Good, was the brief, meaningless answer, which led her to ask a counter-question: And how is Sina?

A jolt of thought thundered through my body. I accidentally knocked the cocktail to the ground. The way it shattered on the hard concrete—the mixture of glass, fruit, and liquid—I liked that. I smiled a little foolishly.

Two years had passed since Sina had fled my apartment and my life in tears and in a rush. And we hadn’t exchanged a single word since then. From what I had heard, she had adjusted wonderfully to her newfound freedom in this city, made important connections, and could be found at every good party among the upper circles. Recently she had begun hosting a few shows on a music channel, occasionally modeling for one or another local fashion label, and was rumored to be having various affairs with musicians, managers, and TV personalities.

From time to time I ran into her new self at various social events and even photographed her occasionally, arm in arm with overbred celebrities and emaciated models. She smiled into the camera like a professional, but once the flashes were over, she turned away and moved on—usually straight to the bar. As if she no longer knew me. After that, the evening was usually over for me.

An exceedingly tormenting god seemed to have placed our two fates on a set of scales that were now tipped in a painfully uneven way for me. While Sina’s life had turned—at fast-forward speed—toward happiness, prosperity, and recognition, mine was sinking into a black sludge of self-doubt, dissatisfaction, and ungrateful hatred toward everything and everyone.

What had long ago become my new purpose in life—my search for her—was now turning my hopes, dreams, and certainties into an endless journey of setbacks, disappointments, and trampled feelings. I had become a shadow of myself.

I had scoured all of Berlin for a worthy copy of her. I searched for her playful freckles, her red-golden hair, and her bright blue eyes in every Catholic schoolgirl, burned-out designer, and soulless prostitute in the city. And every time, with less shock but more finality, I had to admit that they were all just empty shells—insignificant side characters who could never measure up to what Sina had awakened deep inside me, and who could never even come close to meeting the false expectations with which I burdened them.

So at night, under the influence of overpriced stimulants and Red Bull, I lay awake, masturbating again and again to the photos on her Facebook profile. I was jealous of everyone who left some sycophantic message on her page, became a fan, or linked themselves into her life. I had become a stalker—a lonely nobody without real friends who had ultimately drowned in this world of glitter, drugs, and false reason. Just as Sina had once predicted.

It must have been a few days after the terse meeting with Eva when I was asked to take photos at the after-show party for Schweighöfer’s new film at a hotel—a party I showed up to already drunk and far too late.

There were plenty of candles, seventeen different martinis, and a constantly wasted boss who spoke German with a New York accent and overdid it completely. Her New York accent made me sick. Only a fraction of the photos I took that evening were usable. But I didn’t care—just like I didn’t care about anything else. After all, I was an artist, and there was no reason not to admire me.

Being a problem person didn’t make life in this world easy. Never had I been so aware of the limits of existence—I kept pushing further, further, even further, until everything around me began to crack and shattered like a glass cube into a thousand pieces. My life was an experiment, and everyone in it became a test subject I could experiment on until I freed them from their fantasies with too much pressure—or until they got there first and fled. It was time for me to disappear.

The rigid faces, the forced laughter, and the sad eyes of the invited guests disgusted me and practically pushed me away from them. I went out onto the balcony to light a cigarette and only after a while realized that a girl was standing next to me, watching intently as I tried to blow smoke rings toward the TV Tower, hoping to bring it crashing down. When I saw her face, I started coughing. Sina smiled at me.

Sina and I stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like several eternities. My head seemed to explode in inhuman colors, my breath stopped. Adrenaline pumped through my body like a maddened bull—the only conceivable conclusion was a stroke.

Where had she come from, why was she there, and—for God’s sake—why was she speaking to me after ignoring and despising me for the last two years, after luring me into a psychological minefield of despair, sleeplessness, and suicidal thoughts and leaving me there?

Hello, I croaked out in a phlegmy voice, cleared my throat quickly and conspicuously, and repeated my greeting, which now sounded almost like a question.

My counterpart kept smiling calmly and steadily, took a sip from her wine glass, and then skillfully and stylishly tossed it over the railing. Long time no see, she slurred toward me. Sina was drunk. And clearly high.

My disappointment at the prospect of having a sober and honest conversation with her must have been written all over my face, because she staggered toward me, wrapped her arms around me, and then grinned with dilated pupils as if looking right through me. Are you alright?

Her apartment wasn’t far from mine. High walls, large windows, a fascinating old building. Every room had been arranged thoughtfully and in a modern style. The walls were covered in soft pastel colors; the furniture was partly new, partly old, but everything fit together. Everywhere it smelled of vanilla and mango, and the lamps and candles filled Sina’s world with a romantically muted light.

Photos of her with her new friends and lovers were stuck to the refrigerator. She was smiling in all of them. I felt bad—seeing in my mind the scenes in which she cried, howled in pain, and balanced on the edge of existence.

Would you like a glass of wine? the most beautiful voice in the universe I knew called out from another room. I nodded, briefly touched my forehead, and then said yes. Why did you let me go so easily back then?

We were lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, covered in spilled wine. I tried to answer skillfully and eloquently, but the marijuana and the alcohol blocked my reason and let adventurous stories spill from my mouth, pushing the air around us aside—stories of knights and flowers, dresses and bears, whores and drama.

She laughed loudly and for a long time at everything I planted in her red-blonde head. Her hair smelled just like it used to—of ice cream, Red Bull, and a mixture of fast food and a meadow of flowers. Then Sina sat up, took my hands, and said: That one night—the night that separated us—I tried to kill myself.

After that night we started seeing each other more often again—over coffee, at the movies, or at one party or another. Like a puzzle, we revealed our lives of the past years to each other piece by piece. Some things made me smile honestly; others only forced a strained smile from me because they tore at my thoughts.

She never spoke again about her attempt to catapult herself out of life, but all the more about sex, love, and the hard and soft separations. When she asked how things were going for me in those respects, I lied through my teeth. I deliberately left Paula out of it.

But lies had no effect between us. We both knew that. Since that moment on the balcony, we could suddenly read each other again like an open book. As if the time in between had never happened—as if only minutes ago I had been shouting her name down at her through tears and spit while she, empty and at the end of herself, walked along the street and disappeared into the next subway station.

The nightmares, the vodka, the medication—everything rotted away before my eyes into the final remnants of the darkest time of my life. When she realized it, she hugged me tighter than ever and tears ran down my neck. It was terrible, Sina just managed to say. Then we slept together, and for a while, everything was okay.

I’m Casper, the Friendly Ghost

American director, writer, and artist Larry Clark uses drug-addicted teenagers fucking each other, half-naked alcoholics attending grimy underground parties, and scenes of brutal violence among these often neglected social groups for his movies, photographs, and related works. In other words: He’s one of my favorite creative minds.

Larry Clark’s debut film, Kids, profoundly impacted both myself and other members of the Millennial demographic during the 1990s. It makes almost any other portrait of American adolescence look like The Picture of Dorian Gray, Janet Maslin wrote of the unrated movie in her review for The New York Times.

When I was about thirteen years old, I first encountered the anti-fairy tale of New York teenagers Telly, Casper, Jennie, and Ruby, who seemingly have no other purpose in their aimless lives than to drink, do cocaine, and humping the shit out of their friends, on Swiss television, late at night.

The events that unfold in this narrative deeply affected me and shocked me to the core, leaving my childhood behind when the credits finally rolled. AIDS, violence, and rape entered into my small, innocent child’s soul, and I have to admit: Yes, Larry Clark screwed me over and deflowered me in the same breath. It hurt like hell—and it still does.

Even today, some quotes, scenes, and faces haunt me and have shaped my life in a rather unsavory way. Like the man without legs singing his plea in the subway car, Chloé Sevigny being raped by Justin Pierce on the couch while intoxicated, which triggered a fetish for white socks in me, and how Leo Fitzpatrick infected both Sarah Henderson and Yakira Peguero with HIV.

Kids became a banned phenomenon in many countries in the mid-90s but gradually transformed into a critically acclaimed cult classic showered with awards, recognition, and respect. For me personally, the movie will always remain my first time. Thank you, Larry, you damn jerk.

Everyday Is Like a Sunday

As a protégé of the now-ostracized scandal photographer Terry Richardson, Keiichi Nitta, born in 1975 in the Japanese capital Tokyo, enjoyed what we might call an alternative education in the midst of a micro-universe shaped by sex, drugs, and rock music.

So it’s hardly surprising that, even after finishing his studies, he continued along the path of his mentor—combining his work with a Far Eastern flair and creating a skillful composition of perfectly shot photos, famous faces blessed with natural beauty, and the occasional exposed body part. I had the opportunity to speak with the master of Japanese breasts about his work, the birth of his son, and lots of sushi.

You are one of the best-known and most controversial photographers in Japan, but in fact everything began with Terry Richardson. How did the two of you meet, how did he inspire and influence you, and what is your relationship like today? I’ve always been interested in photography. Ever since I was a kid. I’m a big fan of many photographers, but I was especially impressed by Terry Richardson’s work. I was living in New York City and decided to try to work for Terry. But it wasn’t easy. I called his studio every day for a year, and eventually he gave in. I was incredibly happy and learned a lot from Terry—especially how to deal with the people I photographed. The atmosphere has to be fun, relaxed, and cheerful. Then everything works out. I owe Terry a lot, and we’re still very good friends today.

Was it difficult for you to set up your own studio, find models, and convince clients to work with you? After all, you didn’t know what the future would bring, or did things actually turn out to be quite easy for you? I was pretty nervous and excited when I moved back to Tokyo to open my own studio and all that. But I was very lucky—everything came together as if guided by fate, and after a short time everything was running smoothly.

You’ve already hosted many international stars like the Beastie Boys, Lady Gaga, and M.I.A., as well as Japanese celebrities like Kumi Koda, Aoi Miyazaki, and Yoko Maki in your studio. Which of the people you’ve worked with left the best memories, and which would you never want to see in front of your camera again? Whether I work with Japanese or international celebrities, I’ve always been very lucky with them. Each of them has an individual personality and brings their own atmosphere. And that’s what makes a shoot interesting.

Your trademark is the Polaroids you take of people you meet. When did that start, and do the amateur models enjoy being photographed that way and signing the picture afterward, or do you have to persuade them first? Well, that started when I was still working with Terry, and I simply continued doing it after opening my studio in Tokyo. So far I’ve never had any trouble taking the Polaroids. Most models and stars like the idea.

What inspires you—where do you get the ideas for your photos, and do you have any role models or muses? Actually, my inspiration varies from shoot to shoot. It always depends on the model, the fashion brand, and so on.

What have been the highlights of your life so far? Clearly the birth of my son Milo. That moment completely changed my life. And my 100K show was also a great achievement for me personally.

Did the birth of Milo change your work as well? And would you like him to become a photographer someday, or would you advise him against choosing the same profession as his father? Becoming a father hasn’t really changed my work itself. If he wants to become a photographer, I’d think that’s great. He can do whatever he wants. I just hope it’s something creative.

I bet you enjoy good food. What do you prefer: American or Japanese cuisine, and what is your favorite dish? Yeah, I love food! And of course Japanese dishes. I’m into tonkatsu, sushi, yakiniku—oh man, the list would go on forever. Over the past few years I’ve eaten huge amounts of sushi, especially at my favorite restaurant, Fukusushi. Since I live in Tokyo, I have the chance to eat the best sushi all the time.

You work with many nude models. Is the temptation strong to do forbidden things with them, or are exposed breasts in your studio as normal as morning coffee? Well, after working with Terry for so long, it’s really no big deal anymore.

You’ve visited Europe several times already. Did you like it? Yes, I’ve been here several times, but unfortunately never directly to Germany. I’d really love to visit. Europe in general is great. I truly hope I’ll have more shows and exhibitions there soon.

What kinds of music do you like, who are your favorite bands, and can you name a few strictly secret but great Japanese underground bands? I like many different kinds of music—rock, house, anything really. But I don’t follow the Japanese music scene that closely, so unfortunately I can’t really help you in that area.

What tips and tricks would you give a young aspiring photographer who wants to start a career like yours, and what are your goals for the future? My advice to young photographers is to find a role model they love, try to work with them, and strengthen their skills wherever possible by photographing everything around them—friends, animals, plants, whatever comes in front of their lens. As for myself, I definitely want to have more shows and exhibitions—and ideally all over the world.

The Most Pregnant Night of the Year: Screw New Year's Eve

Every year the same crap: While children are starving in Africa, sea levels are rising, and whales are dying, we hipsters and losers concern ourselves with just one big question: Where, with whom, and in what mental and intoxicated state are we going to spend that brief moment between December 31 and January 1? At the city’s most pseudo-hip party, in bed with the loved one(s), rebelliously wasted at home with cookies and sparkling wine in front of the DVD player, binge-watching the end of the third season of Lost and properly shitting on all the commotion outside? It’s worse than Christmas.

Again and again, it has to be the best, the biggest, the most epic celebration in the universe—one we’ll remember all year long with a grin on our faces, one that gives us enough fuel to tick off all our resolutions, to-do lists, and promises, and that, through sheer high spirits, zest for life, and alcohol, lets us survive another year on this garbage-covered planet. But it never turns out that way.

Because when we look back at past New Year’s Eves, we find ourselves in a chain of overrated and shattered dreams. Nights that never lived up to our expectations and that we drove into the wall with such passionate perfection that it’s almost embarrassing. Whether we were stuck on the subway at midnight, arguing over house and home with an ex, or wishing we could burn down the most boring party ever: New Year’s Eve is and always will be shit.

So the best thing we can do is learn that these unholy expectations placed on an ordinary sunset are completely exaggerated, approach the new year relaxed, spontaneous, and going with the flow, and simply look forward to experiencing a nice, surprising, and possibly unique night with our people. And if not: screw it—the next night will surely come.

The Ultimate Review: Please Kiss My 2009 Away

The year is finally drawing to a close and the new decade is, as we all know, practically already at the door. Even though, scientifically speaking, that’s not entirely correct—but screw it. We experienced a lot in these 365 days, laughed our lungs out, cried our eyes out, and released alcohol back into freedom from the front, the back, and above. We thank our readers for the successful year they gave us together here at AMY&PINK, hope you won’t celebrate a too devastating New Year’s Eve, and to mark the occasion we once again sat down with some of the greatest people who accompanied us this year in one way or another on our path to world fame, and together with them we look back on this mixed time. We’ll see each other again next year and wish you all a good flight. Don’t blow your hands off—at least not without taking a photo of it.

Filippa Smeds, Model

Best moment? That I got to meet many wonderful people, had loads of great jobs, met Peaches Geldof (laughs) and a very specific boy. Best album? The debut album by Name The Pets, because it’s a really awesome party album and Hanna is the coolest (and cutest) girl of all time. Worst moment? When my boyfriend and I broke up, my grandmother died, and one of my best friends turned into a complete idiot. And I think all of that happened within a single month. Best film? Definitely “The Boat That Rocked,” because it has the best soundtrack of all time.

More from Filippa can be found on her blog.

Nicholas Gazin, Artist

Best moment? I had a lot of highs and lows this year. For example, I worked with many well-known artists and musicians and conducted interviews. I DJed at the Vice Holiday Party while they were serving schnapps in a bottle that had my artwork on the label. But the best moment was my birthday this year, when a few sweet girls took me out to dinner at Ninja, where ninjas serve you delicious food and great schnapps. I got drunk and ate a delicious steak the size of a laptop and then passed out! It was great. I cried tears of joy.

Best song? I like a lot of songs. But many of them didn’t come out this year. I think my favorite song is either “My Business” by Flight, “Sometimes” by Spits Off Of Volume 4, or Cerebral Ballzy’s “Causing Havoc.” But the coolest songs, which aren’t exactly new, would probably be “Where Evil Grows” by The Poppy Family or “I’m Gonna Get You Yet” by The Dixie Cups.

Hottest girl? The girl with the greatest sex appeal is definitely this one. She is probably the hottest slut I’ve met in recent years. I could look at that photo until it turns into 3D. Like those “Magic Eye” books.

Best drink? My favorite drink this year remains Jameson and Ginger Ale. Pabst Blue Ribbon is watery and cheap. That makes it perfect for knocking back constantly on hot days. Guinness is still a favorite, but it increasingly feels like work when I really want to get smashed. Jameson and Ginger Ale taste as good as hell and you can drink one after another until you’re drunk enough to annoy everyone else and fall down the stairs with your pants down.

More from Nicholas can be found on his blog.

Alex Sim-Wise, Model

Best moment? When I played “Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2” on that huge television in the most beautiful hotel room I’ve ever been in. That was the best day of my life. Best game? “Arkham Asylum,” because it’s kind of silly but brilliantly made. And it looks phenomenal. Best song? My favorite song at the moment is “Pictures Of Me” by Elliott Smith, but they never last long for me anyway. Hottest person? Michael Cera. I think he’s adorable.

More from Alex can be found on her blog.

Hannah Maria Paffen, AMY&PINK Author

Best moment? As cheesy as it sounds: there were many “most beautiful moments” in 2009, but all of them were together with friends and family. Although, now that I think about it, the feeling after handing in an assignment also comes pretty close to a climax. Best album? “New Wave” by Against Me!. Not necessarily a current album, but it carried me through the last year of my life and cheered me up whenever the world went bananas! Best boob groper? My boyfriend’s, clearly (laughs).

Best drink? That would probably be a mix of Sambucca and the attempt to break the Melo-Desperados record. It didn’t quite work out, but on the carousel-car ride home I had fun saying “I’m going to puke,” even though it wasn’t true at all, and we stopped at least five times on the highway (which is way too dangerous). The joke was that the car belonged to my buddy and was only a few weeks old and he was panicking that I might ruin it—but two weeks later he himself puked against the passenger door (laughs).

Juliet Elliott, Athlete

Best moment? I think I had the most fun in 2009 when I went to New York with my best friends. We rode our bikes so much around the area—all day, every day. Up and down Manhattan and around Brooklyn. And of course we went out every night. We met some fantastic people and crammed as many good times as possible into five days. Another highlight was quitting my job at Warner Records. I’m finally free and away from office stress and fixed working hours. I now work for myself. Thank God. I’m so much happier now.

Best album? Often my favorite album of the year didn’t even come out in the current year, but still becomes my soundtrack. I think this year it’s “Sleep’s Holy Mountain.” My friend Jack, whom I hung out with in New York, came all the way from the USA to England to see them at All Tomorrow’s Parties, a festival in Minehead, because they hadn’t performed in years. You could say we were really excited. We rented a caravan with my friend Posy and a bunch of other people and saw Sleep play two gigs in two days. At one of them they played the entire album. On Sunday evening I sat at the side of the stage with my friends Sanna and Nina. It was great. At the festival I also met my boyfriend Steve. We only talked about our love for Sleep and became really good friends.

Best country for sports action? That’s a difficult question because I was lucky enough to ride my bike through many different countries this year. I had a fantastic time in Paris, but I’d probably say the USA. New York was crazy, but I was also in San Francisco and Portland, where I was lucky to both have a great time riding and meet lots of great people.

Worst accident? I was just about to say that I was so lucky to have made it through 2009 unharmed, but then I remembered that I split open my chin and burst my eardrum. I needed six stitches and couldn’t hear properly for weeks.

Juliet rides for Charge, Carhartt and Vans. More from her can be found on her blog.

Carolin Schütz, AMY&PINK Author

Best moment? My personal most beautiful moment actually refers to a period of time… after the breakup of my long-term relationship, when my girls showed me what true friendship is—how cheesy, but it’s true. Best album? My favorite album: “The ’59 Sound” by The Gaslight Anthem. Best boob groper? Definitely Marcel, when he imaginary—through the movie screen—groped Nora Tschirner’s surgically enhanced boobs at the premiere of “Zweiohrküken” in the presence of hundreds of people (laughs).

Best quote? Oh God, there are so many… So my personal highlight quote was definitely when an acquaintance who shall remain anonymous said to me: “Actually, you’re a pretty normal girl, except that you drink like a guy, look like Pumuckl, and talk more than I could read in my entire life. Want to sleep together?” But that wasn’t all. When the aspiring industrial engineer, for example, said to me completely dryly: “You look like you study ‘renewable energy’? Am I right?” Or when Ruth, sitting in the back seat of the car, said: “Caro shouldn’t drink anything alcoholic, she does even more stupid stuff when she’s sober… and we’ll all get home just fine without subway or commuter train.”

My neighbor standing in his doorway in his underwear: “Have you seen my washing machine?” Or the Apple Store salesman in Munich when asked whether they had brochures about MacBooks: “No, we don’t cut down trees.” Mike under the comments of my septum post: “Why isn’t it bleeding? When I accidentally stab myself in the nose with a fondue fork it always hurts like hell and bleeds. Why not with you?” And the commercially best sentence of the year, if not the decade. Hannah about AMY&PINK: “We’re just completely normal people who want to take over world domination. Like Pinky and the Brain, for example, or Hitler back then.”

Palina Rojinski, MTV Host

Best moment? I had many beautiful moments. Sometimes the small, unexpected ones are the most beautiful. Shakira asked me where my wonderful earrings were from and I replied with a smile: “H&M, three euros!” She then said: “Cool, do they still have them?” Best album? “Rules” by The Whitest Boy Alive. It played at home, in the car and on my iPod on repeat! It’s so beautifully light and yet energizing! Best film? “Slumdog Millionaire.” A moving, colorful, modern fairy tale. I couldn’t sit still for a single second. My emotions rode a carousel with me for two hours. Best drink? Vodka soda with lemon or lime. Because it’s fresh, fizzy, vital—and gets you hammered.

The photo is by Katja Hentschel and more from Palina can be found on Twitter.

Marcel Winatschek, AMY&PINK Author

Best moment? When I ran through the city completely drunk with my camera and asked random people ridiculous questions. The fact that I didn’t get punched in the face is basically a miracle. Best film? I actually have to say it was “Avatar.” This bloated epic bursting with special effects and a positive message. But maybe I just found “Michelle Rodriguez” so hot, even—or especially—because she always reminds me a lot of Sara. Best album? “Two Suns” by Bat For Lashes. No big surprise, but “Daniel” will be the song of the decade, if not the millennium. The best thing about 2009? That it’s over.

Photos by Tommy Petroni: The Boy and His Camera

What happens when you give underage schoolchildren any kind of electronic device (preferably a digital camera, cell phone, or iPhone) that gives them the magical ability to stop time and everything around them and capture all the events, beauty, and wonders of the world forever in digital or analog form? Exactly: they passionately beat up their classmates, set fire to little kittens, and rape their teachers. Without, of course, missing the opportunity to photograph everything in detail and display it to the whole world on Flickr / SchülerVZ / 4Chan.

Not so for a certain 15-year-old Tommy Petroni from our and Homer Simpson's favorite country, the US and A. He knows how to squeeze the magic out of his Minolta Maxxum 7000 and Nikon D40, photographing his siblings, friends, and surroundings with these special colors and inexplicable uniqueness, then uploading his work to his Flickr account. And what can we learn from this? Schools should offer more photography courses again. That way, at least the beatings, abuse, and rapes will be photographed in high quality.

The Ultimate Holiday Game: Lil’ Amy Celebrates Christmas

Our Lil’ Amy is already as excited as Pummel the chubby bumblebee for Christmas Eve, the gifts delivered by Beate Uhse and the Orion mail-order company, and the reunion with her dearest friends Waldo, the magical dildo, and Mort, the permanently depressed zombie bride. It’s going to be a blast. With all kinds of party packages, living presents, and magical punch. And so that you don’t look completely stupid despite the family visit, the annoying relatives, and one or two crappy presents, here and now you get the ultimate game for Christmas Eve and everyone can join in. Just grab a pen and paper, read through the points below with pleasure, and then try to beat the high score. In this spirit: Merry Christmas and may the best Grinch win!

• The Christmas Dog: “Little Bello has of course earned something absolutely special on Christmas Eve as well. For example, some special dog chocolate. After all, he too knows how to appreciate this magical occasion.” Like hell he does. The drooling creature is simply wondering why he has to chew on disgusting brown stuff instead of slobbering into his usual mash of chicken corns and pork bones. +200 points if you fill him up with punch and he then vomits all over Grandma’s expensive carpet every 10 minutes. -500 points if you wake up naked the next morning with him in your arms in the bathtub.

• The Hot Cousin: Holy shit, where has this hot piece been hiding all year — in the sexy-boobs factory? And suddenly she’s standing right in front of you and the Christmas tree in your pants is suddenly giving the one in the living room some serious competition. +400 points if it turns out you’re not actually blood-related and you lovebirds fool around in the attic. -200 points if you don’t give a damn whether you’re related or not.

• The Cheap Christmas Tree: It’s standing in the corner, no longer quite green, more brown already. With gaps and holes and decorated with cheap ornaments, it is your duty as a Greenpeace activist to put an end to this misery. +300 points if you set the needle-covered heap on fire and blame it on your little brother. -200 points if you catch fire yourself.

• The Drunk Uncle: Uncle Ludwig is a pig before the Lord. He’s already drunk before he even arrives, pees into the potato salad during the gift exchange, and then tries to grab you between the legs as thanks for his 10-euro Karstadt voucher. No matter what gender you are. +500 points if you manage to get him to climb naked onto the roof and stay there all evening. -300 points if he snatches the hot cousin right from under your nose.

• Your Little Brother: This little piece of shit got a brand-new PlayStation 3 for the holidays, while you have to be happy with Grandma’s self-knitted socks and a few bars of chocolate. And what does the second spawn of your parents do? Instead of appreciating the HD graphics, the awesome games, and the new design, he prefers to play with the packaging. +250 points if you lock him in the box, seal it up tightly with tape, and have him shipped by air freight to Timbuktu. -400 points if he comes back as a stone-rich pimp.

• The Incontinent Grandma: Because she’s so excited that the whole family is finally together again, the roast duck is fragrantly cooking in the oven, and the snow is falling so beautifully, your grandma has already wet herself shortly after the first guests arrived — without even noticing. +300 points if you manage to have her use it to extinguish the burning Christmas tree. -500 points if you wet yourself out of excitement.

• Bonus Points: +100 points if you make it snow inside the house as well. -200 points if even your grandma forgot to put something under the tree for you. +150 points if you desperately wanted SpongeBob bed sheets — and actually get them. -300 points if nobody thought it was a joke. +400 points if you manage to build a functional reindeer sleigh out of the neighbor’s cats. +200 points if you get so wasted that you experience an X-mas adventure with Mr. Hankey. -500 points if you simply end up with your head in the toilet.

Stars Are Doing It with Vice and Vodafone: A Heroic Christmas Surprise

Our all-time favorite magazine VICE and the exceedingly likable, fox-red “Generation Upload” buzzword cannon Vodafone have teamed up for a joint project and set out in search of people who clearly count among the true heroes of the moment. And in times of economic crisis, global warming, and environmental disasters, these are not firefighters, nurses, or financial advisors, but—who would have thought—Lily Allen, La Roux, and Peaches. Which is absolutely the right choice.

So now all kinds of international stars are bustling about on the new platform Vodafone 360, where we can voyeuristically observe them during various exciting activities. Santigold, for example, tries out something completely different, while Simian Mobile Disco grant us a behind-the-scenes look at their new video with Saam. And Club Zonder Filter fight their way through the coffee shops of Amsterdam together with the funniest language in the world. So there’s something for every taste; some musicians are yet to be unlocked, and somewhere in the depths of this new, semi-red world, you can also find us from AMY&PINK. We don’t actually know where exactly, so let us know when you’ve managed to find us.

Hail to the Winners: AMY&PINK Awards 2009

There are more than enough blogs in this world. We think so. The restroom doors of the internet are scribbled full of all sorts of nonsense, deceitful drivel, and idiotic details about shopping trips, TV series, and pseudo-love. We demand: enough of it! And so that you don’t grant every piece of digital garbage from elementary school kids, welfare recipients, and sailing sluts free admission into your little brains, we hereby ceremoniously present the winners of this year’s AMY&PINK Awards 2009, where you don’t have to worry at all about qualitative, perfectly researched, and error-free articles. And if you do, at least there are boobs as compensation.

Man of the Year Award: Die Gefuehlskonserve

A certain Mr. Deef Pirmasens from Gefuehlskonserve is already an old and welcome dog, both in the digital and in the analog world, and he’s still got it. He’s a passionate gamer, lives in beautiful Munich, and reads like there’s no tomorrow—on podcasts, at events, or simply by himself alone in the bathtub. And that much passion deserves the “Man of the Year Award.” Let’s hope he never runs out of words.

Girl of the Year Award: NESNES.DE

The somewhat crazy Turkish girl Neslisah writes on NESNES.DE about music, photography, and her perhaps not entirely voluntary stay in Istanbul, claims to be a singer, actress, and model, and is incidentally the boss of her global corporation “NESNES Company.” Who could possibly resist such a successful power woman? And so we are hereby sending her the “Girl of the Year Award” across the Bosporus.

Big Mouth Award: Hasencore

We could now allow ourselves an extensive psychological assessment of Thilo from Hasencore. That he drinks too much, for example. That he’s addicted to pornography. And that he’s still hung up on his ex-girlfriend and pseudo-coauthor Liz. But she was a cutie. Nevertheless, the overall package churns out one heap of verbal mush after another: sex, boobs, everyday worries. And with this (very similar to us) mixture, he hereby receives the coveted “Big Mouth Award.”

Sex Sells Award: Pimpettes

Let’s make one thing clear right away: compared to the pussies from the Pimpettes, we are a Christian old men’s club with coffee and a stroll by the lake. Ines, Kaethe, Tanja, Ina, Kati, Ginette, and Marion all have a black bar in front of their faces and blog semi-anonymously about everything the Pope would not approve of: rows of bare breasts, fashion for pussies, and gynecologist kits for home use. The amount of filthy stuff out there is unbelievable. In this sense: have fun with the “Sex Sells Award”—and keep on kicking Christianity in the butt.

Best Unique Design Award: C33

The Hauck family must have been blessed with an extra portion of creativity upon settling on Earth. While our esteemed Hotzen regularly blogs about design, photography, and visual art, his big brother Alex has also caught the fever and, on C33, publishes the most beautiful music videos, exhibitions, and pseudo-moldy breads in large-format posts—thereby more than earning the “Best Unique Design Award.”

Sweet ‘n’ Cute Award: The Fucking Fucks

We’ll say it openly—there’s no point in secrecy and it would have come out eventually: we are in love. And indeed with the two girls Woxy and Laura from THEFUCKINGFUCKS, who charmingly bring us closer to the big wide world of fashion, look stunning while doing so, and undoubtedly deserve the “Sweet ‘n’ Cute Award.” Congratulations.

Best Fashion Award: Zauberhafte Elv

Berlin is known as the new and old capital of the international fashion circus, and while 12-year-old brats take photos of themselves in their Snoopy panties and upload them to Funpic, the Zauberhafte Elv convinces us with clever ideas, daring fashion experiments, and a spark of magic to present her with the “Best Fashion Award.” The joy is great—and we’re heading right back to the panties pictures. Please do not disturb.

Best Picture Award: ♥ parti

Maria from ♥ parti knows how to appreciate good photography and collects everything on her Tumblr blog that is somehow beautiful, wicked, or funny—whether fashion, parties, or private bedroom shots. And because we could practically drown in the huge collection of amazing images, we’re awarding the “Best Picture Award” at this point. And please, more penis pictures, thanks.

Young Talent Award: Münchens Lieblingslied

That not only Berlin is blessed with pretty girls, but that Bavaria’s capital also has quite a few sexy faces to offer, is proven by the Curtiskids from Münchens Lieblingslied, for which the two students run through the blue-and-white streets, drag well-dressed bipeds with MP3 players in front of the camera, and also ask them about their favorite song. We find the idea and its execution so great that we are awarding the ladies the well-deserved Young Talent Award and hope they continue to bring plenty of great songs to light.

Old but Still Hot Special Award: Indigoidian

Our list of female bloggers we would like to spend a night with is long and filled with various explanations, but (since Sara is known to have a penis and therefore doesn’t count) it is led by Franzi. She is a sprightly 24 years old, lives somewhere in some backwater in northern Hesse, and types quotes, findings, and stories about all sorts of disgusting, revolting, and anti-virginal stuff into the keys for Indigoidian. We’ve already bought our tickets to the other end of Germany, packed up our collected sex toys, and scheduled our arrival in Franzi for tomorrow around 7 p.m. Photos to follow—and before it gets physical, we’ll also present her with the “Old but Still Hot Special Award.” Just for you, Franzi.

I Blame Coco feat. Robyn: Sting’s Daughter Raises Hell

Let’s put it this way: Having well-known parents in the show and music business might not be such a bad thing if you’re aiming for a small career in those industries yourself. Apparently Sting’s daughter Eliot Pauline Sumner, a crisp 19 years old and better known by her nickname Coco, thought the same. She put together a small band and set out to make use—at least a little—of the paths her father had paved for her as a model, musician, and actress. And we’re not exactly going out on a limb when we say that you can somehow see who her progenitor is.

Together with Sweden’s export hit Robyn, the rock musician–blood-blessed Coco Sumner recorded the track “Cesar” with her band I Blame Coco, which will be released in January and will be featured on her upcoming album. The video for the single is definitely really awesome—let’s just hope that the singer, who was born in Italy, doesn’t turn out to be the international version of Jimi Blue. She’s already mastered his look, at least.

The Russian Woman of Dreams on Tour: Regina Spektor in Berlin

The enchanting Regina Spektor visited the capital yesterday, and of course we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hear the most beautiful, poppiest, and most heart-wrenching ballads of this decade live from the mouth of their creator. So we practically made a pilgrimage to Hermannplatz and, together with a mix of the social upper class and drunken construction workers, made our way into Huxley’s Neue Welt. There we first listened to the redhead Jenny Owen Youngs and her singing guitar before the Russian master herself took the stage. And she was magnificent.

Rarely have singers possessed such a magical presence. They don’t burst over you like a bombastic firework of effects, sex appeal, and sexy quips, only to disappear as quickly as they arrived; instead, they shine gently, steadily, and in an incredibly pleasant way from the stage. Which is not to say that Regina Spektor isn’t a loud person.

With her bombastic voice, sitting at the piano and accompanied by violin, cello, and drums, she belted out one catchy tune after another into the crowd, tirelessly switching back and forth between fast and slow pieces, and captivating the audience with songs about extinguished love, neighbors driven to distraction by her music, and women who are simply sluts. “Samson,” “Two Birds,” “On The Radio.” All the great tracks were there—we’re still thrilled.

New Heroes Are Needed: I Want to Be Super

Envy, jealousy and greed are truly nasty traits. If our bald neighbor has a cool car, then we want an even better, faster and bluer one. Otto has a new cute, charismatic and well-educated girlfriend? We’ll grab one who’s far blonder, more anorexic and bigger-breasted. And fat Julia from the parallel class can roll her strawberry-red tongue in several directions? Suddenly we stand in front of our mirrors night after night, sucking and licking and pressing like crazy. Without success.

I personally am only rarely really down when someone owns something I’d like to have myself. Maybe if the asshole in front of me grabs the last sushi platter. If I have to settle for a small box of popcorn at the movies while the fat slob next to me sticks his flabby head into a butter-soaked jumbo bucket. Or if that sports student brings my girlfriend to climax — something I haven’t managed in months. Then I might get a little heated. But the worst is something I’d really like to have and for which I’d even commit genocide: having superpowers. And I would of course only use them for charitable purposes. Sure.

I want to be able to fly. And shit on people’s heads while doing it. Or look through walls. Just to see whether my neighbor really makes those terrifying noises during sex, or whether she and her lover are just regularly slaughtering kittens. Or best of all: stop time. That would probably be the greatest. No kidding.

If I were the master of the here and now, the past and the future, the tick and the tock, my life would become absolutely fantastic overnight. I could calmly shove a cactus up the ass of loudmouths, draw all over Osama bin Laden with a marker, and grab a few Wii games for free. Cheat on exams endlessly, start a travel company, leisurely shit on Mrs. Merkel’s desk. And take nude photos. Of random people on the street. Of you, for example. That would be fun. And you could only stop me with an even cooler superpower. Which one would you choose?

The Life of Sasha Grey: Pretty Porn Princess

After all the long years in which bleached airheads with pumped-up tits, the charisma of a Barbie doll and the sexual authenticity of “Sachsen-Paule” drove the international porn industry to the brink of ruin and hordes of horny voyeurs were lost to self-service sites like YouPorn or Slutload, the old veterans of the business were already seeing doom for professional cumshots, unrestrained spotlight gangbangs and half-baked storylines involving plumbers, straw and stuffed pipes. Then a dark princess stepped out of the shadows in black Chucks, tore the clothes from her body and took the salvation of an entire industry into her own holes.

Now 21 years old, Sasha Grey, aka Marina Ann Hantzis, hit the American sex industry like a rebellious bomb three years ago and, with her cheeky, direct and consistent style, picked up awards for films such as “Fuck Slaves,” “Face Invaders 4” and “I Wanna Bang Your Sister,” including best threesome, hottest oral sex and best group sex. After appearances in music videos, documentaries and talk shows, various covers for Vice, Les Inrocks and AVN, and attempts at launching her own music career, the Californian brat has long since established herself as a sex symbol of the alternative scene.

And we too love the newly crowned porn princess for finally bringing some fresh air into the dusty stereotypes of the established sex flicks, hope that she continues to show what she’s got in plenty of films like “Teenage Whores 2,” “Grand Theft Anal 11” and “Pop Goes the Weasel,” and would also like to point out a call by alt-porn legend Eon McKai, who is urgently looking for volunteers for a new project who would like to earn some money letting their natural urges run free with strangers in front of his camera. So, wouldn’t that be something for you?

The Thing with One-Night Stands: Hit It and Quit It

Long-term relationships between two people are something wonderful. They wrap us smoothly in a cloak of blind trust, mental closeness and romantic artistry of living, warm everyone involved with a gently blazing fire of constant love and allow us to enjoy a high level of sexual pleasure where we can completely surrender to our partner. Because we know him and his body, know what he likes and what he doesn’t and where you’re allowed to stick your little willy — and where you’d better not.

But quite often we’d rather say screw all the constraints of an approaching partnership and, together with the next best Swedish student, the fitness trainer from the ghetto or the couple across the hall, devote ourselves to a night full of burning passion, nasty messes and lots of sore knees. Who cares whether the other person’s favorite food is spaghetti with salmon, whether their little sister has diabetes or whether the rent hasn’t been paid in three months. You delight in the big dick, the bouncing breasts and the shaved pubic area and feel good about it. At least until the next sunrise.

While men step out of the pigsty apartment onto the street the next morning with a triumphant smile, their female counterparts often display a mixture of powerlessness, guilt and the search for social constraints. Was this sex without love the right thing? Was I taken advantage of? And am I a slut now? Or is it normal nowadays that women also go hunting, look for walking penises for satisfaction and don’t care what outdated norms and a frightened male world think of women with a pulsating libido?

While here in Germany we still have to ask ourselves these dusty questions and thus restrict the expression of free physical love, at least the Australians make it easier for themselves. There, both boys and girls wear so-called Shag Bands, which differ in color and clearly express what you’re in the mood for: cuddling, screwing, or the full program just once. That leaves no room for misunderstandings. So then: pants down and off we go!

The Albums of the Year 2009: Glitter on the Ears

The year, at least musically speaking, brought us many new love affairs, threw fresh artists into our lives and let us rediscover old acquaintances. Soon they powdered our ear canals with passionate songs, daring lyrics and flashy performances, leaving us with one or two lifetime anthems. So let us take the approaching end of 2009 as an opportunity to crown the ten best albums of the past 365 days, so that you can quickly go out and buy all those you don’t yet have in your record collection iTunes library, so that in 2010 you won’t be standing there sonically with your pants down. Let the music play.

The View - Which Bitch?

A band that has received far too little attention completely unjustly are the five guys Kyle, Kieren, Pete, Steven and Darren from The View from Scotland, who at the beginning of the year released “Which Bitch?”, one of the best indie rock records of the spring, which unfortunately was ignored to the ground. A big mistake that the musicians will hopefully soon avenge with a musical attack.

Regina Spektor - Far

When it comes to the words depression, hope and piano, then Regina Spektor is the common denominator. With her clever and thoughtful ballads, the Russian-born singer takes the listener on a journey full of charming stories, little anecdotes and heart-wrenching love tales and proves with “Far” that all of this works without kitsch, schmaltz and second-hand embarrassment. Absolutely magnificent.

Peter Doherty - Grace/Wastelands

No matter how bloated, drunk and constantly high our Pete(r) Doherty may be, he remains without a doubt one of the greatest lyricists of our time. With “Grace/Wastelands,” Kate Moss’s ex takes us deep down into the darkest corridors of his heart and lets us experience and sometimes even understand why he is the way he is. Including the drugs, the alcohol and the nicotine. Sad but strong.

Little Boots - Hands

The Englishwoman Little Boots is even praised to the skies by epic troll Kanye West and with her debut album “Hands” she may not have delivered a monumental album of grand philosophy into the analog and digital record stores of this world, but it is nevertheless a likable piece of music and shows that electro-pop can sometimes be lighter and more relaxed. Why not.

Lily Allen - It's Not Me, It's You

Loved by many, hated by many, mocked by many, everyone must admit that Lily Allen pretty much shook up the year 2009. Starting with her nude photos for i-D Magazine, her bombastic and not entirely serious retirement from the music business, all the way to her latest album “It's Not Me, It's You,” the depressive bundle of joy slid through the international press and regularly pulled one catchy tune after another out of her hat. We love her.

La Roux - La Roux

Eleanor Jackson came, saw and conquered. Together with Ben Langmaid and their joint band La Roux, the red-haired pseudo-boy stormed the indie charts of this world and fired off one hit after another into the cheering crowd with “Quicksand,” “In For The Kill” and “Bulletproof.” We think it’s great and hope the two won’t disappear from the scene just as quickly.

Amanda Blank - I Love You

The American Amanda Blank is currently the epitome of nonconformist hotness; with the album “I Love You,” the accompanying videos and at all her live performances she breaks a lance for sex on stage and shakes her pornographically great butt in front of the drooling and jumping party crowd. And the music is good too. Especially together with Lykke Li.

Bat For Lashes - Two Suns

With Natasha Khan, certain superlatives are hard to avoid; as Bat For Lashes and her new album “Two Suns,” she is currently so enchanting, mystical and utterly mind-blowing. She has completely cast a spell over us, and if she ever starts a sect, we will be the first to sign up.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs - It's Blitz!

The American Yeah Yeah Yeahs quietly slipped into the list of the ten best albums of the year, but the tracks on “It's Blitz!” are simply so universal and endlessly listenable that they have been played again and again since their release. And what else makes an album immortal, if not the number of times it is listened to?

Marina And The Diamonds - The Crown Jewels

The sweetest thing the pop world currently has to offer and our personal favorite at the moment is Marina And The Diamonds, blessed with Greek roots, who with her EP “The Crown Jewels,” her happy charisma and an incredibly great musical talent has conquered the hearts of many fans. Next year her first proper album will be released and we will be the first to pull out the digital cash for it.

In & Out: Your Better-Living Guide

Just before Christmas you’re all sinking into well-deserved shopping and gift stress, and your sanity regarding current trends is suffering enormously thanks to fat Christmas stollen, the constant blasting of WHAM!, and the perpetual kneeling before Santa Claus. But that’s what we’re here for. We won’t leave you alone at the end of the year and will once again smack the Ins & Outs right into your face, so you’ll know which topics to talk about under the Christmas tree – and which ones not to.

In: mulled wine, herb quark potatoes, staying awake, working, plundering the Advent calendar early, Deichkind, beer, flowers, taking your time, sleeping in, Christmas cookies, ready-made baking mixes, cheating, flirting, receiving Christmas cards, wax crayons, spray adhesive, hemming tape, girls, sheepskin kidney warmers, Pete Doherty, butting into other people’s conversations, boys, men’s corsets, bouncy castles, having no plans for New Year’s Eve, looking forward to Berlin in January, Dr. Best, The Gaslight Anthem, confessing your love to someone, repressing stress and other things too..., Yu Tsai.

Out: breaking up, using someone else’s Christmas present before giving it to them, know-it-alls, speed workers, pushy people, lip-syncing idiots, brain failure, making the same mistake over and over again, Some & Any, chimney sweeps, empty refrigerators, being pregnant, Lady Gaga’s sagging tits, apps, broken sewing needles, neighbors yelling “Fuck you Motherfuuuuckeeeeer” at 3 a.m., pointless discussions, not having a cleaning lady, broken sewing machines, wearing your own band shirts, cowards, getting up early, the new Jay-Z song.

Marcel on a Reading Tour: You’d Better Listen to Me!

When Jeriko, aka Christoph—the photo nerd and iPhone lover known far beyond the borders of Berlin—asked me whether I would send him my personal favorite text from AMY&PINK for his strange project called “Ausdruck,” and I, completely stressed out, with a full bladder and hungry as Elmo, sent him the first jumble of letters within reach of my greasy fingers and then immediately ran to the nearest bathroom with a cheeseburger, it didn’t even occur to me in my wildest dreams what significant consequences this careless act would have, how I would soon be reduced to this very document, and how on earth I was supposed to compile these strange, Latin characters in a recognizable way while completely drunk.

That’s how I now find myself next Wednesday at 8:00 p.m. in the Yuma Bar, where, alongside the boozehounds from Spreeblick, Markus and Max from Herm's Farm, Christoph, and Sara with no last name, I will most likely slur and laugh my way through my mini-smut piece from July titled “Here's To The Crazy Ones.” And if you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you see it), I might even read a few lines from “City Hunger.”

So come in large numbers on Wednesday, December 16, 2009, at 8:00 p.m. at the Yuma Bar on Reuterstraße 63 in Berlin, drink a lot, chat a little with us, and in the meantime listen to our most intimate written outpourings. You can already download the texts that will be read there from Jeriko, and of course we’d be delighted if, like at pop concerts, you loudly sing along from memory as soon as it’s our turn to read. That way, bombastic atmosphere is guaranteed.

The Digital Lesson: How To Destroy A Blog

The internet keeps proving to me again and again that the uglier a website is designed, the more unintuitive the navigation and the more random the colors are chosen, the more successful it becomes. MySpace before its fatal relaunch, for example. Facebook before… no, still. LastNightsParty, Wikipedia, YouTube, Google… Google is really hideous. In terms of design. Maybe it’s because visitors first have to fight their way through the abysses of these digital soul-suckers and invest more time in the process, bringing personal emotions into play. Because these repulsive rectangles are just like themselves, whether inside or out: really ugly.

The absolutely most unattractive blog, yet at the same time one of the most commented on, is Hipster Runoff, run by a guy named Carles. In garish colors and images he writes there about bad music, tormented teenagers, and passing boobs, and in doing so he has become one of my great web role models, a luminary of high-quality writing and the direct embodiment of my idea of magnificently researched shit and the gift of driving people mentally insane. And recently he completely screwed it up.

A lesson for all corporate bloggers, social media experts, and cash-makers out there in fast forward. After years of rambling, Carles simply didn’t feel like it anymore and wanted to devote himself more to his “fashion brand” (which pretty much consists of just a T-shirt), so he put a fat chick and a couple of idiots at the keyboard and rode off into the sunset. That might even have worked if certain people hadn’t freaked out: the readers. For a whole week they cursed, ranted, and insulted the new authors like crazy, wished Hipster Runoff an anti-analog downfall, and felt exploited, betrayed, and screwed over.

As a result of this muddy revolt, Carles returned a few days ago as a knight in shining armor, came back and kicked Becca and her chubby friends back out the door, but he still did neither himself nor the blog any favors. Some readers had long since taken off, others believe it was just a PR stunt, and a few stoners don’t even want Carles anymore and want the dumplings back instead. Well, shit happens.

And what do we learn from this? A blog is only as good as its authors. The label, the logo, the style are secondary and can’t simply be taken over by other idiots overnight. That doesn’t work. By the way, under which bridge is Robert Basic sleeping now? If you see him, someone please set up a free WordPress account for the poor guy so he can get away from the booze and start typing again. Even if it’s just about the whereabouts of his 15 minutes of fame.

Brooke Nipar in Interview: My Inspiration Is Life

The American Brooke Nipar, with her impressive portfolio, is one of the shooting stars of the international photography scene. With her clear, sexy style and her personable manner, she has already had well-known faces such as Amy Winehouse, Bat For Lashes, and Lykke Li in front of her camera and has worked for Nylon, Trendi Magazine, and Anthem, among others. In her interview with AMY&PINK, she spoke about the curse of falling in love, her path to becoming a photographer, and the legacy of her late grandfather.

You’ve already had celebrities like M.I.A., P. Diddy, and Busta Rhymes in front of your lens. Be honest—who among all those stars was genuinely nice, and whom would you have preferred to push off a cliff?

I have to honestly say that I’ve hardly had any bad experiences with celebrities. Maybe it’s just luck, but I somehow manage to connect with everyone on a certain level. People usually only become difficult when they feel uncomfortable. If you find a way to help them feel balanced again, everything quickly falls back into place. Working with the three personalities just mentioned was a lot of fun, by the way.

I’m personally a huge fan of Natasha Khan and Lykke Li, who have also already stood in your studio. What was it like working with them, and are they as amazing as I imagine?

It was absolutely wonderful working with the two of them. Beautiful girls who are just as kind as they are talented. I’m also a big fan of Natasha and Lykke Li and was really excited when I heard I’d have the opportunity to photograph them. The great thing about being a photographer is getting the chance to meet people you admire in person and spend a bit of time with them.

What do you prefer: photographing really famous people, or working with nearly unknown models whom you can tell what to do—and what not to do?

I have absolutely no preference. I like working with people who are open and comfortable with themselves. They can be famous or not—that doesn’t matter to me at all. I have the most fun when I photograph someone who cares less about how good they look and more, like I do, about creating interesting images.

How did you get into photography in the first place? When did you know you wanted to turn your hobby into a profession, and when did you realize you had become somewhat more well-known than the wedding photographer around the corner?

When I was really young, I started taking black-and-white photos at school. I was just 13 or 14 years old. When my grandfather passed away, he left me his 35mm camera, and that’s when I began taking real photographs. I loved shooting an entire roll of film and then developing it myself in the darkroom. I loved being in the darkroom as a child. Nowadays, I don’t develop anything in a darkroom anymore—I haven’t been in one for years, and I don’t miss it.

After high school, I decided to pursue photography more seriously and studied at the Art Center College of Design. After graduating, I knew that I wanted to become a “professional photographer.” And although I turned my hobby into a career, I love it just as much as I did at 13—just in a different way. I’m happy to be able to do something I truly love.

What is your inspiration? Where do you get the ideas for your photos?

My inspiration is life. My friends. Music. Fashion. Art. Travel.

Do you have a steady boyfriend or girlfriend? And what kind of people are your best friends?

No, at the moment I don’t have a steady boyfriend… but I live in New York City, so that can change very suddenly (brief laughter). One minute you swear you’ll never go on a date again, and the next you fall hopelessly in love with some guy.

Funny people are my favorite kind of people. Witty and intelligent—which often go hand in hand. Most of my best friends can send me into a hysterical fit of laughter, and for me personally that’s one of the greatest feelings in the world. The kind of laughter that is completely uncontrollable and comes from deep within. And even if it sounds a bit cheesy: laughter is the best medicine. Without laughter, I would die.

Have you ever been to Europe or even to Germany? What memories and feelings come up when you think back on your travels?

Yes, I’ve traveled all over Europe and have also briefly been to Berlin. And it was great. A very relaxed city with lots of interesting people. And definitely a fantastic place to party. When I arrived, my first thought was: very gray (brief laughter). I’d love to come back sometime and visit other German cities as well. I’ve heard Munich is fantastic.

Do you like watching TV, and what are your favorite films? Which magazines do you most enjoy flipping through?

“Mad Men” is my favorite show at the moment. I love the characters and the attention to detail. “Curb Your Enthusiasm” is also great. And “30 Rock.” I wish “Arrested Development” were still on—I just watched an old episode of it last night. Huge!

Even though magazines are threatened with extinction, I still enjoy reading them. I’d rather hold a good magazine in my hands than read things online. And of course I prefer looking at photos in print. I enjoy reading i-D, Purple, Dazed & Confused, Lula, Nylon, and Celeste, for example.

Music is the creative engine for everyone. Which bands do you like to listen to? What kind of music is best for working, and which is better for relaxing?

I really listen to everything. It would be impossible for me to make a list of my favorite bands. The album by The XX is one of my favorites this year, just like the current record by The Horrors. Radiohead is possibly my favorite band—at least when it comes to contemporary music. Last year I traveled across the entire United States to see six of their shows live while they were on tour. When I’m photographing, I prefer fast, upbeat music—it keeps the energy flowing. Usually it’s a wild mix of different stuff, but my playlist is very dear to me.

Are you into the internet? What are your favorite sites when it comes to fashion, photography, and lifestyle?

I’m absolutely obsessed with the internet. I love it. It’s really hard to imagine how we ever survived without it—it has such a hold on me. Life without Google? Impossible! I’m constantly online not just for information, inspiration, and reading blogs—the internet is also an endless source of entertainment.

I regularly read blogs such as Dazed & Confused, Discobelle, Nicola Formichetti, l'atelier de lama, Feaverish Photography, and Chrissie Abbott.

What are your goals for the future?

I always say that my biggest goal for the future is to always be happy. Of course, I can’t say whether that will still work in 10, 20, or 30 years, but I believe I’ll still be photographing then. Although I’d also like to start making videos now. I will always remain a photographer, but directing music videos—that would be amazing.

Thank you very much for the wonderful interview. We wish the young exceptional talent every success in the future. If you’d like to see, read, and experience more of Brooke Nipar, you can find her official website here with great shots of P. Diddy, Cassie, and Sofia Fresh. And of course, you can also follow her here on Twitter to find out what the New Yorker is up to all day long.

Out of the Life of a Pig: I Need a Cleaning Lady

Hello, my name is Marcel and I am a pig. Something like that is how I could begin my written search for a very special person. An angel. Someone who fights their way through mountains of beer bottles to reach me, frees my missing girlfriend from the clutches of unwashed socks, and defeats the final boss in the kitchen—mutated from rotten bananas and dirty dishes—with an apple-fresh sword of cleanliness. Which is exactly what I have done here. And with this self-provocative thesis, I am (almost) by no means alluding to my permanently breast-oriented thoughts, which I would most like to roll in chocolate sauce and then devour with the help of my receptors. No. Today it really is about a pig in the literal sense, wallowing in filth and actually feeling quite comfortable doing so. At least until someone stops by.

So technically I am not looking for more cleanliness, order, and that certain fresh smell for myself, but rather for everyone else—for unannounced visitors, for nagging pests who violently invade my musty cave of stains and cloudy windows and pull a face as if they had just discovered Angela Merkel in the men’s sauna. But why am I also so stupid as to open the door?

So if you know what a cleaning rag is, if no toilet can ever be shiny enough for you and you see dishes as an enemy that must be finished off once and for all, then get in touch. If you are tall and blonde and have big boobs look like Mr. Proper in ugly form, then get in touch. If you want to march into my place with bucket, vinegar, and scrubber, then get in touch. Ideally, I’d like a Berta from “Two and a Half Men”—always a big mouth and zero chance of any kind of sexual harassment in the workplace. Well, almost anyway. Get in touch regardless.

Is the Old Freckle Still Alive? Lindsay Lohan’s Private Party

After we recently properly celebrated Lindsay Lohan’s demise and just a few days ago I, Lindsay-like, watched “Mean Girls” on Sat.1 through tears and laughter with lots of hard alcohol, the sweet girl from New York isn’t giving anyone time to let their moist dreams starring her settle down. For the upcoming issue of Muse Magazine, she has taken it all off—and not only that. This time things get really intense. With sexual intercourse and all.

Star photographer Yu Tsai not only lets Lilo mess around a little in the pictures and stages a hot threesome, but this time there is even a secret video to go with the steamy photoshoot, which AMY&PINK has exclusively. And it’s not the first time our favorite junkie has undressed for the camera (sometimes more, sometimes less voluntarily), but never before has the Herbie star looked so lascivious, sexy, and skillful. We think it’s hot and are already looking forward to the upcoming blockbuster “One Night in Lindsay,” to which we hereby cordially invite Ms. Lohan. Five dollars, Mr. Soldier.

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Favorite Pussy or Coleslaw? Pete Doherty

Who lives in a drug world deep down in the swamp? Pete-do-her-ty! Alright, admittedly, our favorite junkie may have gone just a tiny bit overboard in cocaine-fueled excess in Berlin last weekend when he drunkenly attacked a defenseless, parked car with a beer bottle and bewildered passersby called the police because the vehicle, contrary to expectations, did not burst into flames. As a reward, the nice gentleman with the tattooed suit was allowed to sleep off his intoxication at the station. And since that image alone was enough to put Kate Moss’s ex-boyfriend back into everyone’s mouths, we ask here and now the question of questions: favorite pussy or coleslaw?

Favorite Pussy: Pedder is probably one of the greatest songwriting geniuses of our time and has cut a fine figure both with his bandmates in Babyshambles and The Libertines as well as solo. No one with ears wants to live without “New Love Grows On Trees,” “Music When The Lights Go Out,” and “Fuck Forever.” With his skinny figure, suits, and signature headwear, he is considered an absolute style icon in London and Berlin.

Anyone who wears Pete Doherty stands for a relaxed approach to life, the power to not give a damn about anything that doesn’t interest you. Drugs, women, good music—and all of it without effort. You simply are it. And if the music and the style haven’t convinced you of Doherty’s absolute superiority over every other figure on this earth, then let three words be said: Kate. Moss. Slept with.

Coleslaw: It’s a miracle he even fit into one of those cozy Berlin cells, so bloated has Pete Doherty become lately. He consumes drugs more regularly than any kind of fruit or vegetables, looks like a fat water corpse, and likes to spray blood and other fluids into nearby cameras. He is unreliable, never got over the end of his great love, and will probably pass away in the near future. The boy absolutely needs to see a doctor.

Conclusion: Fashion junkies hate Pete Doherty for the style curse he has brought upon the metropolises of Europe, parents fear him as an anti-role model in matters of drugs, sex, and alcohol for their offspring, and even prostitutes are likely afraid of all sorts of medically unknown diseases the singer is incubating and that will one day collectively burst out of him and bring a new era of apocalypse upon this world.

But one thing is certain: he is a fundamentally likable guy who just does all this crap because he somehow can’t cope with life. And in that character trait we probably all find ourselves again. After all, that’s still better than being a highly organized asshole who steps over mental corpses for fame, money, and women. Pete, we love you and give you one piece of advice along the way: shift down a gear, you favorite pussy.

T-Mobile Extreme Playgrounds: Mayhem and Uproar

Yesterday, the Street Session of the T-Mobile Extreme Playgrounds 2009 took place at the Velodrom in Berlin, featuring the final of the World Cup Skateboarding Tour 2009, where among others the Australian Renton Millar, the Brazilian Carlos de Andrade, and the just 15-year-old Axel Cruyberghs emerged as winners. The highlights of the event—stuffed with video game consoles, foosball tables, and sexy skater girls including dreadlocks, baggies, and skimpy tops—were, however, clearly the performances by the Puppetmastaz, Blumentopf, and last but not least the masters of spaced-out effects Deichkind, whom we got closer to than we would have liked—unplanned.

Through a flashy coincidence in choosing a well-hidden, lonely elevator, we suddenly found ourselves backstage shortly before their concert, stumbled over props and a few Deichkinds just returning from the restroom, and were then placed directly in front of the stage by security—Sandra’s hefty camera in hand and the pseudo press passes did the rest. So remember for the next event at the Velodrom: the elevator near Block 32 is your friend.

That way, amid all the mayhem and uproar, we had a really good view of the awesome neon stuff the guys delivered, complete with inflatable boats, blow-up dolls, and umbrellas, were subsequently plied with vodka-orange by them, and after an odyssey in the dressing room staggered outside covered in feathers. Like little chickens. More about the concert can be found at the ever-sweet Les Mads or with information about the winners and everything surrounding it directly at the source.

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WTF?! Vol. 11: Look How Big My Boobs Are!

Just before Christmas, the small-minded folks of the nation really go wild one more time and type a delicate mixture of contagious perversion and impending brain rot into well-known search engines like Google, Bing, and Yahoo. And because others dare to write what we wouldn’t even allow ourselves to think in our wildest dreams, today we’re getting to the bottom of the extremely important questions of whether Nora Tschirner’s breasts in “Rabbit Without Ears 2” were created by nature, whether red-haired women are sexually arousing, and whether Emma Watson’s genitals are really as tiny as radio and television always claim.

If the neighbor pees standing up. Legs spread. Tattooed tits. Look how big my boobs are! Porn star at 15. Fat cocks. Girl pees into her own mouth. Dark room for couples in love. Girls with sexy shoes. Goats having sex. Is the penis in “Rabbit Without Ears 2” real? Are the breasts in “Rabbit Without Ears 2” real? Caught fooling around at the swimming pool. Fucking is probably the best thing there is. Naked women at 35. Are red-haired women sexy or not? Sad because ugly. Chucks on girls’ feet. Names for mannish women. The world’s biggest breasts. Lindsay Lohan naked. What would I look like if I were a girl? Fuck pictures with animals. Is Ed Hardy in or out? Where can I get laughing gas?

Please tame me. Sleeping with mom. Sexy emo feet. SpongeBob has neither a penis nor a vagina. What can you do with chocolate sauce? Nude photos of Palina. Is Tokyo foreigner-friendly? Porn with anorexic women. Naked girls in biology class. Lesbian insults at AMY&PINK. Pink baby Jesus. Asexual reproduction. Porn with baby Jesus. Emma Watson’s damn tiny vagina. Fear of redheads. Cute girls having sex. Scarlett Johansson topless. Sex in the woods. Annual meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous 2009. Hot ex naked on the street. My name in fuck-language. Who will draw me naked? Women sticking things up their asses. Fat cleaning lady. Avril Lavigne during childbirth.

Today We’re Bullying Countries: America Is Totally Stupid

Even before humans mastered fire, invented the wheel, and cracked mysterious nuts with tools, the strange two-legged creature already had a great and very satisfying hobby that it indulged in late at night in cozy gatherings and even shortly before the hunt: hating America. After all, the Americans are fat, perverted meatballs, constantly elect weird guys as their rulers, and march into small, peaceful nations whenever and however they please—nations that just want to experiment a little with nuclear weapons or dictatorship.

But of course the United States is the most lovable country on earth, having produced such great achievements as the hot dog. Halloween, Lindsay Lohan, a brown, caustic brew packaged as a beverage. The dream of going from dishwasher to millionaire, often within just a few days. Clint Eastwood, Hannah Montana, and Keira Knightley. Oh wait, she’s from London.

Anyway, because we love the land of unlimited possibilities with all its flaws, quirks, and schizophrenic attitude toward peace, porn, and foreigners so much, here are two brand-new clips wrapped in red, white, and blue by the enchanting Marina And The Diamonds and the Swedish band Name the Pet, in which our favorite model Filippa Smeds jumps around lasciviously in a gymnasium. And to close things out, a classic by Liam Lynch. So if that doesn’t make you seriously crave everything the Americans have ever touched, I can’t help you either.

Marina And The Diamonds - Hollywood

Name the Pet - American Boys

Liam Lynch - United States Of Whatever

Need for Speed Shift: Flooring the Gas Again

After our boozy gaming night recently, I’ve become really hungry again—after years of abstinence—for anything that has to do with video games, controller bashing, and the feeling of anti-analog triumph. Because playing has nothing to do with wasting time that could have been spent more meaningfully elsewhere; instead, it constantly stimulates our imagination, sharpens our reflexes, and possibly even brings us closer to new people.

For example, as a little brat, together with my best buddies, I not only watched my first porn and threw wild puberty parties in the basement, but (usually even at the same time) proved our superiority by playing a very specific racing game whose awesome graphics already made our eyes water back then: “Need for Speed.” Speed, loud engines, and sexy grid girls—what more could you want?

For Christmas, EA’s pixel cars are attacking on multiple consoles at once. With “Need for Speed Nitro” on the Wii, you and your friends can tear up the digital streets in a cheerful party atmosphere, while in Need for Speed Shift on all other next-generation consoles like the PlayStation 3, PSP, and Xbox 360, you can blow your opponents off the track with stunning visuals. You can watch a really good review of the latest installment from the guys at GameOne, and if you have no idea what to throw into your own—or your loved one’s—console for the holiday season, then maybe it’s time to pick up a truly good racing game again. Fasten your seatbelt and let’s go!

Jordan Carroll and Katie Cooper: Make Art, Damn It!

The two students from Manchester, Jordan Carroll and Katie Cooper, have found a shared passion: photography. Mostly of themselves (of each other), but often also of their friends, their hometown, and the small and big wonders they encounter every day. Whether it’s the rainbow above their house, the huge spider in the bushes, or the lazy cat on the ground—you can tell they walk through their little world with open eyes and capture it in beautiful images.

Friends should make art together much more often. Whether it’s photography, painting, or music—throw inspiration, thoughts, and creativity into one big mixer and see what comes out. That’s so much better than stubbornly sitting alone in front of a computer waiting for the little boxes in front of you to suddenly come to life.

So grab your temporary kindred spirits and create something amazing together—something lasting, something that will stay with you as a good memory. And who cares whether the result is pure nonsense that should never see the light of day or the next groundbreaking style that makes you filthy rich: the main thing is that you have fun and it brings you closer together. You can see how it works perfectly on Jordan’s and Katie’s Flickr accounts.

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Pseudotwitter in Vogue: I Love My New Boobs

If you don’t know it yet: Twitter is that dreadful new invention where all sorts of people around the world constantly shout into the crowd for a bit of fame, publish links, pictures, and videos in the hope that they’ll make it big—or (when all else fails) take suggestive photos and post them there. And depending on how famous you are, this stunt can cause either smaller or bigger waves. In the case of Sandy from Pankow, more the former; in the case of Lindsay Lohan, the latter.

Italian Vogue and American photographer Steven Meisel have taken on this sociologically highly explosive topic and, in the December issue of the successful fashion magazine, present an entire photo spread full of international top models like Gisele Bündchen, Abbey Lee, and Naomi Campbell, lounging lasciviously in front of their own mirrors, eating bananas half-naked, and smoking in full attire out on the balcony. In the process, they talk about new breasts, red lips, and the beauty of a bit of privacy.

They called the whole project “Meiselpic,” and the fashion world squeals and howls with delight, because now all the vagina trolls in vintage looks can stand in front of their dirty bedroom mirrors with renewed courage, tear the clothes off their bodies, and then distribute photos of it across the globe via TwitPic. So not all that much changes after this bold issue—but hey: you know me, I like it!

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Behind the Scenes of ZDF Neo Music: Assassination Attempt on Markus Kavka

The ZDF is old. The viewers are slowly wasting away, editors-in-chief are being fired, and Anton, Berti, Conni, Det, Edi, and Fritzchen aka the Mainzelmännchen are being gleefully trampled underfoot. Time to do something about it, thought those responsible at the last channel before eternal rest, and they came up with a rather daring idea: “ZDF, my dear comrades, ZDF must become younger!” So that very night they wallpapered all billboards, advertising spaces, and magazine pages with the logo of a young, dynamic, totally sexy TV channel called ZDFneo and invited the craziest, hippest, and hottest people behind the scenes of the music show “neoMusic.” And us.

So yesterday Sandra and I, stuffed with delicious currywurst and fries, found ourselves in the record store Groove in the middle of Kreuzberg—buzzing with real music—hosted by the fidgety Detta, and got to witness how Die Happy singer Marta Jandová sweetly and charmingly abused the German language, how Karpatenhund—including their sexy frontwoman Claire Oelkers (who, by the way, was naked in Playboy last month)—trilled their new song “Notfalls Werde Ich Für Immer Warten” unplugged to the crowd, and how Markus Kavka narrowly escaped death by falling interior decorations during the treacherous terror attack of an overzealous technician who, while trying to mount a lamp, tore down half the set—and as consolation was allowed to take home a record of his choice.

Personally, I would of course have sued everyone present into the ground, but Mr. Kavka remained characteristically relaxed, took it in stride, and at the end we all shouted a Christmas carol into the cameras together. You can watch the St. Nicholas-themed broadcast yourself on Sunday evening on ZDFneo—provided you belong to the lucky 0.02% of the world’s population that can actually receive this channel. We certainly don’t. And woe betide anyone who says the word starting with F now.

LastNightsParty in Berlin: The Capital at Night

I have lied to all of you. My big, secret goals were never power, money, or even world domination. No. Deep down I was always just trying to emulate a homosexual Black man from New York City who has skillfully kept my inner drives running all these years and constantly held my life’s goal before my eyes: to run a website that is just as awesome as his. Merlin Bronques from LastNightsParty. I mean, just look at this site! Technically totally crappy, but unbelievably sexy, so authentic and digitally cult that no other website (except perhaps The Cobrasnake) has ever led me astray quite like this one. I am a die-hard fan. Forever.

Over the weekend, the former musician—who constantly reminds me of my old best friend, just a bit darker—was passing through good old Berlin and, of course, didn’t miss the chance to cruise around some underground parties and drag the hottest girls, craziest guys, and smallest penises in the state in front of his camera. The result: three sets titled “Undergründ,” “Kit Kat,” and “Europeans Are Free,” and once again they show what a delightfully depraved person my great role model with the weird hairstyle really is. Someday I’ll be as cool as you, Merlin. Someday…

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“Zweiohrküken” Premiere in Berlin: Drag Queens, Sex and Nora’s Breasts

Yesterday we attended the premiere of his new flick “Zweiohrküken” in Berlin together with Til Schweiger, and I can reveal the most important thing right away: yes, our beloved Nora Tschirner bares it all again, and her breasts have grown even more since last time. Enormously so. And knowing you little piglets, with this information alone I’ve probably driven our entire readership straight to the ticket counters of your local cinemas, and I could spend the rest of this article looking for words that rhyme with “anonymous.” Perfume, for example. But we’re not going to let the criticism-shy Mr. Schweiger get off scot-free despite this strategically sophisticated trick. Not like this, my friend.

Because, as with the first part, I only watched the film anyway because of my favorite lady parts, had to mentally brace myself against a rather poor mix of chart-friendly radio tunes a.k.a. soundtrack and the collective infatuation of all the estrogen-fueled mothers in the theater with Matthias Schweighöfer, and was forced to follow the somewhat shallow, occasionally disjointed story about jealousy, relationship problems, and Til Schweiger as a drag queen. So far, so mediocre.

Yet despite these points of criticism, the ninety minutes proved to be a worthy successor to “Keinohrhasen.” We laughed when the crap flew through the air, were startled when the Eiffel Tower suddenly dangled in front of our noses, and screamed when the nice doctor next door pursued his main profession without anesthesia and blood splattered everywhere. So if you liked the handicapped bunny, you’ll also enjoy the flying chick—and if, like me, you are the world’s biggest stalker of the enchanting Ms. Tschirner, you must not miss this semi-sappy flick and her pumped-up breasts. In any case, we’re very curious about the third installment. Pseudonym, monstrosity, impetuous…

SpeedDating in the Evening: Who’s Afraid of Nerds?

Yesterday, in the heart of Berlin—yes, I’d like to take a grand sweep and say the prequential (the word doesn’t even exist, no need to google it) elite of the German internet, social media, and peanut fanatic scene—met up for a cozy little chat at the Dachkammer. Official representatives from Kopfbunt, dragstripGirl, P4ULCHEN, Jeriko, iGNANT, HUNDERTMARK and of course yours truly were among those present, and together we sought and found solutions to the great problems of the web such as declining data privacy, the increasing occurrence of Russian spam comments, and how digital Germany should move forward in general. Not.

Instead, we shamelessly drank our way up and down the menu, mocked the droll guy from UARRR behind his back, and, in an alcohol-induced haze, tossed nerdy terms like visitor numbers, Twitter celebrities, and trolls around the room (thanks to which we were glared at contemptuously by the surrounding masses). In the restroom there was ring-a-ring-a-roses with touching, the darkest secrets of Malte’s pre-war relationships were unearthed, and once again the phrase “The world is a village” proved entirely accurate, as some of the involuntary attendees were either born near me or live just around the corner. In Wedding. In the ghetto. Like Paulchen.

The evening really spiraled out of control when, drunk, we nearly stormed a Warhammer memorial shop, had ourselves photographed in patent leather and boots (I want that photo, by the way!), and caused quite a ruckus in the kebab shop on Frankfurter Allee. All in all, it was a smashing evening that needs to be topped next time (whether by the number of beer bottles or the use of flat puns), and I may well be the first to announce the Twitter wedding of the year, because after all these years they’ve finally found each other: Sara and Jeriko. How they laughed, how well they got along, and how often they disappeared together behind some street corner… I’m telling you, folks: there’s more to come. And I have witnesses! Drunk ones, admittedly… but they count too. Somehow. To love, people! And to Sara’s mom.

Kohei Yoshiyuki: Voyeurism Is Art

When I was younger, there was a young woman living across from us with two boobs who showered every evening at precisely seven o’clock, didn’t see the need to close the curtains, and thus sweetened little pointy Marci’s boring life of Pokémon, pork schnitzel, and Bravo magazines so much that he looked forward to that magical moment all day long. Especially because his uncle had given him an outrageously expensive pair of binoculars the Christmas before. I wouldn’t really have called my new hobby art, though.

My girls from lil.bit have now introduced the lovely Mr. Kohei Yoshiyuki (nationality may be guessed), who was so fascinated by the interpersonal activities in the park around the corner that he crawled through the bushes at night armed with his infrared camera, photographed everything that wasn’t up in the trees by the count of three, and then exhibited the fondling of couples, coworkers, and random acquaintances in large format in various galleries such as the Komai Gallery in Tokyo and the MoMA in New York. In the dark and equipped with flashlights, of course. A ray of hope, then, for the voyeur ranks out there who no longer have to be ashamed of their inglorious passion, but can proclaim with puffed chest and loud voice: “Voyeurism is art!”

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A Nintendo Fanboy Returns: We Now Have a Wii

You know us as trendsetters in the categories of music, art, and pseudo-pornography. Constantly cute ideas, always the latest shit from the street, only the in, never the out. Anything older than ten minutes already belongs on the junkyard of tired smiles. And that’s exactly why we bribed the Yakuza with delicious, delicious cheesecake and nude photos of Montana and Caro so they would smuggle that strange white game console with its revolutionary controller and built-in nostalgia factor from the basement labs of the Japanese electronics company Nintendo to Germany. And Satoshi, Anako, and Takeshi fulfilled their job with flying colors—as expected—before us stands the unreleased marvel of Japanese craftsmanship: the Nintendo Wii.

Okay, admittedly we might not be the first to succumb to stealing one of these odd boxes, and until recently these next-next-next-next-whatever-generation consoles didn’t interest me at all, but then I saw it… on the television… “New Super Mario Bros Wii” – Mario and Luigi, 4-player mode, new power-ups, levels, and all that jazz – and inside me exploded the memories of the wonderful times I had with all the consoles Shigeru Miyamoto ever had sex with. “Super Mario World,” “Pokémon,” “Secret of Mana,” “The Legend of Zelda.” Just spelling and reciting those titles already gives me one erection after another.

So I grabbed my little cookie Sandra, pressed one of those strange, elongated, vibrating devices into her hand, and together we jumped, laughed, and bumped into each other through levels bursting with humor, secrets, and memories. Super Mario squeezed into quasi-2D—just the way it should be! And Yoshi’s in it too! Yoooshiii!

And because the box with the strange name might offer more than just this one game, here’s the quiz question for all Nintendo fanboys out there: Which games absolutely shouldn’t be missed? Whether disc, WiiWare, or Virtual Console—what software is worth it and which programmed crap should we keep our hands off? Role-playing games, multiplayer, cooking mamas? As always, we have no clue, so: your input is needed!

In Love With: Kaya Scodelario

As we all know, the British series “Skins,” with its stories close to real life, the drugs, the love, and the messing around, is by far the best show around, and despite the numerous characters whose traits you could practically slip into immediately—so fitting does this second skin feel—one person in particular stands out from this trough of individual inspiration: Tony’s little sister Effy, played by Kaya Scodelario. Because no other character manages to carry the story of a group of teenagers from Bristol forward with such affectionate coolness, heartfelt ignorance, and that unique gaze.

In her private life, the 17-year-old is really kicking ass with her modeling and film jobs. She plays leading roles in films such as “Moon” and “Shank,” has already appeared in magazines like Teen Vogue, Nylon, Dazed & Confused, and i-D in sexy poses and great black-and-white photographs, and also tweets diligently for all the social media nerds out there. Rumor has it she’ll be leaving her home series next year, but that’s not due to any lack of acting talent or her rebellious Brazilian manner; it’s simply because the entire cast of “Skins” is replaced every two years. But we’re sure she’ll continue to cut a fine figure afterward and that we’ll be hearing plenty from her in film and on the airwaves. Go, Kaya! Go!

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Fat, Fat Lesbian Party: Tegan and Sara in Berlin

When the singing lesbians Tegan and Sara call for a grand vocal celebration, we obviously can’t say no. So on Thursday evening Sara and I grabbed strap-ons, love balls and all kinds of vegetables from the Turkish shop around the corner, marched straight into the Astra Berlin and were greeted by Tokio Hotel memorial hairstyles, kissing bra-wearers and the longest coat-check line of all time. One thing became immediately clear at this sight: the two sisters from Canada are no longer the two unknown indie crooning cookies they used to be a few years ago. No. The evil, evil mainstream has taken hold of them.

Because I wasn’t allowed to take my delicious Fritz Kola inside thanks to the fat I-don’t-give-a-shit-if-that-was-expensive-and-you’re-thirsty-go-die bouncer, we listened with a few beers in hand to the lyrically charming sounds of the American Astronautalis, who with his witty raps, rousing speeches and his red face—which he always tensed as if he were about to explode with a loud bang from high blood pressure—even conquered the hearts of the grumpiest hardcore feminists. And that’s saying something. Sara immediately bought a T-shirt from her new hero and if you ever get the chance to see that weirdo live somewhere—do it! You’ll rarely throw yourself around laughing that hard.

The two crooning twins played a sympathetic set with numerous varied songs from the good old days and the brand-new album “Sainthood,” told funny drug stories from their youth in between and were nearly lynched by the unshaven-crotch crowd when Sara confessed to having dated a boy at the tender age of 13. The lousy traitor. My sexy chicks from Les Mads conducted a video interview with the siblings Quin, who narrowly escaped death by hanging, and after the concert I first had to chop off my legs because they almost fell off from the pain. Next time I’m bringing a folding chair—you can believe that.

Let the Games Begin: AMY&PINK Awards 2009

Once again it’s time to put a stop to the pointless discussion about the much-invoked demise of the German blogosphere, to prove to the pseudo-experts out there how lively the world of digital diaries still is, and to place the most beautiful, personal and interesting examples out there into the spotlight. Because this year once again they are taking place, the official AMY&PINK Awards 2009 – and you can be part of it!

Join in and apply in the following categories for Blog of the Year: Man of the Year Award, Girl of the Year Award, Big Mouth Award, Sex Sells Award, Best Unique Design Award, Sweet ‘n’ Cute Award, the Newcomer Award and brand new this year the Best Fashion Award and the Best Picture Award.

Whether WordPress, Tumblr or Blogspot – you can participate very easily by publishing a post about this competition on your blog by December 13, 2009, describing why you of all people want to win in at least one of the categories listed above and sending a trackback.

Both German- and English-language blogs may participate. For the Newcomer Award only blogs that are no more than six months old are permitted. The award ceremony will take place on Sunday, December 20, 2009. Fame, honor and jealous fellow bloggers await you. Let the games begin!

Ticket Giveaway: T-Mobile Extreme Playgrounds

Pretty girls, great music and fast-paced sports – what more do you need to be truly happy? Exactly: nothing! And that’s precisely why on December 6 the who’s who of the international skate and BMX scene will rock the Velodrom in Berlin at this year’s Street Session of the T-Mobile Extreme Playgrounds. Among those taking part are X Games winner Pierre-Luc Gagnon, reigning Vert European Champion Jürgen Horrwarth from Berlin and the freshly crowned, 14-year-old Street European Champion Axel Cruysberghs, who will show what they’re made of at the final of the World Cup Skateboarding Tour 2009. Providing the soundtrack to the event will also be Deichkind, Blumentopf and Puppetmastaz. And the best part: We’re getting you in for free!

AMY&PINK is giving away 2x2 tickets to the coolest event of the year and will also pack one of the lucky winners a brand-new Sony Ericsson W395 phone with stereo speakers and a 2-megapixel camera, with which you can snap photos with the stars of the BMX and skate scene and then jubilantly call your mom right away.

All you have to do is answer the following question in the comments by Monday, November 30, 2009: If you had the chance to transform into a really fresh hip hopper at night – what would you call yourself? We wish all participants the best of luck, and if you don’t quite trust it at the moment, you can of course order your tickets at all known advance booking offices and at T-Mobile Playgrounds yourself.

Photograph of a Redhead: Teenage Witchery

I’m totally into this particular kind of photography, far removed from glamour, makeup and characterless, never-smiling models. The kind that smells of dirt, tastes of reality and has been beaten up three times over by all the emotions in the world. In them you can best lose yourself in heavy and lighthearted thoughts and indulge in the lie of having been present at the shoot yourself. Even though in recent weeks you’ve hardly moved more than three meters away from the fridge. Only to crawl back to it hungry afterward.

Andrea without a last name from San Francisco, a born redhead and better known online as Ladyfreak, churns out one of these magical images after another on the blog Teenage Witchery as well as on her Flickr stream. With cluttered apartments, friends puking at house parties and hot soul stripteases in the bathtub. Groping at the swimming pool, girls making out and bands smashing everything to pieces. I’d love to quietly stand beside them, just to at least pretend I belong to that crazy bunch. Just a little bit.

Readers’ Letters: Somehow Totally Analog

Readers’ letters in newspapers and magazines were, until their extinction in 2004, a magnificent example of condescending communication, elitist favoritism of opinions, and more or less idiotic responses. For a long time, they were the object of our pent-up envy, because in the age of digital networking you may be flooded with shady opinions during peak hours, but the passion, the depth, and the love are often left by the wayside. For this reason, we are now literally beating the analog into the digital and from this point on will present the most beautiful, slimiest, and most disgusting opinions as readers’ letters that are worth answering in proper detail.

Not a Single Hair on His Balls

"The picture is shocking, I think I missed something in my youth… Those two little brats don’t even have a single hair on their balls, but the little one just got devoured in a grandiose 5-minute quickie!? – And they even opened a guestbook right on her belly. Alexander Seitz, 14…" dip on Hermann, I Have the Power

Dear Dip, I fear that a few of the fantasies we’ve instilled in you over the years have just run away with you, because those innocently looking little rascals certainly had nothing evil in mind, let alone any thoughts of indecency. The picture is undoubtedly just a sample photo preloaded by Fujifilm onto the camera to demonstrate the outstanding quality and high resolution of its products. And as for Seitz Alex allegedly not having any pubic hair, I can refute that here and now—we knitted cozy, warm hats out of it together on our last ski vacation.

Stop Whining!

"What really gets on my balls is that you’re actually the one whining here. You ask for criticism and feedback and then call the people who criticize A&P trolls? Sorry, but then you shouldn’t be surprised if someone calls you an arrogant asshole. Maybe I can’t quite relate to all this because I’ve never really read a truly ‘trollish’ comment here… Just do A&P the way you want and also accept comments you don’t like! That’s how it is in real life too! So stop whining!" Robert on You Used to Be Better

Dear Robert. As an enthusiastic Twitter user with over 50 followers, you have surely been running battle-hardened websites under constant fire since childhood and can therefore put yourself in our position a thousand times better than Udo the janitor, Ulrike the lab technician, or Gustav the goose, and pester us with your critical opinion. And you succeeded. Thanks to you, we no longer refer to visitors who constantly shove their narrow-minded, ill-tempered, and envious pseudo-opinions at us and have no interest whatsoever in healthy discussion as trolls, but as “small-dicked guys with inferiority complexes and attention deficits.” We thank you for the enlightenment and will tell you just one more thing: we’re not surprised by anything anymore.

What Would Hannah Do Now?

"Hello Hannah, I’m a huuuuge fan of yours and that’s why I regularly check AMY&PINK to see if there’s anything new! I think it’s totally cool what you write and one day I’d like to have such a great blog myself or write for one! You always come across as so full of life and energy, everything I’d love to be! You’re a very good example of women who go through life with enthusiasm and simply do what they enjoy! You’re just my big role model and even without really knowing you I sometimes ask myself: ‘What would Hannah do in this situation?’ I’d just love to be like you, but I’m doing my best to try! Your loyal fan Nelly" Nelly by letter

Hello Nelly. Yes, Hannah really is a great girl. Those eyes, that mouth, that body… but what we find even greater is that you’ve saved the German Federal Post from its rapidly approaching bankruptcy and that your pre-lesbian declarations of love arrived to us by mail. For hours we sat in a circle in front of the sealed envelope, clicked “Open” and “Receive” a few times, and when that didn’t work ran a virus scanner over it and reinstalled our operating system, until the mailman initiated us into the secrets of tearing it open and kindly read your story to us as a bedtime tale. And now that we know how it works, we hereby call on you from today onward to send us your comments by post. It’s much more personal that way.

Chris Heads: Hip Hop, Ice Cream, Sunshine

Ashes on my head, the human hell of the quick-checkers will open up beneath me and drag me down into the depths of yesterday’s snow with malicious laughter. Because I truly don’t know how this could have happened. Why we here at AMY&PINK have not yet said a single word about this talented and practically tailor-made-for-our-purposes photographer. I mean: super-hot girls, boob pictures, shot brilliantly. He likes: hip hop, ice cream, and sunshine. His name: Chris Heads.

At home in Milan and Paris and signed with the New Blood Agency, the somewhat otherworldly mind has already worked for Vanity Fair, Elle, and Glamour, photographing greats such as Kylie Minogue, Kelis, and Devon Aoki—and probably, to save time, also having them in bed right away. I bow to so much talent and will now grant him the honor he deserves: to manifest him on this page with selected images. And while you start groping yourselves, I will promptly run to confession and apologize for not having performed this good deed much earlier.

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The Drunken Mixtape: Shitmotherfucker

You know the drill. During the day you struggle with contagious pants-shitters, incontinent bosses, and recently divorced bus drivers, fight your way with love and warm thoughts through the modern-day urban jungle gone wild, and let your small, battered souls be abused by misunderstanding, mistrust, and jealousy toward your youth, directness, and toughness. And what helps more after this constant character fuck than getting properly and more or less stylishly drunk.

To lend you a hand on this routine trip between pre-drinks, partying, making out, and crashing, we present here a meaningful mixtape for inhaling promille, sprinkled with the party-loving Babyshambles, the enchanting Anya Marina, and the rabid girls from Be Your Own Pet. This will prepare you for every stage of the alcoholic rollercoaster ride, and when you reach that particular point where you’ve puked out of the fifth-floor window screaming for your mommy, Regina Spektor will gently catch you—after all, every night of debauchery ends with “Samson.”

What are your favorite tracks for joyfully getting wasted, and which stage do they fit best? But woe betide anyone who comes up with Jürgen Drews or Mickie Krause. May the wrath of good taste strike them down.

WTF10: Hermann, ich habe die Kraft

Lol

Favorite Pussy or Coleslaw? Lindsay Lohan

The entire capital is celebrating tonight in honor of the Hollywood boozehound and pseudo-lesbian Lindsay Lohan with a lavish party at her expense, where attending girls are kindly requested to stick to her style of dress (= slutty), and since many of us still don’t know what to make of what I’ll now call an exceptional talent, here is an ultimate and misanthropic evaluation to determine where we should categorize Lilo: favorite pussy or coleslaw.

Favorite Pussy: Little Lindsay conquered our hearts in no time with films like "Mean Girls," "Freaky Friday," and "Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen." Boys instantly fell in love with her ample cleavage, sweet face, and cute freckles, while girls swooned over her cheeky smile, enviable sex appeal, and the mysteries of her hair-care products.

She won heaps of awards such as the Teen Choice Award, an MTV Movie Award, and the coveted Young Hollywood Award: Superstar of Tomorrow, launched her singing career with the two albums "Speak" and "A Little More Personal (Raw)," and at that time was the true dream of every pubescent emo-in-the-making or aging grandpa. To put it nicely.

Coleslaw: At some point between the movie "Herbie: Fully Loaded" and the accompanying music video, Mrs. Lohan’s breasts must have deflated. Her hair color changed in line with her newly discovered IQ, and all that strenuous sex with various partners seems to have stripped the last reserves of fat from her once so voluptuous body.

Alongside Britney Spears and Mischa Barton, she plunged headfirst into the standard swamp of drugs, alcohol, and the forgetting of Hello Kitty underwear, then at some point believed herself to be a lesbian and grabbed three Golden Raspberries on her way out. Today she’s presumably either constantly driving her car into unsuspecting curbs or giving her trusted dealer a skillful blowjob to get her hands on some coke.

Conclusion: Lindsay Lohan is a crashed slut before the Lord who likes to look too deeply into a glass, occasionally licks pussies, and chases the mother of her personal assistant with a car while under the influence of drugs. So what? I’d gladly take Lilo in, rip the bleach out of her hand, and stuff her with muffins and cola until her cleavage fits again, her freckles sprout once more, and that smile returns to her face.

Until then we’ll keep shooting every dealer who even comes close to her and pray to God that the graphics nerd at Disney gets back on his fat ass and hits the undo button a few times while retouching her Herbie cleavage. Because what worked on screen seems to have carried over into real life. We believe in the magic of Mickey Mouse and are therefore in complete agreement: Lindsay Lohan is a favorite pussy before the Lord.

When the Day Has Too Few Hours: The Asshole Called Stress

Hello, my name is Marcel Winatschek and at the moment I am so stressed that a new word really ought to be invented for it. Because the 24-hour day contains far too few minutes to fit in everything I actually need to accomplish so that my life continues to develop within the framework I consider appropriate. And right now that revolves around three major areas: training, AMY&PINK, and anal sex. And by the latter I don’t necessarily mean that I’ve switched to the pink camp, but rather my private life, which screws me over properly time and again. Or vice versa.

So at dawn I throw myself out of bed while the bats are dancing and the roosters are still asleep, scroll through the concentrated news of the past night on my screen to see if there’s anything awesome for AMY&PINK, rarely manage to get past the porn posts without skillfully touching myself, then, depending on the week, head off to work or vocational school and usually spend the distant evening partying / flirting / chilling out.

And what now sounds so loose and easygoing is in truth pure stress. Because while in training you’re bombarded with projects that, when frequent enough, haunt you horrifically even in your sleep phases, contacts need to be made and maintained, preferably three killer posts written per day, blogs combed through and commented on, girls kissed, Twitter used, family called, showered or bathed, films and series watched, breasts kneaded, Tumblr filled, coffee brewed, Facebook updated, sex had, loved, hated, drugs tried, laundry washed, money earned, pooped and peed, public transport used, dishes washed, groceries bought, parties attended, thoughts thought, beds made, interviews conducted and translated, ideas developed or stolen, SMS typed, prostitutes beaten up, upcoming projects planned, chatted with people important for my continued existence, eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner, favors done, sites technically maintained, wandered around, sucked up to Merlin Bronques, alcohol drunk, emails answered, magazines studied, zombies killed, the apartment tidied and cleaned, music listened to, pseudo-sports performed, books read, plants watered, and wishes fulfilled. And all of that in 24 hours. If possible daily. Sleep not even mentioned.

Life is a bitch, so I demand from the god of time / the state / The Hoff™ an extension of the day by at least double, invest 10 euros in the development of a medication that keeps sleep as far away from us as possible, and will use the weekend to calmly ignore at least the most annoying things on the death list, pick out a few bullet points (probably something involving sex and zombies), and tonight, in memory of Lindsay Lohan, blissfully get completely smashed. And woe betide anyone who gets in my way, because that could end fatally. I’m stressed and therefore have a license for a bloody massacre, preferably at a Russian airport.

The New Video by Die Ärzte: PerfektHimmelblauBreit

Berlin in the year 2046. Three ancient goths live carefree lives in a retirement home and reminisce about the good old days when they were still famous, adored, and celebrated as heroes of music. And yes, on closer inspection you can recognize beneath the wrinkles, bathrobes, and slippers the former best band in the world. Rod, Farin, and Bela B. The quirky daredevils from Die Ärzte.

In stark contrast to the "Yoko Ono" 31-second record holder, the three boys really take their time with "PerfektHimmelblauBreit," are pampered from back to front by Mandy and Bernd, and after their journey into the future cozy up together on the sofa. A smashing adventure that not only embodies three works of art in one, but also reinterprets old party hits like "Männer sind Schweine" and "Schunder-Song." A toast to retirement homes, semolina pudding, and lots of colorful pills.

Daul Kim Takes Her Own Life in Paris: The Sad Death of a Model

While Germany is shocked by the death of a football player, in the fashion world only one piece of news is currently running through the rattling tickers of agencies and editorial offices: the 20-year-old South Korean top model Daul Kim, who drew attention to herself with beautiful shoots and a unique face in i-D, Dazed & Confused, and Vogue, among others, took her own life a few hours ago in Paris. Why and how, no one knows at this hour. Even on her blog I like To Fork Myself, where she had been regularly writing about her exciting life for two years, there were no signs of this tragedy. The last entry was the electro song "I Go Deep" by Jim Rivers.

Having just posed for the November issue of Russh in front of Beau Grealy’s camera and graced the cover with her cool, sexy gaze, her modeling agency announced a few minutes ago: "She was a top model and a great friend to all of us at Next. Please respect her family’s privacy at this time of sadness. We will all miss her very much." May she rest in peace, and in memory of this exceptional talent we show once again a small selection of her most characterful photos.

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Update (20/11/09, 7:34 a.m.): Her blog apparently wasn’t quite so without signs after all; Vanessa has taken a closer look and found all kinds of depressive texts and thoughts in her entries that Daul Kim published there during difficult times: "My life is so god damn predictable. It's disgusting. (...) This endless loneliness, there must be something wrong from the core. I worry as I take the courage to sleep."

Stadthunger: The Madness of Your Voice

“Are you satisfied with your life?” the little blonde girl asked me openly as we strolled hand in hand through the deserted streets of the long-forgotten Berlin. Not a breath of wind to be felt, not a sound to be heard, not a soul to be seen. The former war had silenced all activity and shattered the buildings in a fiery breath. I only looked upward. Unable either to give an answer or to ask a question. The white clouds against a blue backdrop drifted triumphantly above the ruins of the once so magnificent city. How alive these alleys once were, and how no one survived the days of eternal night. My battered body too lay buried somewhere beneath this rubble. Forever.

My companion and I turned into a nearby park and walked along the path paved with dead trees. Her bright dress glistened in the midday sun and the honest smile on her face made me forget for a moment the eternal pain I had been carrying deep in my heart for some time. We giggled, we romped about, but suddenly she stopped and pointed ahead with her arm outstretched.

My gaze froze when I saw the red-haired, naked girl standing at the other end of the path. I ran toward her, but when I saw her empty stare, the pale face and the bloody wounds all over her body, I slowed down and stopped in front of her. The sky turned black, the clouds transformed into glowing sparks that rained down on the dead earth, and the ground opened wide at our feet.

When I come to, Paula is holding me tightly in her arms and pressing a glass of cold water to my face. “Another one of your nightmares?” she asks gently. Her large breasts bounce with every movement and the mere presence of her character, the kisses, the smell of cheap perfume and poor intimate hygiene fatten my aversion toward her with every breath we take. Paula likes orange ties.

The mere fact that she has replaced Sina as my companion of the night leaves me without a single doubt that something incredibly wrong is happening in the universe and that it is up to me to restore the balance of our civilization. “I have to find her,” I reply curtly and take a large gulp of the refreshing liquid. “More than three months ago she ran off enraged and crying with hatred, and ever since these visions have been haunting me. They are making me sick.”

The room is drenched in dark blue-black tones and several empty syringes have been carelessly thrown onto the floor beside the bed. My body is covered in sticky sweat and while I vomit from the balcony, I imagine the fantasies that appear by the thousands. How she dies. How she suffers. How I can do nothing about it. A storm is brewing.

“She is your best friend, you fucking slut!” I suddenly scream at Paula and curse the day I opened the door to her. The endless nightly conversations, the crying, the recurring apologies and the remorseful sex. Where does she even come from? And since when has she been here? I mix reality with madness, can no longer clearly distinguish what is actually happening and which part of my life story is playing out only in my head. The drugs, the music, the women. And all I want is one thing. To have Sina back. That is all that matters right now.

This was the eighth chapter “The Madness of Your Voice” from the furious blog novel project “Stadthunger,” the serialized novel on AMY&PINK. You can always find all parts of it under the category “Literature.”

Carlos Nunez: Not About Tits

Carlos Nunez is 28 years old, lives in Los Angeles, and he takes photos of naked women. Mainly. Because sometimes there are moments in Carlos’ life when he just hangs out at the beach. And photographs naked women. Takes a small, cozy walk through the woods. And photographs naked women. Or runs through the streets of California with all his equipment. And photographs naked women.

So you see how incredibly varied Carlos Nunez’s life is and how absolutely sad, depressing, and devoid of any hope of ever entering paradise his entire existence must be. I’ll stick with my boring life as a pseudo web designer and now take another relaxed look at one of his trips to the outdoor pool. With naked women, of course.

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Become a Chiptune Legend: My Game Boy Is a DJ

As a little brat there was nothing greater for me than waddling into the outdoor pool, stuffing greasy fries into my face on the grass, and beating time into my cheeks with my Game Boy. “Super Mario Land,” “The Legend of Zelda – Link’s Awakening,” or “Pokémon.” What for programmers were just a few antisocial cobbled-together lines of code opened up a world full of myths, riddles, and heroism for us. And where do I get Mew now?

Since those faded days, quite some time has passed. The video games of today’s youth can no longer do without bombastic graphics, orchestral sound, and loads of marketing. But one thing has remained: the love of an entire generation for the beeping tones and audio snippets whose sound reminds us of mushrooms, swords, and Poké Balls, and whose melodies we can still whistle in our sleep.

Alongside the admiration for composers, an entire community of freaks has emerged in recent years who refuse to miss the chance to program beeping 8-bit anthems themselves. Bands like Pixel H8, Casio Kid, or Syphus now fill entire clubs with their minimalist sounds, and even chart-toppers like La Roux, Gorillaz, and Crystal Castles have been inspired by the sound. And you too can soon belong to the stars of the stylish retro scene. Everything you need and how to go about it is explained here by the British video game composer Matthew Applegate of Pixelh8. So pay attention and join in…

1. Steal yourself a Game Boy: In principle, you can coax sounds out of any old video game console and turn it into a digital jukebox. The most popular in the scene is the plain gray Game Boy from Nintendo that your siblings probably still have lying around somewhere in the attic. If not: eBay is your friend.

2. Find the right software: There are plenty of homemade programs out there that will turn you into a retro DJ. The most well-known are LSDJ, Nanoloop, or Pixelh8 Music Tech. You can either buy them pre-installed on cartridges or download them for free. If you choose the second option, you’ll have to copy them onto empty cartridges via USB cable.

3. Experiment a little: Once you’ve got the software of your choice up and running, you’ll notice how easy it is to coax a variety of beeping tones out of your console just by pressing the buttons. You’ve now turned your old box into a pseudo keyboard, and from here on it’s entirely up to you, your creativity, and your talent what you make of it.

4. Record that stuff: If you’ve chosen LSDJ, you can record your songs directly onto your computer. All you need to do is connect your Game Boy’s headphone jack to your PC and you’re ready to go. Try out the various programs available out there. Most of them are free or dirt cheap.

5. Make yourself a few friends: For beginners, it’s a good idea to check out the various chiptune communities. 8bitcollective is a great place to get started. As for the music you make, the rule is: stay yourself. Chiptuning is not a genre; it’s an instrumentation.

Have fun!

The End of a Soulmate Bond: Here Is My New Boyfriend

Good friends are by far the most important thing in life. They catch us when disaster strikes, protect us from all the evil in the world, and even support us unconditionally in our dumbest ideas. And while male specimens turn into drinking buddies, club comrades, and hole brothers, and women meet up for coffee klatches, shopping tours, and “Sex and the City” memorial DVD evenings, rumor has it that boys and girls can even mutate into best friends. As long as one of them is homosexual.

Because let’s be honest. Friendships between the sexes usually end in uncontrollable drama, suicidal depressions, and hate tirades that would make Satan himself fill his ears with paste. One of the two is always more unstable than the other, and so playful scuffles turn into special touches, pajama parties into ring-around-the-rosie with groping, and HDLs into promises of eternal devotion of the heart. And once the guy finally confesses his feelings to his secret crush, all hell breaks loose and the supposedly platonic love is completely screwed.

In 99% of cases, the soulmate bombarded with heartfelt confessions simply doesn’t want a relationship, retreats from the conversation with awkward “uhms” and “erms,” there are tears, there is talking. The once relaxed atmosphere turns into a minefield of right answers and false hopes, exaggerated reactions and extreme depressions.

My catastrophic union went by the name of Ana. We were soulmates, fucked our way through hot summer nights to Muse and Mando Diao, and enjoyed our loose mixture of liaison and friendship. Until—yes, until—I fell in love with her and my inner organs destroyed everything. What followed was pure hell that made me doubt humanity.

The following months, even years, of recovery are a single trial by fire in which you constantly run up and down a recurring vicious circle, torn between possible freedom and mental dependency. Because maybe you can still win her over somehow. But on the other hand, maybe it should just be like it used to be. And honestly: If he doesn’t want me, it’s his own fault. I deserve something better. But those sweet freckles…

And when you’ve finally made it out of the psychological misery with emotional scars as big as the Nile, patched together a shaky house of cards made of understanding, realism, and common sense, and could swear before a tribunal that you’re over it, stronger, already looking elsewhere… then suddenly the new boyfriend of your former best connection is standing in front of you. And you just want to commit a mass murder…

The New Discovery from Queens: Freelance Whales

It happened on one of my profound journeys through the web. Past emo princes stagnating on YouTube, secret tweets of the year, and provocative art pages with naked foxes. In my eternal butterfly hunt for the most curious, most beautiful, and most heartfelt shit of the hour. In the middle of the browser jungle, a song suddenly sounded whose melody abruptly delighted my head and refused to let go. I pushed aside the windows buzzing around me, bravely fought against intrusive pop-ups, and finally arrived digitally bleeding at the source of the angelic tones. Freelance Whales was all I could read before everything around me blurred and I lost one life.

The song of the hour fatefully goes by the title “Hannah,” comes from the New Yorkers Judah, Kevin, Doris, Jake, and Chuck, and can be found on their album “Weathervanes.” It sings of the night sky, of rooftops, and of music. So romantic, nostalgic, and charming that these five indie musicians secured a place in my heart with this song alone.

And the best thing about it all: You can download this track for free at I Guess I'm Floating. And because Freelance Whales are not (yet) signed anywhere, the whole thing is (still) not illegal. Beautiful new world.

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At the Anarchy Apartmento: Little Island Management

The fashion designer Mari Kojima was born in the prefecture of Shimane, located on the Sea of Japan. She then lived for a year in Tasmania and subsequently moved to Chicago and New York to study, where she won several fashion competitions. In the summer of last year, she returned to her old home country Japan, now works primarily as a photographer and in the consumer electronics industry, and also earns her bread as a radio DJ.

Her photos are very colorful, radiate a love of life in all its facets, and yet don’t come across as loud as a piece of candy, but rather calm, subdued, and with that very special charm. The shots show friends, acquaintances, and strangers, bleeding noses, naked butts, and nights of heavy partying. And if you want to see more, her blog We Are The Little Island Management is the right place to go. Beautiful.

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Let’s Talk Straight: You Used to Be Better

So, since I currently have some time, there’s nothing else to do but wait for death, and a few things are seriously pissing me off, today I would like to personally—yes exactly, me: the big man of AMY&PINK, inspired by the even bigger man at Nerdcore—issue a statement in non-alphabetical form regarding the petty accusations that old readers, young friends, and green trolls have recently been throwing at us more and more often, and make it clear in advance how much they pass me by. And you will damn well read through all the points with open eyes, because if anyone ever again throws at us—whether trollish or supposedly constructive—criticism referring to one or more of the following keywords, I will personally bite that person’s head off. And not just that.

Accusation 1: You used to be more personal, now everything is mainstream

We’ve grown, I admit that. And that’s nothing we need to be ashamed of. After all, we invested a lot of time, wrote great texts, and made a name for ourselves in the tough world out there. And not everyone can say that. More visitors also means we have to find our personal middle ground between intimate posts and mass-compatible general articles that ideally don’t scare off our beloved subscribers but also don’t bore new visitors.

And I think we’ve been managing that more and more lately. Personally tinged and deeper entries like “Friendship for a While,” “No Pain, No Gain,” and “Summer, Sex and Chocolate” steadily alternate with freer articles like “Crazy Otaku Mansion,” “Hotter, Hottest, Josh,” and “Burn Down The Snow,” which deal with music, art, and fashion but are still not devoid of personality, appearing on AMY&PINK because we find the topics interesting and put our heart and soul into them. A balanced mix from which everyone can pick their favorite articles. So stop whining.

Accusation 2: It’s always just tits, sex, and long dicks

You got to know us as an uncensored and free-thinking blog whose authors don’t mince words and who play with human sexuality, shock, and sometimes even disgust. Of course it may be that we’ve occasionally gone too far and scared off one or another reader, but it lies in our nature to try things out, cross boundaries, and see how far we, as children of Vice and LastNightsParty, can go.

AMY&PINK is not a blog for children and we never wanted it to be. The youth protection program keeps school computers from visiting the site, we are listed on Google with keywords like “Sex,” “Teens,” and “Girls,” and—holy shit—yes, we post naked breasts, like erect penises, and show people fucking. So what? The fact that we still have to justify ourselves for that in this day and age just shows how small-minded, jealous, and immature some of those who complain here and yet keep coming back really are.

And just because we put pornographic content up for discussion doesn’t mean it’s only about sex here. As with point 1, dirty and respectable topics alternate in constant harmony with themselves. And why? Because AMY&PINK is as diverse as life itself. No one freaks out at the Pimpettes just because they show a few hairy pussies. So stop whining.

Accusation 3: You kicked Hannah out and now everything sucks

I myself was surprised and shocked that Hannah left her home blog so stormily after almost a year, but she had her reasons and we respected them. And I suggest you do too. People develop and grow apart—just like in a relationship. And Miss Paffen is neither dead nor did we drive her away with bad intentions—that’s just life: a coming and going.

And anyone who only visited AMY&PINK to read Hannah’s posts is of course now missing their main reason to return regularly and may turn away from us, but we have to deal with that. And so do you. So let’s continue to enjoy Hannah’s articles, which remain available 24 hours a day in the archive, and be aware that every change has positive and negative sides. This one too. Because who knows what the future brings. So stop whining.

Accusation 4: Everything is stuffed with advertising

Our visitor numbers are steadily increasing and have long since exceeded a level where you could still keep up with your 2-euro-per-month webspace. In recent months, the number of simultaneous readers on AMY&PINK repeatedly grew beyond our heads and the site crashed at regular intervals or earned itself a Guinness World Record entry for eternal loading times.

That’s why we had to switch to our own server, which caused costs to skyrocket. And so that AMY&PINK doesn’t become a loss-making business for us, we had to logically and inevitably increase revenues. And how do you do that without prostitution, drug dealing, or selling your souls to Trigami? Exactly: with advertising.

However, we make a great effort in selecting our advertising partners, because not everyone can boast sexy American Apparel models. Or would you rather we plaster AMY&PINK with gaudy Google Ads, washing machines, and credit companies? No? Then stop whining.

The Devastating Conclusion

We constantly receive emails, comments, and messages from eviction squads telling us that we use such disgusting, terrible, and unacceptable images for our articles. That’s not allowed, you can’t do that. Blah blah. Of course we can. Why? Because we can. Quite simple. We are not people who fall asleep under a “My Little Pony” poster above the bed. And if we do, then only because we are so unbelievably badass. Not.

We fart, we shit, we fuck. We love, we hate, we ignore. And we’re annoyed by people who have to generalize everything. “Only tits. Only dicks. Only disgusting stuff.” Grow up already, diversity is raging here! Over there Lady Gaga is singing her latest hit, around the corner Jimmy Choo is designing for H&M, and not a meter away three idiots are sitting on a couch listening to Good Vibrations. And that is great!

So if you still haven’t realized how close to life, boundary-pushing, funny and yet so real AMY&PINK is, how much effort we put into bringing you the hottest shit in the universe to our pink page every day, and how much fun we have doing it, then we can without remorse label you as a little green, jealous troll who walks through the world without an open heart, sees everything as gray and gloomy, and begrudges us and our beloved readers their fun. So stop whining.

The Sexy Mixtape: Sleep With Your Neighbor

Good music is there to cry to, to sing along with, to rejoice in, or simply to get through the day with a smile on your face. And while Spreeblick is searching for the soundtrack of an entire generation, we are content with the background music for the most beautiful minor matter in the world, because nothing can rob a charmingly candle- and fondue-decorated night of love of its potent magic faster than the wrong performers at the wrong time. After all, who wants to unite sweatily and breathing loudly with another body while Bill Kaulitz or the Killerpilze are complaining in the background about stupid teachers or heavy storms? Except maybe Emo-Cindy from Dresden and her Diddl-loving mobster Ralph.

When I think of a vibrating mixtape for intercourse, I recall fainting summer nights filled with Muse, Radiohead, and N.E.R.D., when passion gently crept along like ebb and flow and then pulsed quickly into our limbs like an all-destroying breath of fire that shattered glass, made Ikea beds collapse, tore flesh, and spat us back into reality after the deed was done, panting with a mischievous smile and bruises on our skin.

And before I start touching myself here, I want you to put the following mixtape through a stress test together with your partner, the neighbor’s dog, or simply your hand painted with waterproof marker, see if it ignites the magic within you, and hit the comments with the banging songs missing from the “Sleep With Your Neighbor” tracklist. Saddle the horses and have fun!

When Strangers Are Close to You: Friendship on Borrowed Time

We’re talking about the time when Pikachu was still cool, the Nokia 3210 was still in, and everything outside of Bavaria was largely desolate wasteland. As pubescent drifters, we stumbled through thick and thin together with our best friends, beat the souls out of each other for nights on end as teams or opponents in “Super Smash Bros.” and “Phantasy Star Online,” stole each other’s girlfriends before sending the sluts off into the desert and meeting up fraternally for a beer at the village pub. We knew we could rely on our soulmates forever and ever, call them day or night for help, and master even the toughest situations together with the dorks. Skipping school, crashing farmers’ parties, making out with Christina behind the kiosk — we could only accomplish all that as a tight-knit team. The world was still in order.

A few years later, you’ve long since moved from the backwater to the big city. The old friends are either unemployed, married, or fled abroad for their studies, have long forgotten Pokémon and Stone Age cell phones, and at best get in touch around Christmas to regret how busy / fat / “World-of-Warcraft”-addicted you’ve become, that you unfortunately can’t see each other this time, but absolutely have to make up that beer sometime. The one eternal bond of trust, life anthems, and memories is gone, and what remains are new acquaintances. Adult friendships of convenience that work for a while and — spoiler alert — only scratch the surface.

These days, you maintain an entire army of good acquaintances in the various areas of your life (like university, work, and party life), who can be perfectly combined with your current outfit and sometimes even convey a hint of the trust you used to hand out like free T-shirts and that was reflected back a thousandfold. You laugh as if you’ve known each other forever, talk openly about your wishes and problems, and live as if there were no tomorrow.

Unfortunately, these modern friendships just don’t function globally; they seem rooted in the milieu where you met. Your best university friend simply doesn’t fit into your excessive party life; if you take two weeks of vacation, you don’t hear a peep from your beloved colleague; and party girl Paula, with whom you pull all-nighters every Saturday, seems to be tied up at WMF or maybe even a vampire. You certainly never run into her in broad daylight.

So we probably have to accept that the true friendships of climbing, groping, and brawling are relics of long-gone days, that we can only rely on ourselves now, and that our modern hipster friends are as interchangeable as the latest club hit or Versace’s winter collection. I’m going to cry for a bit and then play some “Pokémon” — in memory of the good old days. Go Pikachu!

At Home with Yasumasa Yonehara: Crazy Otaku Mansion

There are apartments whose sight makes me jealous not only because of their modern furnishings, spacious layouts, or simply because of their sexy resident — no, there are homes that are so awesome, amazing, and superlative that I’d like to lure the owner away under false pretenses, throw him out, and move in myself.

Almost happened during the latest home invasion by The Selby, who temporarily moved in with Japanese photographer and blogger Yasumasa Yonehara and took a thorough look at his absolutely fantastic pad. Alongside his appealing work (primarily featuring half-naked, big-eyed girls), the colorful photos particularly reveal his love for even more colorful sneakers, uber-cool action figures, and SpongeBob SquarePants.

His admittedly rather cramped dwelling in the Godzilla capital Tokyo is a paradise for little pubescent boys or slightly underdeveloped adults (aka me), teeming with curiosities, awesome caps, and photos of bare Nanamis and Ayumis. I’ve already secured my flight on his cluttered desk, and while I’m on my way, you can indulge yourselves in his Blogspot blog Yone, which I may not understand word for word, but at least it offers beautiful photos. Picture books have always been my favorite anyway.

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Bang Bang Berlin: A Legend Goes Online

If there’s one phrase I remember from the boozy Scala farewell party, it’s “Bang Bang Berlin.” They photographed us — nicely drunk — on one of the many Dixie toilets while we plastered ourselves with filthy stickers and created art with artists like Ollio and his enchanting girlfriend. Back then still a verbal phantom in the murmur of the partying crowd, Bang Bang Berlin has been reality for a few days now and is online as a fresh website about Berlin and everything that creeps and crawls within it, as also reported here.

Founder Liz spoke with AMY&PINK about the launch of her project and revealed that she and her three co-authors Mertol, Emer, and Jobot want to bring the ultimate online guide to the German capital and its various scenes to life with BBB. It aims to stand out from other city blogs particularly through the four individual perspectives and to win readers’ trust with unique articles and a palpable love for Berlin.

And Bang Bang Berlin continues to evolve. By next year at the latest, more features and video support are planned, and Liz, alongside Berlin’s newest child, is dedicating herself to her creative career as a freelance journalist and producer. She is currently developing the web show “Palina and the Glitz” together with our favorite presenter, in which the cheeky blonde takes care of female hipsters’ party outfits and, among other things, takes a detailed look down Jennifer Rostock’s neckline.

We definitely wish Liz and her team every success in the digital jungle and are certain that the four of them will stir up quite a bit in our beloved metropolis with Bang Bang Berlin and that we’ll be hearing a lot more from them.

The She-Man Is Back: Lady Gaga – Bad Romance

Our favorite transvestite is back and, after “Paparazzi” and “Poker Face,” gifts us with “Bad Romance,” a new, let’s say, masterpiece of modern video art including outlandish performance, huge eyes, and burning white rooms. The song is mainly about “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!”, “Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah! Roma-roma-mamaa! Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!” and, broadly speaking, about her wanting something. Namely drama, hands, and kisses in the sand. Well, if that’s not something.

However, I have to agree with Mr. Jeriko, who says that from now on the hero of our time Eric Cartman should perform all Gaga songs. So let’s vote: Which video do you like better? The new one by the transvestite or the version by the Hitler offspring from South Park? And I’m still waiting for Ms. Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta to one day perform a little song about world peace and the grievances on our planet… but that may take a while.

Hardcore Personal Ads: Philipp the Fashion Photographer

Name: Phil. Age: 18. Height: 1.83m. Place of residence: Saarbrücken, between Frankfurt and Cologne. Profession: Fashion photographer. Zodiac sign: Cancer. What friends say: Non-mainstream. What the ex says: All the best. I go weak for: Women with a unique and tasteful clothing style. When I’m in love: I want to show it. :-) I’m good at: Cuddling and keeping my cool. I’m not good at: Resisting donuts. My distinguishing feature: Birthmark on the lower left palm. Secret passion: Slim, long fingers and thin women. No-go: Unshaven arms and legs, unfriendly bus drivers. I say: quoting: “…that human stupidity is more infinite than the universe” (attrib. A. Einstein). I believe in: God. My quirk: Very loud music after every time making love. I flee from: Thick sausage fingers.

“I’m not mainstream; that started back in kindergarten, when we showed each other things in the doll corner that were probably meant for after 24:00, and I once had something different than the three kindergarten girlfriends. And if it were up to me and I held the ‘staff of creation’ in my hand, everyone would be even more different, at least when it comes to their characters and taste. I’m for world peace and for helping unfriendly people. And what’s really silly are men who think they don’t have to wear purple because they’re men. I don’t like male-female clichés. Women are allowed to become Formula 1 drivers and men can love shoes. Men can be as creative as women. Soccer isn’t for me. I love kissing on a park bench and provoking uptight mustache wearers with it. Actually, I just want to help those people loosen up.

I hate €1-jobbers who accompany buses and trains and don’t even help disabled or elderly people. I love art. I don’t like poorly raised and undisciplined toddlers. I don’t like smelly fish restaurants. I like the internet with its anonymous world. I love extraordinary places. I love making you happy. What I really don’t like are communication misunderstandings in Web 2.0. I love traveling. I like capturing every great moment. I like Polaroids where I don’t have to share my secrets with the lab technician. I hate constantly having to learn firsthand that coconuts aren’t Bountys. I love being told on Twitter that I’m loved and saying that I love. I like sharing with you. I love the feeling of mutually looking out for each other.

I l(i)ove the goal of someday owning a small, private island to relax, think, and design. I love merging my life with that of another woman, enjoying it, discovering it, traveling through it. I actually don’t have that many demands. If you’re reading this, it already means we apparently read the same blogs, you know. I like traveling, but alone it’s not as much fun. I want to have someone familiar with me when we discover new worlds together and in the evening slip back into our own world in front of the hotel fireplace. Life is too exciting to enjoy it alone; you can’t remember all those impressions by yourself. If we don’t find each other quickly now, how are we supposed to tell our grandchildren about the past together someday?

In short, I just want the feeling of being loved. What you look like is almost irrelevant. If you were teased in kindergarten by cruel kids because you look different, then it could well be that I find you extraordinarily beautiful. So I buy everything on eBay because it’s simply faster, and if you’d like to try out the underwater camera I just bought with me and lots of bathing fun, then get in touch quickly. Or maybe you like cookies and we bake some together before Christmas — I can’t do that — and then eat the dough together and get stomachaches afterwards. Halloween was just recently. If I’d written this personal ad a bit earlier, we might already be scaring little kids together now.

I miss moments like that. Since I never get comments on my own blog because I don’t maintain it as nicely as Hannah, Caro, and Marcel do, I’d be happy about a nice comment here or, even better, an email.”

If you want to get to know Philipp, just send him a nice email or write something lovely in the comments. If you’d like to take part in the hardcore personal ads yourself, then send your meaningful text and a snazzy photo to us by email. Have fun! This section was ruthlessly stolen from NEON.

From the Life of a Blogger: Summer, Sex and Chocolate

There aren’t many girls who appeal to me both physically and emotionally and who don’t bore me to death after five minutes of small-talk nonsense about fish, hairstyles and Friedrichshain—despite a pretty bust and a firm butt—so much that I’d rather throw myself out of the nearest fifth-floor window at a private party and devote myself to a skillfully executed basal skull fracture than continue listening to their bleached thoughts. Female beings have to challenge me, sweep me away, inspire me on complex levels and show me a world I haven’t known before. Or possess an extremely healthy oral cavity.

“All good things begin with an S,” as an old Dutch proverb says, and so, just for the fun of it, I’d like to tell you about Sandra, whom I more or less gently collided with recently and who conquered my life effortlessly with her perverted remarks, her mischievous smile, and a verbal as well as physical quick-wittedness. Since then, I’ve been keeping her as my sexy groupie in the basement.

If you’d like to drop by and feed her chocolate and caramelized marshmallows, you’re warmly invited. And when she’s not hopping around various festivities like the Shock the World Party with me, performing art on a table together with me at the Illustrative and coaxing spicy details about Nora Tschirner’s private life and the secret relationships of certain GZSZ starlets out of the house photographer, or simply throwing popcorn at me in the cinema, she also takes magnificent photos of Berlin and everything around it with her little digicam.

So go ahead and say hello. Just because it’s fun.

Sarah Small: Kissing in the Darkroom

Born in 1979 in Washington, D.C., Sarah Small found herself in the arms of a musician family after her birth, made out with her crush at 13 in the darkroom of a summer art camp, and then fell hopelessly in love. Not with the crush, but with photography. With her newly purchased Pentax K1000, she roamed the streets of her hometown from then on, photographing everything that came before her lens and practicing her newly discovered skills at home on her red-haired, freckle-covered sister Rachel.

Today she works in Brooklyn, New York. Since 1997 she has taken a Polaroid photo of herself every single day and wants to turn that into her life’s project. And when she’s had enough of her work, she sings her heart out together with three others in her Balkan a cappella band Black Sea Hotel. Her work has been published in Vogue, Life and The New York Times, among others, and she was recently named by American Photo as one of the 13 most important female photographers.

Sarah Small gained particular recognition through her photographic trademark of uniting completely different characters in one work and then capturing them in bright, vivid colors. In doing so, she aims to highlight the unique emotional reactions of her models and thus offer the viewer a confused yet somehow beautiful world. And in my opinion, she succeeds quite well.

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Ask Dr. Amy: Can You Live on Beck’s Alone?

Our logo doll Lil’ Amy has successfully completed her doctoral thesis on the subject of “Small, naked and not quite tight anymore,” can now enjoy two extra letters plus a period in front of her first name, and starting today will join us in getting to the bottom of life’s great mysteries, unsolved riddles and syrupy mental nonsense. To kick things off, she has devoted herself to a question that could hardly be more down-to-earth and whose positive answer might prompt quite a few dietary changes: Can you survive on Beck’s alone?

The answer is as simple as it is straightforward: Yes, as long as you sell enough of it. But Dr. Amy can also report the following from the research front to consumers, customers and addicts: It works—well, almost. You can continue living on the basis of a Beck’s diet without any problems. A guy named Dr. Nigel Goodwin at the University of Nottingham wrote in the literary masterpiece “The Big Book o’ Beer” (which ranks just behind the Bible on the list of the world’s most important printed pages) that due to its ingredients, beer contains all the vitamins and minerals necessary for continued breathing except calcium and vitamin C.

However, you would have to pour down 47 bottles a day to supply your sick little bodies with enough nutrients. But with additional orange juice and a bit of milk, you could drift through existence more or less tipsy—depending on your training. Just please don’t forget to change your underwear at least twice a day…

So now we’re all a little bit wiser, and if you’ve always wanted to know something your grandparents wouldn’t tell you, then post your questions in the comments. Lil’ Amy will pick the best one and answer it in detail next week on AMY&PINK. Provided she survives her newly discovered Beck’s diet…

Beautiful, Sexy and Without Scandals: MTV Europe Music Awards

Last night, the MTV Europe Music Awards 2009 honored us as the music event of the year and, after a long wait, finally returned to the German capital. And of course we were live at the O2 Arena when Katy Perry melted Europe with her sexy outfits, the Foo Fighters made the arena shake, and Green Day set the stage ablaze. The show sparkled with the presence and absence of various stars, The Hoff™ muttered world-improving wisdom into the microphone, and the stunning—though sometimes slightly soulless-looking—Miranda Cosgrove presented the award for Best Video to Beyoncé. She probably has Kanye West to thank for that.

Afterwards, Malte and I sneakily made our way onto Universal’s aftershow party, where we drank in the VIP area until the early hours of the morning with Sido, Tokio Hotel including blonde, underage groupies, and Joko, polished the dance floor during the live performances of Culcha Candela, Jan Delay and Patrice, and in the end snagged some gifts, devoured pizza, and had a quick chat with my favorite host Palina.

All in all, another successful night that once again made me realize I should stop replacing basic food groups like water and bread with Red Bull, because at a certain point I start hopping through the corridors like a ferret on coke, regularly attracting one or two mocking glances from bodyguards, press people, and Z-list celebrities. And vice versa.

A big thank you also goes to Nils Threepwood and his charming girlfriend, and now I’m going to find a quiet spot and then skillfully collapse—ideally without breaking anything. Wish me luck. Let’s see if I can manage it.

G-Shock Invited Everyone to Make Love: Shock the World Party in Berlin

Last night, the who’s who of Berlin’s celebrity and hipster scene once again gathered for a rendezvous of handshakes and kisses left and right, this time at the annual G-Shock Shock The World Tour 2009 at the Admiralspalast. We attention-hungry vultures naturally couldn’t miss this monumental meeting of faces known from TV and radio and simply snagged a few white AAA wristbands to have a drink with MTV starlets like Palina and Anastasia, the No Angels crew and the ruling mayor Wowereit, make some small talk with the German fashion blogger scene and fool around a bit in the VIP area with sugar-sweet girls in green tops.

While we wrestled with the Ochsenknecht brothers and a very likable Keichii-Nitta double over the last remaining bottles of vodka, artists such as the half-naked Amanda Blank, former MTV host P-Knock-U aka Patrice and the not quite as tall Lady Sovereign heated up the tipsy crowd on the dance floor—and in the end there were even gifts.

So this event can’t have been that bad after all, and tonight it’s straight on to the MTV Europe Music Awards. We’re curious to see whether the heavily promoted show, advertised for months in almost hypnotically repetitive campaigns and featuring stars like Beyoncé, Katy Perry and Eminem, delivers what it promises. It all starts at 8:00 PM.

Winter Mixtape: Burn Down The Snow

Even though you little basement kids probably haven’t noticed yet, winter is slowly knocking on our door. Outside, the temperature is dropping by the minute, the first snow has already fallen and Father Frost is slowly making his arduous way west from Siberia. And although the cold season is often seen as months of stagnation, death and the old-established, things are noticeably going wild with us—new love, new people, new decisions.

And so that you won’t be left without musical accompaniment while freezing alone, cuddling with your loved ones or having group sex with the neighbors, here—just for you—is the perfect winter mixtape featuring artists like Dresden Dolls, Bat for Lashes and Lykke Li to make you happy, make you cry and make you love. So turn up the speakers, take off your clothes and stretch your arms and legs far from your body, because this music will really heat you up.

Initiative for More Friendliness Toward Strangers: Color Is Great

Racism can have many causes. Ignorance, for example. Bad experiences in the past that, through the influence of the wrong friends, settle as a parallel truth in the minds of the supposed victims. Or simply hatred toward something or someone entirely different, which is much easier to project onto the Brazilian family across the street. It can be expressed openly in hateful tirades online, at the local fair or in a dark alley, or secretly behind closed office doors, at the supermarket checkout or in preferential decisions—but one thing it always is: unfair, inhumane and incredibly ignorant.

Thorsten from the Pirgofabrik, unlike so many other media outlets, is not calling today for a monumental and often merely publicity-driven fight against injustice toward fellow human beings. Instead, with his campaign he wants to celebrate friendliness toward strangers, which should once again make us all realize how sad it is that this kind of hatred still has to be discussed—but that it will probably still be a long road until even the last Udo drops the barriers in his head and we can all sing and hop around on a green meadow together.

Many of my best friends are foreigners, citizens with a migration background and Germans. A colorful mix of all kinds of languages, culinary preferences and lifestyles that I have grown up with since early childhood and without which I would lack a great deal of understanding of the world, wonderful memories and culinary orgasms. I greet people in Spanish, say goodbye to them in Italian and listen to Japanese pop music in between.

Being forced to process only purely German ideas in my little head would mean the downfall of all creativity for me. So we should all be glad that there is so much variety, fun and fresh exchange of ideas that thrives and develops only through the mixture of a constantly interweaving society. Here’s to friendliness toward strangers.

The Fool and the Butterfly

I always fall in love with the kind of person who slips through my fingers like smoke. The ones who never carry keys, who don’t answer messages, who makes me believe their body is a poem and their soul is some wild animal, untamed and glowing. The people who live like their veins pulse with the beat of freedom—mental, physical, cosmic freedom.

I meet them and suddenly my chest is no longer my own. One touch. One crooked smile. One kiss that tastes like danger and gum. I hope, no, I ache, to be the one. The one they stop for. The one that makes them pack away their suitcase heart. I want to be the reason they stay, feel at home, see me as their safe place in the chaos.

I hope that maybe, just maybe, they’ll throw their rules into the river for me, swear forever with breathless mouths, stay still. But it never works like that. It’s always the same stupid movie. I play the fool. They play the wind. What did we learn way too young? One of us is Ernie. The other? Bert. Always Bert. The one who stays behind to clean up the mess.

Ernie and I watched 500 Days of Summer in a dusty, half-broken cinema that smelled like artificial popcorn and ghosts of teenage sex. Zooey Deschanel floated through the screen like cotton candy laced with cyanide. Joseph Gordon-Levitt blinked too slowly, like someone who still believes in mixtapes, warmth, and soulmates.

The film was beautiful in a dangerous way—about a butterfly and the fool who tried to pin it to a wall. About love that doesn’t love back. About how hope resurrects itself like some dumb zombie, only to get its head smashed again. Over and over. The songs tasted like cherry coke and breakups. The girl and I, barely touching, burning with that weird early-stage electricity.

We laughed until tears ran down. We whispered insults at the screen, like children pretending not to care. Bitch, we said with reverence, heartbreak, and recognition. The film wasn’t a love story. It was a confession. A warning. A dare. Perfect for a first date. Perfect for ruining me just enough to want another one.

Concert Review: Bat for Lashes in Berlin

Last night, the British band Bat for Lashes delighted the Fritz Club at Berlin’s Postbahnhof together with their admittedly somewhat unconventional support act Hecuba. As expected, my fascination and infatuation with Natasha Khan transformed during the gig into a devoted and eternal love that will outlast all time, overcome every obstacle, and freeze hundreds of other fans into ice.

Our indie prophetess, who gained recognition and a colorfully mixed fan base not least through such great tracks as "Daniel" and "Pearl's Dream," was so charming, fairy-like, and charismatic. Together with her band, she impressed with brilliant composing, a likable stage presence, and an breathtakingly amazing voice, that my enchanting companion Sara—who was slightly annoyed because of an overpriced hoodie—and I agreed on one thing: we want to kidnap her, put her in an enchanted terrarium, and have her dance and sing just for us in a magical, bluish shimmering environment.

The entire concert was surrounded by a certain aura. The audience even sang a birthday serenade for Natasha, who recently turned 30. Various film and TV personalities, such as our favorite MTV homie Klaas Heufer-Umlauf, also didn’t want to miss the gig and everything that came with it. And if, like us, you can’t get enough of the most magical band of modern times, we recommend tonight’s concert in Hamburg as well as the re-release of their second album "Two Suns," which also includes the fantastic documentary "Two + Two."

A Little Star Turns 22: Happy Birthday Hannah

For as long as we can remember, our existence was gray, dull, and full of emotional voids. We felt empty at heart, lost in the world, and realized that something—yes—someone was missing. So we trudged through our daily duties day in, day out, almost no longer believing that anything would ever change. But then she entered our lives: Germany’s brightest treasure, the Mother Teresa of fashion, the hottest pseudo-nerd on the internet: Hannah Maria Paffen. And today she turns an incredible twelve years old. Plus ten.

And let’s be honest: AMY&PINK would be absolutely nothing without this blonde temptation. Like no other on the web, she floods us and you with a tremendous selection of emotional treasures, depressive mental clutter, and life-affirming all-purpose weapons, showing us how diverse, surprising, and full of colorful facets music, love, and death can be.

So let’s wish our sweet birthday girl all the love in the world, hurl heaps of heartfelt congratulations her way, and hope together that we won’t lose her anytime soon—and that you’ll still find her just as wonderful once we’ve taken over the world. Period.

Giveaway: Win Tickets to the MTV Europe Music Awards

The biggest music event of the year is just a few days away. On November 5, amazing stars like Katy Perry, Green Day, and Shakira will sweep through the German capital and shake the O2 World at this year’s MTV Europe Music Awards, delight us with the best tracks of modern times, and turn our favorite city Berlin into one gigantic party. And the best part: you can be there live!

We’re giving away 2 exclusive tickets to the EMAs and, on top of that, The Beatles: Rock Band double microphone pack for PS3! All you have to do is be over 18 years old and leave us a comment with a valid email address by November 1, telling us—and the world—which superstar you’d like to jump into bed with and why.

Tickets for the event are not available for purchase and can only be won through giveaways—either here with us or directly at MTV. If you want to drastically increase your chances and grab more exclusive tickets, you can stop by the Alexa in Berlin today to show off your singing skills or take part this weekend in one of the public castings in front of the MTV building in Berlin, where we will also be present.

We wish you all the best of luck. And if you’ve tried everything and still couldn’t get your hands on tickets—despite various legal and illegal options—just remember that this year’s MTV Europe Music Awards will be broadcast live from the O2 World Berlin on Thursday, November 5, 2009, starting at 9 PM on MTV. And who would want to miss that..?

AMY&PINK Is Back: Better, Harder, and Fatter

Congratulations to all of you who have survived the swine flu mass vaccinations unscathed and without any visible permanent damage, and who now have the unique pleasure of experiencing the relaunch of AMY&PINK—stuffed with tons of bells and whistles, improvements, and advertising banners—live and in color on this beautiful Wednesday morning.

As you can see, we meticulously read and analyzed your suggestions for improvement and then (as I’m only just now realizing) did exactly the opposite. The hyperlinks are gone. For no apparent reason. Just like the hearts, which we removed because even Kai-Uwe from Aldi had already copied that feature and we were more than happy to part ways with it. Adios, love. Lookbook, FFFFOUND!, and Google Ads—all of that has vanished into nirvana. At least until we miss them and come crawling back on our knees.

What remains is the true core of AMYPINK, my friends. A core nourished by grandiose topics, illuminated by enchanting readers, and grown—thanks to our resulting, I’d almost say unique texts, which certainly don’t suit everyone and earn us new haters week after week—into what I proudly announce here: We are no longer a blog—no—we now call ourselves a magazine! Or a blogazine... or a smut site—it depends on our mood.

What changes for you, you’re probably asking yourselves. What’s rattling around in your sweet little heads? Whether you now have to register somewhere? Whether we’ll start charging monthly fees in November (that would be an idea)? Or whether you should chase us out of the German blog charts with torches and pitchforks? No, no, folks. For you, everything stays the same.

You’ll continue to follow us diligently on Twitter, get your daily dose of pseudo-porn from our Tumblr blog, and befriend us on Facebook. In return, we’ll supply you with articles fertilized with quality and good conscience about life’s fluids, awesome bands, and bouncing breasts, links to the hottest stuff on the web, and photos of ugly toddlers. So, what do you think?

Fashion Series in VICE: Cool Squat Raves in Pink

I really don’t need more in life than a few prostitutes named Cindy / Mandy / Jenny, great music, and breathtakingly beautiful photography. That VICE Magazine satisfies my existential dreams month after month in a full all-inclusive package—and even in between via the internet to the point of humiliation—should already be clear to you from my zombie-like, repeatedly and exclusively positive posts.

And sticking with photography (which works closely with the other two categories), the magazine once again offers plenty of sexy pseudo-fashion spreads this month that make us horny old geezers drool from our slavering body openings, entertain fashion victims with nicely thrown-together brand outfits, or inspire art connoisseurs with work presented in the right light and featuring characterful models.

In "Squat Rave," we can experience wholesome middle-class adventures with green-haired Laura and her frisky dog; in "Cool Kids," we jump around among a stylish clique of girls making out and playing SNES; and in "Preppy In Pink," we find ourselves accompanying the enchanting Daisy von Furth on a car ride through New York. Three wonderful daydreams that let us forget the more than dreadful weather outside for a few moments.

The New Song of the Pop Princess: Lily Allen – Who'd Have Known?

Okay, after Lily Allen officially broke up with us, I was prepared for anything. That she’d be dragged halfway across Timbuktu by her management. That she’d soon tour Europe to promote the virtues of drugs and alcohol at local elementary schools. Or that she’d retreat to the Himalayas with a shady guru. But instead, the former pseudo-nude model surprises us with a great new video clip.

And as the official Nora Tschirner, Bat for Lashes, and of course Lily Allen fan club, we are proud to be the first in good old Germany to provide you with the clip for "Who'd Have Known?," in which… she… um… well… kidnaps Elton John. Because she loves him. But who doesn’t, after all.

And I thank God and the world that Lily apparently has found her way back to the path of virtue and will perform a few little serenades on November 3 at Astra in Berlin. And I already have a plan for getting close to her without detours: I’ll simply pretend to be a hairdresser. That’s an Allen insider. Thanks for listening.

Nerd Dreams in the Far East: Marci’s Totally Crazy Japan Corner #1

If there’s one nation I would grant total world domination—seized by atomic weapons and all—it would definitely be the Japanese. No other country on this planet manages to make me regularly and involuntarily snort beer out of my nose the way they do. With their creativity, humor, and sheer brain rot, some Heinz over here could really take a lesson or two. Let’s get started with my finds of the week.

Panic Face King – I bet that poor guy definitely crapped his pants thanks to this delightful TV show. I would have too. Johnson Banks “Phonetikana” – Finally a typeface to… uh, I’ll just say understand Japanese. A hole and Maru4 – One cat, many faces. Life on the Japanese Coast – (M)y dream comes true. “Joyful” by Ikimono Gakari – My current favorite J-Pop band. I’m just into that stuff, but you know me.

Girl Meets Girl – Discover the world with Coba-U. Animal Farm – The bear and the tiger probably won’t become best friends… Helicopter Boyz In Yomiuri Land – Guys, I have no idea either… Helicopter Boyz. Wtf. Disney Cookies – Mickey Mouse, right where he belongs: in the oven! Slo-Mo People – Funny people running even funnier to a song by Nujabes. Very funny stuff. Otamatone & Keromin – One of those instruments looks like sperm. Breast Pudding – Mommy’s pudding tastes like…

Marina And The Diamonds: Mowgli’s Road

Our all-time favorite pussy Sara loves Florence And The Machine so much that she actually wanted to go to their concert in Berlin recently. I always confuse them with a completely different band that I discovered around the same time and whose name structure sounds pretty similar—at least inside my scrambled brain. But I like them way more.

I’m talking about the British one-woman combo Marina And The Diamonds, whose current video “Mowgli’s Road” premiered last night and whose unmistakable voice has already poured stunning yet rousing tracks like “Obessions” and “I Am Not A Robot” directly from my iPod into my beautifully designed ears.

We don’t really know yet when the enchanting Marina Diamandis will do us the honor of bringing her sweet little butt to Germany, but at the latest after the debut of her first album “Family Jewels,” which will be released in spring 2010, the first venues in Berlin and Munich will be packed to the brim. Until then, she can enjoy having me as her only fan.

Party, Music and Lots of Stars: Ride with Us to the MTV Europe Music Awards

On what will presumably be a very cold evening on November 5, national and international stars such as Shakira, Little Boots, and my secret favorites The Veronicas will gather in Berlin for this year’s MTV Europe Music Awards 2009. And the best part: you can be there with us!

In a monumental joint effort with Mr. UARRR, the Elektrospanier, and the enchanting Miss Frost, AMY&PINK is now also bringing you—with a bit of luck—to the music event of the year. And with that, we want to prove to the world that the internet is capable of more than just a few silly “yeaahhs” and insignificant Twitter protests in Iran.

All you have to do is register here with the o2-Crew, join this group, and then post your chosen username here in the comments. The 150 available tickets will then be raffled off fairly. Even if you don’t necessarily want to come along, you can still participate or spread the word online and among your friends just to do something good for once. Good luck—and yes: Tokio Hotel will be there too.

It’s a Fashion Blog! AMY&PINK Presents: lil.bit

On this messed-up world, so much awesome shit is constantly happening that we could never even begin to adequately present, evaluate, and tear it apart here on AMY&PINK alone. New music, fresh art, and sexy clothes ultimately need a stage on which they can shine—and if we don’t have enough space for that here... then we’ll just create it ourselves!

Dori, Jenny, Deniz, and Juliane are four tough yet enchanting girls in the eternal fight against boredom, shitty fashion, and soulless space-wasters, and they have taken on the honorable task of leading the first spin-off blog of AMY&PINK, lil.bit, to success and really shaking up the rusty blogosphere with their combined forces.

So give the newest members of our pink family a very, very warm welcome, let yourselves—like I did—be impressed, enchanted, and wrapped around their fingers by their unique charm, their straightforward writing style, and an IQ that lies somewhere between 75 A and B on the blog launched today at lil.bit, and if in doubt, just follow them straight into absolute ruin. Have fun!

Tell Us Your Opinion! Love, Booms, and Naked Women

For almost a year now, Hannah, I, and more recently Caro have been blogging on the revamped AMY&PINK about everything that moves us, occupies us, and seems worth shouting out into the wide world. When readers are asked to describe us, they talk about "bratty language, heart-melting reflections, and above all some dashing young naked ladies," "deeply probing texts about friendship, love, and the meaning of life," and "three super-likeable people who tell everyday stories with charm, wit, and a few bits of naughtiness."

We thrive like tigers on all the awesome shit, the love you show us, and the grand moments we’ve already been able to experience with and through AMY&PINK. And at this point we’d like to sincerely thank all those people who have offered helpful support, grand words, and endless loyalty during the highs and lows, the sometimes very personal dramas, and all the surrounding chaos.

However, from the very beginning we’ve also been accompanied by curious vultures who, at irregular intervals, throw around buzzwords like commercialization, soullessness, and vulgar language, accuse us of constant bombardment with boobs, sex, and naked women, and in particular label our occasionally more thoughtful posts as unbelievable and hypocritical because, unlike them, we don’t constantly wallow James-Blunt-style in the swamp of depression and hopelessness, but instead philosophize in between about awesome songs, great parties, and delicious cheesecake. Just like life actually is. We terrible rascals.

And of course we could let these attention-seeking assholes go in one ear and out the other, but since we’re always interested in finding out what our readers think of AMY&PINK and don’t want to drift off into some distant spheres, we’d like to seize this opportunity and, quite bluntly and without smileys, know what you think about the “Booms From Berlin And Munich,” what you love, what you think is shitty. The texts, the photos, the link list—what annoys you, what should we do differently, and what can’t you get enough of? Lay it out openly, freely, and directly, and use this chance to show us what’s going on inside our favorite readers so that we can learn from it and continue to be your favorite blog in the future.

Our Darling Is Back: Lykke Li – Possibility

The cute Swede Lykke Li ushered in a new era in my understanding of music, art, and life in general a few years ago, and even though many say she’s not that much of a live performer, her album “Youth Novels” remains one of my absolute favorites and has practically burned itself into my iPod.

Since then I’ve been yearning for new material to make me dream, dance around, and weep myself into a depressive haze, and that’s exactly why the announcement of a new soundtrack made me grin with delight on the one hand and bombard me with existential fears on the other. The good news: Lykke Li has contributed a song. The bad news: it’s for “Twilight.”

Not that I have anything against little girls suddenly no longer messing around with magic spells and wooden brooms but instead copying sweet, depressive, pale vampires, but I’ve always had something against movies that primarily take place in dark forests. “The Blair Witch Project,” for example. “Wrong Turn.” Or even “7 Dwarfs – Men Alone in the Woods.” Terrible.

On the other hand, Ms. Zachrisson’s song is absolutely magnificent, dealing with oppressive gloominess about love, suffering, and mistakes in life, and it makes me incredibly excited for her upcoming album, which she is currently working on with full passion. Until then, we can safely listen to the rest of the soundtrack featuring greats like The Killers, Death Cab For Cutie, and the Editors. Even if we’re not into vampires.

[audio:possibility.mp3]

How Secrets Define Us: I Know Something You Don’t Know

The people around us would be only half as interesting if we knew everything about them. Why does Björn never talk about his mother? Where does Annika sneak off to every Wednesday evening? And why does Peter freak out every time he hears the word “flashlight” and storm out of the room in anger? Questions about why and how are often dismissed with a guilty shake of the head and a dose of spontaneous hatred, and then the subject is quickly changed. Nice weather today.

So in our little heads we make up our own stories. Maybe his mother gave up her little darling for adoption right after birth. Perhaps Annika is training in the horizontal trade and Wednesday is her beginner’s course. And surely Peter was beaten senseless with flashlights by his big brothers. Yes, that must be it.

Secrets can be as deep as the Mariana Trench and, once uncovered, make the beloved person shine in a completely different light—where love can easily turn into disgust and incomprehension—or they can be as shallow as a puddle, and the detective work to uncover them wasn’t worth a single moment. You take a cooking class on Wednesdays? How boring.

Both small and big concealments are above all a form of protection. From others, from oneself. For example, I really don’t want everyone to know that I bite pieces off bananas and throw them into my cereal instead of using a knife. That on every foreign toilet I put toilet paper on the seat because I’m afraid of killer viruses, but at home I breed a new generation of them in the sink. Or that I didn’t call Julia back and watched “Hannah Montana” instead because she hadn’t shaved her legs the last time we had sex. And what are your secrets?

Men’s Hearts: Bruce Berger – All the Children of This Earth

Today is official Children’s Day at AMY&PINK and in this context I unfortunately have to mention that the greatest babysitter of all time, namely Michael Jackson himself, has departed from earthly existence and therefore logically can no longer properly take care of our little treasures. If it weren’t for the greatest live act ever: Bruce Berger.

He is a phenomenal phantom, underestimated superstar, and great lover of our planet all in one, has already sweetened our party nights, solo mornings, and cuddly evenings with such grand hits as (...) and now, with his monumental number “All the Children of This Earth,” he strikes out against corruption, hatred, and environmental pollution. And Bruce Berger wants us all to think about it, to do something about these grievances, and—very important—to clap along.

So let’s all celebrate precious peace, fight the worst diseases, and send the children of this world a wonderful message through our actions: we are thinking about our planet, we are thinking about you, and we are thinking especially very hard about ourselves. For a more beautiful togetherness, for love and for justice. For humanity.

A Children’s Series Conquers the Web: Bed-Wetters and the Internet: iCarly

To hell with all those random social media experts, self-proclaimed blog gurus and know-it-all SEOs, because the true secrets of how to achieve fame, fortune and success on the internet are not revealed by nerdy, aging pseudo-unemployed types, but currently by three little brats in the successful children’s show "iCarly", which I could watch 24 hours a day.

The brat from "Drake & Josh" and her two crazy friends deal with exactly the same issues that we, as small fish in the vast participatory web, constantly have to struggle with. On top of that, they have to cope with freaked-out stalkers, diabolical hackers and the commercial selling of one’s soul. And once the respective adventure is successfully wrapped up, there are chicken wings, cheese pizzas and smoothies for everyone – how awesome is that, please?

The sometimes slightly pedophilic-tinged spectacle airs on Nick and occasionally on VIVA. And so you can sleep peacefully at night, let me assure you right here that every episode has a happy ending, no Poken are harmed, and the occasionally quite terrifying Sam will not suddenly show up at your house and raid your refrigerator. Guaranteed.

The Campaign Enters Its 2nd Round: A ♥ for Blogs

Weblogs really are something wonderful. They connect complete strangers by philosophizing about hobbies, revolutions and other nonsense, boycotting the poorly paid work of local journalists as egoistically run dictatorships, and constantly violating common sense, society’s conventions or even applicable law through their commentaries on how to live a better life, sweet photos of even sweeter kittens, or by showcasing the latest pseudo-fashionable favorite songs.

And because Kai from StyleSpion loves the confusing world of blogs just as much as we do and wants to bring them closer together again as leaders of hearts, he is calling on us today to link to the most beautiful, best and most charismatic among them for the sake of love. Here is our selection of fresh, German-language gems, and as always, you can find all our other favorite oddballs in our blogroll.

Megazord – Sick shit to get you warmed up. Reigen – Anna and Juliane fashion things up. Vice – Always dirty stuff. iHeartBerlin – From the heart of the capital. Kopfbunt – The world of design inside your head. dragstripGirl – Top-notch Atzenpunk. GameOne – The first address when it comes to gaming. Panda Fuck – Vanessa is into animal sex. NesNes.de – The adventures of an eccentric Turkish girl. MC Winkel – Hip hop, brains and awesome cribs. Indigoidian – Profound mindfuck. Sexdrugsblognroll – Two crazies run wild. Jeriko – The old man and art. Station57 – Lots of fries, no cheese.

Giveaway: Win Tickets for the G-Shock “Shock The World Tour 2009”

On November 4th, the air will be on fire in the German capital, because on that otherwise chilly evening, top acts such as Amanda Blank, Lady Sovereign and Bugati Force will storm the Admiralspalast at the grand finale of the G-Shock Shock The World Tour 2009 in Berlin and offer us little party kids one of the most electrifying events of the year.

And because we’re not just telling you this so you can fall asleep a little smarter tonight, we’re giving away 3 x 2 tickets in cooperation with a well-known watch manufacturer for you and everyone you love, so you might be able to tear up the dance floor together with Sara and me. And our mere presence alone practically forces you to participate.

Since it’s getting damn cold outside again and we’re all longing for summer, sun and beach, all you have to do to hold the tickets in your frozen smoker hands is answer the following question in a comment: Which three things would you take to a deserted island? Don’t forget that at least one of those items must be a G-Shock watch, and you have until October 18th to take part in this giveaway. And as always: the crazier the answers, the more fun for us – but anyone can win. Good luck!

Good or Bad Idea? Sex with the Ex

Once the furniture has been destroyed, phone numbers blocked and restraining orders signed, society can warmly welcome two freshly baked singles back into its world dictated by frozen pizzas and gyms. And nothing feels so good at first and yet hurts so endlessly afterward as the atomic end of a once loving relationship dripping with vows of fidelity.

But while you slowly but surely get your life back under control after hour zero, put away the chocolate ice cream and finally dare to mingle with people again, there’s still one thing you somehow miss despite self-service and flings with backcombed disco dudes: sex with your former better half. After all, it took months, sometimes even years, to finally learn how to properly handle the other person’s body, to understand wordlessly whether you’d rather make love romantically in that moment or break the world record in speed-fucking, and to reach a soul connection in order to ascend to higher spheres together.

That’s why it’s hardly surprising that former couples who have thrown bile at each other’s heads, insulted family, friends and pets into the ground, and possibly even already have a new partner at their side, disappear behind the next corner at parties, chess clubs or class reunions, only to shortly afterward once again strike into the same groove with a mixture of revenge, lust and satisfaction. Just like in the good old days.

But why do we do this to ourselves, throw all good intentions overboard and risk reopening old wounds? Because we see the body we know so well as the greatest possible chance to satisfy our desire one last time? Because deep down we know that the current partner is a total loser in bed and we are riding in as the savior in distress? Or because it’s simply less complicated and above all cheaper than prostitution?

Sexual contact with a former love can be a renewed explosion of tightly bundled feelings sunk in the lake of oblivion, can remind us one-sidedly of what we once loved and worshiped in the other person, or can send us home after a moist and cheerful night with a witty smile, kicked out the door and filled with the deeply satisfying thought that we’ve finally paid the bitch or the asshole back. Of former love, there is no trace anywhere.

The Most Important Thing in Life: Do We Want to Be Friends?

That this world and everything crawling and flying within it is simply unfair, unreal and often unimaginably cruel should really be no secret and must have been noticed even by the last hillbilly. Again and again, our conviction—fueled anew by courage and annoyed defiance—that everything will turn out fine and that we only talk so many things down, is destroyed by shocking events, irreversible actions and soul-crushing behaviors. And then once again we lie there, gasping, bleeding and shattered on the dirty ground, losing even the tiniest hope for better days and a promising future.

In these moments, we are glad to have true friends by our side who lift us back up with cheerful spirits, stuff us with hefty bites of comfort or, like an all-star team made up of various Germanic gods, give us a proper dressing-down when we’ve screwed up and deserve nothing else. We argue, laugh, fight, drink, celebrate, cry, gossip, puke, sleep, love and hate together with them, forgive even serious mistakes and agree with them even when we don’t actually share their opinion—or hurl the unmistakably harsh truth at them with full force.

But even if they no longer have the same faces as before and we often resist their words or sit there with our heads lowered listening to their pseudo-wise speeches, we are constantly in agreement that it is good to have them with us, that we can rely on them even in the worst hours, and that without their mere presence in this sick world we ourselves would have long since been lost.

Sei nicht von gestern: In & Out

Like every month, at this point we present you with an essential list of the things you are to consider good, grand, and even superb in the coming weeks on the one hand, and to respond to with hatred, disgust, and antipathy on the other. If you do not stick to these golden rules, worse things will happen to you than you could ever have imagined in your wildest dreams because of never-forwarded chain letters. So tell me, oh great internet gods: What are our new commandments as of today, and how can we appease you...?

IN: Comforting good friends, You Love Her Coz She's Dead, dancing through the last warm rain showers, Karen Gillan, eating chocolate muesli with honey, putting cucumber slices on your eyes, letting your favorite playlist run all day, learning Katakana, puffy nipples, bringing ticking clocks to a standstill, being addicted to freshly squeezed orange juice, looking forward to the new "Zelda", masturbating to this photo, crying when the bad things take over, riding the tram across Berlin while letting your thoughts run free, fish.

OUT: Waking up without your sunshine, fungal infections, Geocities, not being allowed to simply throw the huge pile of dishes out the window, Ed Hardy, eating cookies without milk, reruns, unfair life, fruit flies, "And everyone’s like: Yeeaah!", blue glass cleaner, Britney Spears, flying on vacation without taking one with you in your luggage, cold feet, "Windows 7", piercings on ugly people, stress, monkeys in white socks, mini skateboards, "Girls who don't love boobs", meat.

Fresh from New York: Boy Crisis – The Fountain of Youth

The New York band Boy Crisis, to put it bluntly, sounds like a mixture of MGMT, Empire of the Sun, and the Klaxons, and thoughtfully and purposefully continues spinning the mutation of nu-rave and the greatest hits of the ’80s, ’90s, and today—a sound to which millions of chaotic teenagers and those who would still like to be, hopped around stoned on Berlin dance floors this summer alone.

Since last week, the album "Tulipomania" by the five-piece fun combo has been available in the United Kingdom, and the damn melody of the debut single "The Fountain of Youth" hasn’t left my head since the first listen, follows me all the way to the morning toilet, and will probably soon be ringing at the cloud-made door in my deepest Neverland dreams.

Tal, Alex, Victor, Lee, and Owen certainly haven’t reinvented the trend with this record, but I predict a high replay value and a solid rotation rate for them at the sweaty and cramped parties of the coming winter, and I’m really curious to see when a fresh hype will finally seize the somewhat dusty music world and give our ears something completely new again. Maybe the ’80s will come back. That would be something—we haven’t had that in ages...

We Are Number 1: Veni, Vidi, Tumblr

It’s been just over a week since we proudly announced that we now also own our very own Tumblr blog and have been stuffing it with all kinds of sick shit, creative waste, and predominantly breasts bouncing around all over the place. You and the rest of the world apparently seem to like the inspiring mess, because on this rainy Sunday—and since there’s nothing else going on in this world anyway—I get to play the ultimate nerd braggart with the following joyful news: After such a short time, we are already number 1 in good old Germany!

I would like to thank my family, our management, little Timmy, and of course God for bribing great blogs like L'Aureola, Fuck Prince Charming, and also Rebell Girls with money, ice cream, and intercourse just for us, in order to paralyze them and fully do justice to our utopia of graceful, confusing, and yes, sometimes somewhat disgusting images. And heaven forbid Kanye West even thinks about opening his mouth now...

And while we try to knock "What's your secret?" (which must have something to do with Scientology) off the international throne, you can meanwhile check out a fucked-up Steve Aoki, the tits of Uffie, and a few freaked-out hippies on our official AMY&PINK Tumblr blog. I’ve also hidden a nude photo of my ex-girlfriend somewhere—whoever finds it can keep her.

The New Generation of Pets: You Are a Little Piglet

To me, pets have always seemed like small, poor souls crammed together in cages far too small, locked up for their short lives in dirty aquariums, or trapped on leashes in a habitat not even one square meter in size. Instead of hopping around in the forest, splashing in the vast sea, or freely rising into the wide skies whenever they please, they lead a castrated existence on grandma’s sofa, Susie’s wall unit, or Paris Hilton’s arm. How cruel.

And maybe I only forcibly put the words pet and animal cruelty into the same sentence because—aside from a few houseflies or not very stable grasshoppers—I was never allowed to call such a creature my own. I could never run across wide meadows with Bello, marvel night after night at the glowing expanses of Nemo’s little miniature world, or watch as Goldie nibbled on my furniture and then proceeded to crap across the apartment. But that’s over now.

At our colleagues over at NYLON, I came across these adorable mini piglets that have been a trend in England, Spain, and God knows where for years. Breeding, freak of nature, malicious mutation—I don’t give a shit, I want one. And Ron Weasley has one too—so how could you say no to such a piggish affair?

So I ask you, oh dear pet dealers, Greenpeace activists, and pig breeders, you thousands out there listening to me right now: Where can you get these pot-sweet freaks of nature, what name should I punish my pseudo-Pokémon with, and most importantly: Which store will sell me suitable studs and leather belts so I can turn it into a mega-cool little battle pig? That reminds me: I should water my plants again… they’re already changing color. Responsibility is everything.

Freaking Out Without End: Prinz Pi – 3 Minutes

Seriously now, I’m starting to feel incredibly guilty because my favorite lamer Sara always puts out the most awesome videos ever and I publish them here pseudo-brand-new half an hour later. But Herbert, you simply have the best taste in music on the net, there’s no denying it. Except for that American hip-hop stuff.

Prinz Pi – actually Prinz Porno, Friedrich Kautz and probably also P. Diddy – is one of the hottest (I hate that word) rappers from the capital, one of our colleague MC Winkel’s favorites, and with “3 Minutes” he pulls a track out of his sleeve that, in a few short words, deals with the well-known values of young, unspoiled life: drinking, puking and fooling around. Of course without failing to cast a critical eye on the party, porn and poppers scene.

Great track, great video and so many dirty moments that even I can peacefully drift off to sleep afterwards. And if you want to say anything about the video, please drop it in the comments at dragstripGirl so I don’t feel so bad for stealing the video from her. But she called me fat, so I’m allowed to. So there.

Nothing Is Like It Used to Be: The Hopeless Journey of a Gamer

As little Mini-Marci I played every bit of crap that came under my fat sausage fingers. From "Sonic the Hedgehog" to "The Legend of Zelda" to "Final Fantasy". I knew every pixel, every enemy, every cheat by heart. I knew when and where which melody would play, could trace in the incredible depths of my brain exactly what consequences would result from which action somewhere in the game universe, and I knew how to help myself with magazines, walkthroughs and telephone support to crawl out alive from even the hardest and most unfair dungeons—with the princess on my back. The internet basically didn’t exist back then.

But those glittering times are long gone. Back then I could sing along to the Poké-Rap from memory; nowadays I can’t last ten minutes with the same game, can’t bring myself to immerse myself in one of these new worlds for long, and after the first few levels or the early swan song of my character I lose interest in the game, in the console, in everything. Because I know that this reheated crap can’t satisfy me, that everything used to be better anyway and that nothing—absolutely nothing—comes close to the Super Nintendo.

So I wander like a thirsty ex-junkie through the virtual worlds of digital fun, on an endless search for a game that will reignite the fire in me, push me to nerdy peak performance and let me prove that I can shoot, punch or arrange houses in the right order better than all the other members of this planet combined. But my journey seems doomed to fail.

And so, my dear friends of non-analog entertainment, I ask you for emotional support and assistance. The winter will be long and hard and I need a vibrating controller or a slippery mouse between my extremities to survive it, so I ask you: What’s the most awesome game currently floating around that will make me completely happy, that lets me compete with others, that pulls me into a completely different world and spits me back out as a pimply full-on nerd? Maybe it’s finally time to get one of those weird Wiis. At least then I could play Super Nintendo games again. Mario, here I come…

Mickey’s Nasty Revenge: Disney Destroyed My Life

In many ways, Disney is probably the most evil corporation in the world by far, leaving dubious pharmaceutical mixers, arms dealers who walk over corpses, or even lawsuit-happy law firms far behind. They keep their unhappy employees on a short leash with confidentiality agreements, are repeatedly led by power-hungry leaders, and corrupt the hearts of our future and past loved ones with unimaginably unrealistic expectations of love, romance and courage. No wonder many depressed employees see no other way out of their misery than to sneak pornography into the films.

Unfortunately, you can’t even make it to a girl’s front door unless by the third date at the latest you sign a legally watertight declaration that you absolutely adore the entire Disney universe and everything crawling and squeaking in it until the end of the relationship, that you’ll let yourself be tied to the couch at least two evenings a week for a “Disney Motion Pictures Presents” classic like "Sleeping Beauty" or "Cinderella", and preferably belt out all the musical numbers in C major with subtitle sing-along lyrics.

And anyone who has ever cried their eyes out at Mufasa’s death or laughed themselves under the table because of Aladdin’s goofy genie has suddenly seen all their previously sworn resolutions to find the movies stupid, to label the singing as totally idiotic and to despise the drawing style forever and ever dissolve into thin air. Just like with Scientology.

And honestly, we all grew up with that soft-focused schmaltz, plopped our four-letter behinds down early in the morning as little sprouts to watch "Darkwing Duck" and "TaleSpin", and had important values like self-confidence, courage and pride hammered into our sappy little brains by talking animals and hopping teacups. Not like in "Dragon Ball Z", where everyone is constantly beating the crap out of everything and everyone. Evil Son Goku. The end.

And that’s why I want to thank Disney. Thanks for the fact that I can still belt out the "circle of life" from memory. Thanks, Pepper Ann, that during your show I cheated on my ex-girlfriend with that busty blonde and still remember exactly what the episode was about. Namely her disgusting pimples.

But my greatest thanks go to Walt Disney himself. For creating a character in Mickey Mouse who bundles all my views on hatred, injustice and revenge into a single figure and keeps my greatest wish burning: to beat that stupid mouse—with her idiotic laugh, those huge, fat ears and the constant “Oh boy!”—all the way back across the Atlantic into the studios of hell in a spontaneous encounter. God forbid I ever set foot through the gates of Disney Land. Then the first rodent I lay eyes on is going down.

Death and All His Friends

Losing a loved one is probably one of the worst events that can befall you in life. Anyone who has ever had to endure that powerless pain of such a senseless loss and struggle with the sad certainty that this person is suddenly no longer there from one day to the next, will never again walk through that door and leaves you alone in this fast-paced, cold world, is pushed to the brink of sanity, feels pieces of their innermost soul shatter, and carries it like a melancholy, depressive illness for the rest of their life.

As much as we try to come to terms with death and its consequences and prepare ourselves for it as best as possible, the weeks, months and years are unimaginably cruel when the characters in your life who gave you love, friendship and comfort are suddenly replaced by dark thoughts that dwell on those careless seconds, replay scenarios of a parallel universe in which someone, somewhere made a different decision that avoided the inevitable and turned the never-to-be-forgotten moments of death into a harmless blink of an eye—all circling around a single word cemented forever in your head: Why.

A few days ago, the father of a very dear friend of mine unexpectedly passed away. She had always brought an overexposed ray of sunshine into my sometimes gray world filled with strange thoughts, and it hurts my heart to see her otherwise brightly shining eyes so dull and to know that, apart from offering support and promising not to leave her alone during this ordeal, I cannot protect her from the icy pain.

Stupid Search Queries: WTF?! Vol. 9

We’re used to quite a bit from our “WTF?!” series, but just before our anniversary edition you little piglets apparently dig deep into your bag of tricks once more and end up on AMY&PINK via Google, Bing & Co. with queries about animal sex, hermaphrodites and – why only?! – Maybrit Illner without clothes. And whoever reported their boss to the tax office: bad boy.

Nude pictures of ugly girls. At school there are only disabled sluts. Pictures of naked hermaphrodites. Darling is a fish. Rent a porn star. Hairy genitals. Do you want world domination or a cake? Sex with an amputated leg. Why does Pixie Lott look so old? Hot, naked American woman. LSD prostitutes. What should be considered with animal sex? Grandpa stuck it in me. When is summer in Brazil? Sexy Maybrit Illner naked. Free vagina without registration. Emo girls in white socks. Marathon blowjobs. Glass in the ass.

List of things girls stick into their pussy and ass. Best sex movie of all time. Pictures of sexy junkies. Karoline Herfurth naked. Will Linux survive? Hot sluts naked on SchülerVZ. Legs spread and go. Animal sex with bulls. How do I report my boss to the tax office? Fucking goats. My heart hates you. Hardcore sow. Sexy girls at the pool table. Naughty gifts. Anal sex with anorexics. My hot stepmother comes naked to the birthday. Confucius says carpets. Little angels fuck. Is Hannah ugly? The biggest pussy in the world.

Soko Magazine

The fact that good magazines don’t have to be printed on dead trees, published by large, faceless publishers, or cost a mere mark has been proven for years by tons of digital magazines from the international scene that can be quickly and easily downloaded and flipped through in the now-standard Portable Document Format – short and snappy: PDF.

One of the more beautiful examples is Soko Magazine, sent out from Buenos Aires, which recently released its second issue and, among other things, deals with the never-smiling Elly Jackson of La Roux, the beautiful works of young photographer Nirrimi Joy Hakanson, who photographs only with sunlight, and the sexy Cassandra Goeke. There are also great images by Manolo Campion, Jonathan Leder and Nacho Ricci to admire. Not bad.

If you’ve now developed a taste for anti-analog A4 pages, you can conveniently download thousands of them via the website specializing in exactly that, PDF Mags, and my personal favorite at the moment is the new edition of the Vice Guide to Berlin, which gives newcomers and visitors the opportunity to learn everything worth knowing about our favorite German city. And that’s pretty damn great.

No Party for You, Sick Boy

Not being healthy, aside from the obvious advantages of being allowed to lounge around at home, drink tea and lie in bed, of course also has one or two disadvantages, namely that you have to lounge around at home, drink tea and lie in bed and cannot participate in public life. While I, due to my pseudo-swine flu, had to amuse myself with snot-filled tissues, lousy German television programming and a seductively bulging refrigerator, others partied all weekend, let themselves mount each other and came a little closer to the meaning of life.

And what do you do when you’re tied to your bed and the ceiling seems to sink a few centimeters every minute? Tidy up the apartment, thoroughly clean everything, do the laundry, devour cake and tuna like there’s no tomorrow, constantly keep an eye on those strange Tumblr statistics, watch that “Anubis” crap on Nick, impossibly look for an alternative online role-playing game to “World of Warcraft” on the Mac, stumble upon “Eve Online,” click through the tutorial for a full two hours before finally blasting an enemy spaceship, only to uninstall the game afterwards and rather keep playing “Plants vs. Zombies,” study Japanese via smart.fm, squeeze pimples, flirt online with freaked-out emos, mentally prepare yourself for something exploding somewhere on German Unity Day and check whether it’s finally snowing outside.

But I can probably wait a long time for that, the way the sun is currently shining outside, so I’ll now drag my infected body to the nearest supermarket of my choice because I’ve eaten and drunk all my rations and hope that you had a slightly more exciting weekend than your sick Marci. But at least I now know the TV schedule of all channels by heart. That’s bound to help me at some point.

Protect the Skin You’re In

Anyone whose big dream—besides absolute spiritual salvation and owning a weather machine—has always been to adorn themselves with naked models, stars and Brandon Boyd dressed only with a pug on brightly colored T-shirts and run through the streets of the republic wearing them can now have exactly that dream fulfilled by Marc Jacobs. For an incredible 35 dollars made of 100% cotton.

For the designer and his campaign “http://theclones.eu/feature/14034/marc-jacobs-protect-the-skin-youre-in-x-chlo-sevigny,” such well-known personalities as Milla Jovovich, Heidi Klum and Dita Von Teese have shed their multi-layered clothes and pose as God created them for a good cause. Admittedly, at least Miss Von Teese is more often seen without than with clothing that protects against the cold, but it’s still a good thing.

The entire proceeds go in the form of liquid money, money, money to benefit the NYU Cancer Institute at the NYU Langone Medical Center, and that science fighting cancer is a good thing is surely something none of us would dispute. So if you want to dress nicely and do something good at the same time, you’d better run to a Marc Jacobs store tomorrow and buy yourself a stack of T-shirts. If you can find one...

How Important Is Sex to You?

Sexual intercourse in itself is a system ingeniously devised by nature for optimal reproduction within a species, guaranteeing the highest possible rate of healthy and vigorous offspring and brought about by various factors such as appearance, smell and position within the respective hierarchy. Nothing other than food intake, health and sufficient sleep is as important in our conception of the universe as sex.

Typical of the crown of creation that we are, we have humanized this rather mechanical process and imposed our very own sick priorities and fantasies on it. So we whip each other over the kitchen table in schoolgirl costumes, set world records for marathon blowjobs at erotic fairs and spend the gross domestic product of a small country each year in order to reach ejaculation with the help of streetwalkers. The Christian church understands mattress sports differently.

Therefore our question for this holy Sunday: What status does the whole matter of penetration have for you? Are you more the candlelight-romantic cuddling types, or does it sometimes have to get rough in a public park? And what about contraception anyway? Let us share in your exhibitionism and help us understand how this ecological process has mutated from a mere act of reproduction into a profitable, emotion-driven industry.

Uffie – Pop The Glock

Shortly before I moved to Berlin back then—which is now already over two years ago—I was really head over heels for a certain Uffie, at the time the hottest chick on this planet. I once shouted my big feelings briefly and bluntly into the wide world, and with one song in particular, which she sweetly and enchantingly trilled and which I always thought was about sex with a clock, she sang her way into my hungover little heart even without an official video: "Pop The Glock".

Today we are already nearing the end of 2009, have recently welcomed a new government, milk prices continue to fall, and German Unity Day passed without any major terrorist attack. But one thing hasn’t changed and is also confusing my fellow horny finder Sara: Uffie is still singing the same song. Or rather, again.

Maybe she doesn’t have any other songs or she just likes this one too much, but today a clip approved by her record label Ed Banger Records for the old, new song was released and I can only say: good things come to those who wait, because the video is sexy, colorful and wild, reminds me of a mix between Sebastien Tellier’s "Kilometer" and "Flathead" by the Fratellis, and maybe even lifts Uffie straight out of her clinging underground image. Unfortunately.

My Life After the Internet

I am a junkie. Not for drugs, not for alcohol, not for cigarettes. I’ve long since gotten over all those things. My new and old addiction is the Internet. The tons of inspiration, information and independence have made me more addicted than all the joints, chicks and "World of Warcraft" raids combined, let me fall asleep happily grinning with my MacBook in my arms and give me a deep inner satisfaction. Because I enjoy the whole damn thing, can enter people’s brains and even earn money with it.

But of course we all know that our surfing vacation won’t last forever. At the latest when the world is overrun by the Chinese, the Third World War is fought and the last website has been accessed, it will be over with Google, Twitter & Co. Then the nerds will have to get used to daylight again, hipsters will crack nuts with their iPhones and bloggers will proclaim their unimportant, ego-driven thoughts from a nearby mountain.

And it will be difficult for me at first to get used to the new circumstances, but I can be sure that my permanent overdose of the net will significantly contribute to my rehabilitation, because from experience I get bored with things pretty quickly. With the Internet this process is just drawn out a bit due to the extensive variations and mutations. At some point that too will be over.

So after the great collapse of the World Wide Web I will move as a hermit to a lonely island, build myself a place high up in the mountains with a fabulous view of the sea, flip through my printed-out porn pages and, with a delicious coconut cocktail, amuse myself about how important we once thought this networked new world was, which will then be nothing more than a fading memory. Goodbye, you once so rebellious medium. It was nice with you.

[audio:war.mp3]

The Official AMY&PINK Tumblr

It was only a matter of time before we finally had our own Tumblr blog, and one day before the anniversary of German reunification I can proudly announce: We are small, brain-mashed followers who, from this very second on, will immortalize everything that is somehow creative, inspiring and beautiful on the official AMY&PINK Tumblr.

And since you know us as the little piglets that we are, these visual finds consist largely of smut, substantial photographic art and pictures of naked people. Preferably the latter, which in turn means that you must have successfully survived your midlife crisis to be allowed to look at the page. Also, browsing would not be appropriate during your working hours—unless you want to get fired anyway. But who are we telling that.

With these legally inadmissible words I warmly welcome you to your new favorite photo stream, and of course we don’t just want to set up some second-rate image blog, but become number one on Tumblr. So follow, subscribe and love us as much as you can. Have fun and stay dry.

Where Are Hannah and Caro, Anyway?

Lately one might almost think that AMY&PINK is a single crazy one-man show, but anyone who takes the time to look at our lovingly written authors page will be amazed to discover that not only my round mug is on display there, but also two pretty girls competing for the favor of our viewers.

Namely Hannah and Caro. Outraged and answer-hungry visitors of our little island of happiness bombard us via email and Twitter with questions about the whereabouts of the sexy duo from Munich. Were they abducted by aliens, did they start as naked presenters on 9Live, or are they launching their own blog stripped of primary and secondary sexual characteristics?

Of course that’s all nonsense and these assumptions are completely far-fetched. After all, it’s common knowledge that our tough contracts clearly state over pages that nobody gets out of your favorite blog alive. Once AMY&PINK, always AMY&PINK. Signed in blood and other bodily fluids.

The banal reason for the temporary absence of our favorite ladies is simply that, due to their careers in the fashion business, they are currently drowning in so much stress and unrealistic deadlines that they probably don’t even have time to breathe. So let’s hope they soon see light at the end of the tunnel and once again form the natural counterbalance to old Marci with his filthy posts. We just have to believe firmly and clap our hands.

Viktor Vauthier

Even as a little brat, my later dream job was already cemented into my pubescent brain when I first held the Playboy with Nina Bott, whom I was madly in love with at the time, in my trembling hands: photographing girls without clothes. Preferably, of course, the pretty kind. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out for various reasons. For one, I didn’t have the money for the proper equipment, I would never be able to keep the camera steady around model-like naked beauties, and apart from a few drunken ex-girlfriends, nobody wanted to undress in front of me anyway.

Viktor Vauthier, who roams around East London, seems to have a much steadier hand. In the fashion and photography world he is already considered a star and certainly doesn’t need to hide from masters like Richard Kern, Terry Richardson or Keiichi Nitta. He has shot the cover of I Love Fake Magazine, runs his own Vimeo account together with his girlfriend, and has already had our favorite Swede Lisa Olsson in front of his lens.

With so much concentrated femininity that the nice gentleman has already captured with his soul-stealing machines, one can only look around enviously and depressed and hope that by chance a naked housewife walks toward you on the street so you can capture her with the camera built into your phone. That would at least be a start toward a big career.

Mixtape for the Autumn

If you dare to take a quick look out the window, you can almost sense that summer has long since moved on to more southern regions, leaving us alone with rain, sleet showers and the softly creeping cold of the winter ahead. So it’s no surprise that you can now spread viruses over the phone, just like Sonja did with me. That means I am forced to follow in the footsteps of my namesake and lie flat with a sexy autumn flu.

And what would the time of cuddling sessions, medication and hot milk with honey and ginger be without music that matches the falling leaves and puddles inviting you to jump in? That’s why today we present the ultimate autumn mixtape in digital form, so you can use your CDs and vinyl records to light a warming fire in the fireplace. Provided you own such a fireplace. Have fun!

John Martyn - May You Never, Animal Collective - Fireworks, Lykke Li - Let It Fall, Broken Family Band - It's All Over, Low - Sunflower, LCD Soundsystem - Great Release, Regina Spektor - Machine, The Chemical Brothers feat. Midlake - The Pills Won't Help You Know, Arcade Fire - Keep The Car Running, Marina and the Diamonds - Obsessions, Amanda Blank - Make It, Take It, Death In Vegas - So You Say You Lost Your Baby, Born Ruffians - Hummingbird, XTC - Stupidly Happy.

Dead Girls

The Internet as we know it today would never have become so big, despite information exchange and global networking, if smart people hadn’t built in the possibility of doing one thing over and over again: looking at photos. Of cute kittens, adorable children or a brawling Elvis. But one motif can, without exaggeration, probably be described as the most popular worldwide, across all generations, cultures and classes: the image of a girl.

Whether dressed or naked, real or animated, on a tree or on a guy: photos with female actors in them are viewed, downloaded and reused. While the crusade of feminine world domination began on rather shady websites, especially since the Web 2.0 boom images can now be exchanged freely in all directions. Not too long ago via bookmarking sites like FFFFOUND! or We Heart It, but more recently on a large scale through tons of Tumblr pages—let someone say something about copyright now.

An old hand in the business of digitally collecting female curves and one of my favorites is a certain Goto Motoshi, who gained fame and honor especially through his extraordinarily awesome Straightline Bookmark and the project 4U. He has recently been running the so-called BijoMagazine—a playground of aesthetically beautiful and culturally stimulating photos of young ladies that many a Tumblr teen could take as an example, and whose main characters can even be rated with little hearts like on our site.

The Internet is twice as much fun this way, and I’m curious when we’ll finally be able to watch moving images in here, kind of like video films. VHS-style. Hopefully soon, because I think that would become the new hit. Someone please invent that; I’d probably call such a platform YouTube. Yes, that’s my plan.

And What Do You Dream About at Night?

Late at night, shamelessly and without punishment, dreaming yourself into the life of a pirate, a dog, or a sex offender and using extraordinary special abilities is clearly more fun for many people than the monotonous existence of an insurance clerk, bus driver, or financial accountant. Night visions are nature’s role-playing games, regarded in some cultures and in the twisted brains of lackluster esotericists as prophetic twists of fate, and for the most diverse reasons and at the most varied parts of the body they can cheerfully jolt us awake from deep sleep, pleasantly moist.

Personally, lately I’ve been having strange, twisted dreams that merge seamlessly into one another, are impetuous, and drive me insane. At first I experience sexy adventures in the land of Titicaca with female classmates, only to find myself seconds later roaring on a Berlin meadow with Bela B, singing sea shanties with him. Hardly have the last verses of “My Bonnie Is Over the Ocean” faded away when I’m suddenly sitting in a bathtub taking photos with my naked ex-girlfriend and her bald karate instructor, which then turns out to be a level in a gigantic video game.

Drenched in sweat and confused like a hamster on Ritalin, these dreams haunt me well into the day, and since I need confirmation that, firstly, I’m not completely insane and, secondly, I’m certainly not the only one in our little support group who dreams the biggest crap, you have to tell me what absurd, illogical stories you’ve been dreaming lately—stories that are forever burned into your tiny brains. Otherwise I’ll check myself into the loony bin tomorrow.

Hanna Håkansson

In recent years, Sweden’s capital Stockholm has, at irregular intervals, produced a veritable flood of very young fashion victims who distinguish themselves through blogs, Lookbook.nu accounts, and their own portfolios, thereby pulling the fashion world out of stagnation and back into the awareness of countless girls and boys. Fresh faces like Hedvig Boström, Carolina Engman, or Lovisa Ranta speak for themselves.

Hanna Håkansson is 16 years old, another girl from Stockholm and the perfect example of one of these fresh creative sources from the far north. She models, runs the enchanting photo blog Worm vs. Bird together with her friend Fanny Wikstad, and together with Sara Hellgren they form the small indie band Shivering Heights, creating sounds from a forgotten world.

And when I look at her photos, listen to her songs, and read her texts, I really wonder why more teenagers don’t channel their energy and dreams in such an inspiring way and use their free time and their lives to create art, creativity, and beauty instead of hanging around in the streets, playing PlayStation, and beating up pensioners on the subway. Maybe one really should emigrate to Sweden.

Hail to Our New Rulers

Right off the bat: everyone who, despite our begging, pleading, and kicking request, didn’t manage to haul their soft, smooth butts into one of those cozy polling stations because they were too drunk / high / lazy should get themselves a broken nose from a bouncer they trust first thing tomorrow morning. Because voter turnout was, unfortunately… crap.

The result is now a majority for the lovers of nuclear power, Afghanistan, and all-pervasive security for mankind, and the allergy sufferers of everything that has to do with that strange newfangled form of communication, freedom of expression, and clear thinking: a black/yellow coalition of the conservative CDU/CSU and the pseudo-fun party FDP.

For the internet and all sympathetic freedom fanatics, this outcome is of course both crushing and depressing, but we nevertheless congratulate the Pirates for being elected by almost a million nerds. And you can already start placing bets on when, in the times of the surveillance and censorship state that lie ahead, we at AMY&PINK—and maybe you as well—will be banned by our upcoming government. Hail to our new rulers.

Skero feat. Joyce Muniz – Cabin Party

Since the entire German populace is busy today squeezing into hopelessly overcrowded voting booths to secure a better future for their homeland—and many websites are even shutting down their servers to drive election slackers to the polls—on this historic Sunday let’s instead devote ourselves to our favorite neighbors in the south, who, with commercial-free blockbusters, an amusing version of our language, and the tallest girls in the world, lead a much better life than we do in sniffling Schland.

Martin Skerwald is one of the few inhabitants of the anti-coastal state, calls himself Skero in his spare time, is a street art artist, and makes Austrian rap. First in a group called Texta and now as a solo act. And because it apparently is always summer, sun, and sunshine there, the red-whites don’t have to jet off to distant, exotic vacation destinations but instead lounge comfortably at the city’s outdoor pool.

So listen with us to the Caribbean sounds of the track “Kabinenparty,” imported into our hearts from the album “Memoiren eines Riesen,” which in impeccable German tells the romantic story of a leisurely party in the changing room of a swimming pool. Or to put it differently: Atzen-karamba at the poolside. This is the hit—everybody join in.

No Power to the Idiots

Our lives are full of decisions. Small and big ones. Easy and hard ones. Clear and murky ones. Should I move abroad? Should I buy myself an ice cream? Should I go out with stupid Birte? And no matter how confusing and hopeless the options may be—once we’ve made our choice and step into the stream of consequences that result from it, we then feel free and relieved. Because we realize that by making that statement we’ve moved a little further forward and that from now on things can only get better. Unless, of course, you foolishly let yourselves be carried away into running over your teacher—then that’s probably it for you.

As is well known, Sunday is the legendary federal election, and from all sides we are being bombarded with calls to decide to decide. To choose democracy. To stand up against hatred of humanity. To carry on the social idea. To preserve our freedom. And although I am strongly inclined to dismiss everything that has even once been mentioned on RTL or in BILD as empty and not even worth passing on to other people as a sneeze, I hereby vehemently call on you to drag your lazy asses into one of those absolutely sexy voting booths tomorrow. No matter how bad your hangover may be.

Because I really don’t feel like my numerous children someday hopping around in polished uniforms on the green meadows of the Fourth Reich, croaking “Heil Hitler,” just because some stinking lazy hipsters were too stupid to vote and we are therefore ruled in the near future by pedophile communist Nazis. If you can’t manage to make two stupid crosses, then some thug idiot will vote for you. And who knows what sick options he’ll choose… in the end he might even vote for the Pirates or something equally perverse.

The Story of the Lost Souls

Some people on this planet are simply kissed by fortune and blessed by the muse. They look good, pursue an incredibly passionate profession, live in a faithful partnership, and can choose the right companions from their rich and understanding circle of friends for any occasion—whether for sports, partying, or going to the movies. And no matter how closely you look behind the supposed façade, apart from a love of life, understanding for everyone and everything, and a hope that can hardly be beaten down, you find nothing but yourself.

My humble self, on the other hand, seems to be a walking magnet for lost souls. Creatures of darkness who somehow can’t cope with life, who go through depression, who are alone. Outsiders who struggle with torn love, loneliness, and bittersweet thoughts of suicide. Voluntarily or forced by fate. My friendships, relationships, and more intimate acquaintances all arise from the shadowy sides of existence.

I take them into my life and walk with them along the most difficult and darkest paths until, after nights drowned in wine, reality-distant adventures, and open-heart conversations, I release them back into the rest of humanity strengthened in will and with newly ignited hope.

And the more destroyed, tormented by God, and willing to put an end to it all they are, the louder and brighter I hear their little spirits knocking and take care of them. Because they have so much to tell, bursting with passion, dizzy from the alternative paths that all of this here can offer. Outsiders, rejected ones, and misunderstood ones—unite.

You Amuse Me

I woke up this morning in Sara’s bed, enjoyed a beautiful sunrise over the Berlin skyline as I pulled the curtains aside, and then had an insatiable urge to wash my dishes. With Carsten I briefly philosophized about the Beatles and grannies at early-morning bowling, and as I staggered the few blocks home, still tipsy and swaying from the aftereffects, the impressions of the past night and the confirmation that this city is at its most beautiful early in the morning wouldn’t let me go.

After pre-drinking at Belushi’s, thanks to our Better-Life-Guide iHeartBerlin we ended up at the Deep Throat Action Party at Weise Puff, stroked fat cats and munched on pretzel sticks, and then actually wanted to head to the WMF on Klosterstraße, but by then we were clearly too wiped out. So we went home instead and let ourselves be sprinkled with a few episodes of "Friends" until we fell asleep exhausted. I simply love Joey.

And since I’m already awake this unusually early, my dear uncle has brought a bit of flood to my bank account plagued by low tide, and my urge to wash, clean, and scrub hasn’t disappeared despite this internet session, I’ll devote myself today entirely to freshening up my apartment. You’re very welcome to imitate this sparsely scattered moment of life. Cleaning buddies in spirit. Or something. Whatever.

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Pomplamoose

Often the simplest things are the best. These wise words already applied to “Tetris,” did not lose their meaning with crispbread, and convinced millions of listeners with Nicole’s "A Little Peace." Especially in music these days, more and more people are banging the drum, showing off, putting on makeup, crafting an image—and it’s annoying. And to all the blabbermouths named Britney, Gaga, or Cyrus, I hereby present Pomplamoose.

Jack Conte and Nataly Dawn from California are already an absolute insider tip on YouTube (and what counts as an insider tip there has already been viewed by more people than the chancellor debate) and perform, alongside their own songs in the loveliest way, their own versions of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”, Nat King Cole’s “Nature Boy”, and “Mrs. Robinson” by Simon and Garfunkel. And simply through Nataly’s sweet appearance and her enchanting voice, worldwide success is already pre-programmed.

So you Regina Spektors, Anna Ternheims, and Marit Larsens out there, better watch out that these two newcomers don’t just snatch away your piano and guitar and kick you off the stage. They definitely have what it takes. The album will be bought, even if Jack Conte somehow scares me a little. Nightmares pre-programmed...

Draw Us Naked Girls!

When I was still a little pubescent pizza-face and my puny brain was doped up on "Dragon Ball," "Digimon," and "Wedding Peach," my entire free time (and usually school time as well) was spent sitting in front of the Super Nintendo, studying my Bravos thoroughly, and scribbling naked manga girls onto dead trees. Pseudo-hentai at zero cost, so to speak. My great role model back then was a certain Satoshi Urushihara, the master of breasts and creator of masterpieces such as "Plastic Little" and "Ragnarock City." And I wasn’t even that bad.

But what a somewhat disturbed guy named Ryuko Azuma pulls off over there is drawn perversion in its purest form. The Japanese artist from Tokyo sketches the lewdest fantasies, makes confusing self-portraits of himself, and casually had the hottest idea for a T-shirt ever. On top of that, he of course tweets and runs one of the crankest Tumblrs I know with his blog.

So much concentrated madness naturally deserves our respect, and since the weather is getting crappier anyway and we’re surely not the only joke figures who waste our lonely days sketching naked beauties, we’re calling on you this weekend to get back to the drawing board, dig out your pencils and Copic Markers, and just scribble wildly and twistedly while letting your imagination run free.

Then upload your sexy little pictures somewhere and send us a link via comment or trackback so we can all enjoy them. You won’t win anything this time except the soft moaning of our more than qualified art critics, but at least you’ll be occupied for a while and won’t have to loiter around in the streets. Got it? Then go!

Lily Allen Calls It Quits

Without calling in advance or even giving us a brief warning, the British singing talent Lily Allen announced today on her blog It’s Not Alright the end of her music career. She supposedly doesn’t feel like making another album and, according to the glossy magazine Gala, would rather focus on her theater career, which is set to begin with the stage play “Reasons To Be Pretty” in London’s West End.

I personally am totally into Lily A. and her songs that burst with dirty wordplay and tackle rolling themes, which is why from this day on I will wear black and once again indulge in my favorite tracks "Smile," "I Could Say," and "Littlest Things" and of course her nude photos. Just so I don’t forget her. You know what I mean.

Her press spokesperson, by the way, denied everything shortly after Lily’s plans to turn her back on her record label and the rest of the music business became known; she is currently still doing very well with her album “It’s Not Me, It’s You” and therefore isn’t thinking about a new one at the moment.

Sure. And regardless of whether Ms. Allen once again showed her breasts to her hairdresser, whether it was all a big misunderstanding, or whether drugs and alcohol went a bit to her head while typing: at least we’ve had her back here on AMY&PINK and can play a few of her tracks when the opportunity arises. And that’s worth something too.

Love My Chucks

Clothes make the man, and that still applies today just as it did hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago. Whether young girls stroll down the street in stylish vintage looks, gangsters hang out in clubs with wide hoodies and slightly tilted caps, or blonde brats loiter around the train station dressed in dark emo outfits: appearance determines how you are looked at, assessed, and treated. And this categorization happens faster than you think.

One item of clothing, however, has survived the ever-changing storms of fashion for decades, is still considered alternative, tasteful, and somehow awesome, and is gladly worn by fashion sluts, pseudo-nerds, and Atzen punks alike—provided they have taste: Chucks.

These shoes connect the enlightened ones, those who know how to appreciate good music, who carry a sense for what is real, and who stroll through life with a sexy kind of indifference without having given up their dreams, and separate their owners from all the dog beaters, bank clerks, and Bild readers of this nation and beyond.

When it comes to Chucks, even organic grannies and psychology students turn into brand fetishists; of course, Converse has to be tacked onto the cheese-smelling and preferably mud-covered sneakers, and all those glitter high-top special editions are obviously crap. The only ones that feel truly authentic are the single-colored ones. Even Nora Tschirner knows that.

And because she is just as fond of the former basketball shoes as I am and finds people automatically more likable when they clomp toward her wearing exactly these sneakers, I too would like to condescend to declare the Chuck Taylor All Star, alongside the iPod and Nora Tschirner as a girlfriend, as one of the three accessories one must own in life in order to enter paradise at the end of it without having to stand in line.

What Is It, Doctor?

In every reasonably good porno it’s about the carnal lust of mostly human bodies penetrating each other and, at the grand finale, spraying various bodily fluids in all four cardinal directions. So less about love than about pure sex itself – tits, cocks and pussies in close-up. But what nature has come up with for the time after the fireworks of desire, you rarely see there. And if you do, then it’s illegal: children.

The little ones are our future, images of our longings, a crowning achievement of two-sex reproduction. And nobody wants to have them. Labeled as career-ending, stress-infested, money-devouring monsters, no soap opera, "Oliver Geissen" show or sitcom can do without the gnomes. Ostracized by society, young mothers or women with far-reaching reproductive urges are pushed out of their circle of friends as asocial tax parasites and replaced with slim, career-obsessed female students. After all, who wants to bring a child into this messed-up world?

In doing so, we unfortunately forget more and more often that without these little rascals we wouldn’t be stumbling around on God’s earth at all, that maybe our little Benni will one day find a cure for cancer and – now listen up you goths – that we ourselves were once children or perhaps still are. And if not physically, then at least on the inside. You’re only as old as you feel.

So here’s our midweek question: Do you want to get yourselves such garden gnomes in the future? What if tomorrow you have to pee on your Clearblue pregnancy test and it delivers the good news in flashing letters? Keep it or abort it? One child, two children… do you even want to adopt a whole African tribe? Or do you stay true to the unofficial motto of our battered generation and keep screwing around without screaming consequences as usual? All questions whose answers you’d better think about while watching a cozy porno.

Sneeze Mag

Contrary to all the more than dubious prophecies of self-proclaimed social media gurus, print is of course not dead and won’t be any time soon. In fact, local newspapers, shady smut magazines and bloated tabloid publications are dying out, but that’s solely because it’s better for the trees standing around and because corrupt editors-in-chief and journalists fill the white pages with advertisement-laced generic drivel or don’t even want to pay for the photos they use. Almost like with us. And that simply doesn’t work.

However, printed thin wood is most fun when it’s used as sexily and blatantly as in the Canadian skate magazine Sneeze Mag. This huge magazine not only convinces with skillful shots of athletic skateboarders, male and female, but at the same time also features beautiful, half-naked girls, sick cars and stylish fashion, all of which you can easily tack up on your wall as posters. My bare walls would be delighted.

After the “Big Hands” issue, the "Read Her Lips Issue" was released in the summer, which includes a great selection of photographs by well-known artists such as Tobin Yelland, JAMIL GS and my current favorite Keichii Nitta. The next version should be released in autumn and is already available on the street for two dollars, and anyone who sees it lying around in a box somewhere should please bring me a copy. I’m into that kind of stuff. Thanks.

Hannah in an Interview

We simply love giving interviews to external websites or magazines and answering questions about everything that is somehow personal, dirty and excessive and that offers us the unique opportunity to force our two cents on world-shaking topics like blogs, music or baby elephants. That naturally makes us appear much more important and simply gives us an all-around good feeling.

This time the people from the bilingual Berlin lifestyle and party blogazine Stylish Kids In Riot had the unbelievable luck of being allowed to ask a few questions to our enchanting fellow blogger Hannah Banana Montana, who of course answered them with her usual charm and inimitable wit to everyone’s satisfaction. And there’s also an exclusive photo of her to admire – so what more could we possibly want?

And Stefan, who is interested in us, has even more in store, as he is announcing an entire article about our beloved AMY&PINK for this Wednesday. We’re definitely curious; we didn’t even know that we had made it into some Top 30 and of course we’re calling on you to storm their comments and take Hannah’s interview apart in a skillfully stylish manner.

Shin Chan Is Dead

There really aren’t many role models who guide me through my life. Okay, Steve Jobs might count. Or the guy from the Edeka commercial. But if, yes if anyone at all may call himself my mentor and teacher, then it’s a small, spoiled brat with a big mouth from Japan who knows exactly how to deal with women, classmates and his parents: Shin Chan.

This week, police found the body of the 51-year-old creator and inventor of “Shin Chan,” Yoshito Usui, who died during a hiking trip in the mountains of Tokyo. He had previously been missing for days and was clearly identified by his teeth. The land of the rising sun and all worldwide fans of the devious kindergarten kid are mourning today.

And we too will never forget the adventures of the little rascal, remember the good times when his series ran up and down in the early evening program on RTL II and continue to laugh along with Mitsy, Lucky and Principal Enzo. On YouTube you can find plenty of episodes of the series and never forget: “Dance the butt boogie-woogie, it makes you happy boogie woogie!”

Attack of the Punkgrls

Exchange of information my ass: The internet is primarily designed for the dirty aspects of life: overthrowing governments, watching cute kittens playing and downloading photos of people ideally penetrating each other. And while providers of professional porn films in particular fear the democratization of exhibitionist sex, since paying customers are running away from them in droves and turning to sites like Burning Camel, Teens Exposed and College Hot Box, Herbert next door is pleased that he can quickly and free of charge get material to relieve pressure, whereas in the past he had to sheepishly and stupidly whistle his way to the nearest video store.

How naked girls and money can still be successfully combined nowadays has long been shown by successful websites such as Suicide Girls, Gods Girls or Burning Angel, which not only impress with an exciting selection of alternative beauties, but also incorporate the long-proven social concept into their offerings: models and customers in one community – within reach.

The newest offspring of the dirty movement comes from the United Kingdom, is called PunkGrl and strikes in the same vein as its big role models with nudies like Nina Terror, Pink Trash and Dark Dolly: tattooed young girls riddled with piercings and drenched in hair dye and make-up undress for money and thereby serve the entire range of clichés of full-fledged bad girls. Naturally, I like that tremendously and that’s why I immediately registered our delicious Caro there, who would surely fit in wonderfully. Don’t you think so too?

WTF?! Vol. 8

Welcome to a new edition of “Wat Ta Fak,” the show whose purpose even we don’t understand and which exists solely because you are all little piglets who land on our site with the most unromantic and mind-twisting Google search queries without even feeling ashamed. But the time has come to put a pointed hat on you and send you into the corner to repent. Let’s go—what have you been typing in lately to end up on AMY&PINK?

I had sex with my sister. Porn stars leaving the church. Do you die earlier from sex? Are you ugly! Whores in Tokyo. Vasta naked. Tongue doctor. Smoking fucking. Marcel best porn star. Mister Gaga. Does sex hurt the first time? What do the numbers on Billy Boy mean? I smell like fish. Sick tits. Teens in the mud. Who did Harry Potter kiss for the first time in the movie. Pants down, legs spread.

Blog similar to Titty City. Hairy genitals. What happens to my stomach after losing weight? Types of vaginas. Leopards to print out. Who is the model from the Milchschnitte commercial. Fir trees in my back, how to get rid of them? Repeat of Hannah. Better than LastNightsParty. The video with the drunk guy fucking a slut on MTV. Everything for the horde. Shit on a conveyor belt. Red hair meets Holland. Ass wide open. Naked freckles.

Sushi Mixtape

As you all know very well, thanks to my fabulous Japanese course I’ve finally found a convincing excuse to spend all day hanging out on Asian websites that nobody knows and that stand out because of mysterious characters, brightly colored GIF animations, and constantly smiling Cheshire cats. As if I wouldn’t have done that anyway—after all, I’m an absolute Nippon freak.

And what does a wannabe Japanese guy like me love most of all? Of course: listening to sushi tunes. Ever since the first Sailor Moon episode aired on TV I’ve been crazy about it, and at my funeral someday a catchy J-pop song will be played instead of some lame piano piece. And that’s even though I don’t understand a word beyond “Watashi” and “Sayonara”—but that will change soon enough.

Until then, I firmly believe that each of these tracks is about emotional depth and creative brilliance, and I now condemn you to listen to all my current favorite sushi songs in the following order. One after another. Go on, start: Scandal – BEAUteen, Ikimono Gakari – Yell, Ai Otsuka – Smily, Abe Mao – Anata no Koibito ni Naritai no desu, Shiina Ringo – Tsugou no Ii Karada, Asian Kung Fu Generation – Fujisawa Loser, Kaela Kimura – Happiness!!!, Stereopony – Smilife, Spitz – Hotaru, Orange Range – Onegai! Señorita, Maaya Sakamoto – Mameshiba, Utada Hikaru – Deep River, the brilliant green – Rainy days never stays.

The Internetz Is Awesome

Honestly folks, yesterday I laughed in disbelief and cried tears of proud joy when the story of a small poster unfolded in the ultimate Merkel flash mob. And everyone was like: “Yeaahh.” In moments like that I always know why I waste my life surfing the internet and running a blog instead of satisfying a girl.

Election coverage, zombie flash mobs, even entire parties are forming from groups of people who grew up with chats, weblogs, and forums, who carry notebooks around like books and understand the limitless power of the newest medium. And while the newly hatched neo-nerds have shed their muteness toward the real world and loudly tweet their throbbing pride in the knowledge they command, the rest—including entire states—feel hopelessly overwhelmed by the digital revolution, which manifests itself in aimless censorship, fearful laws, and persistent antipathy toward surfers and keyboard tappers. What frightens you, you fight. By any means necessary.

That’s why I’m proud. Of you, of us, of everyone who has devoted themselves to digitalism in order to change, improve, and dominate the world with it. Despite the risk that a kind of two-class society could develop through this network elite, in which geeks someday seize the helm, install Linux on every computer, and communicate only in binary. The thought gives me chills, but it can hardly be worse than what we have right now. In this sense, keep it up. “Make way, we are from the internet!”

Avril Lavigne, I’m Coming!

Alright, the plane tickets to the States are booked… I’ve packed condoms and fresh underwear, and otherwise all I need is my sexy smile and the ability to comfort crying girls. Because it has finally happened—what I’ve been conjuring for over six years with voodoo spells and running over black cats: Avril Lavigne, whom I’ve had a crush on since birth, is—everyone hold on tight—single again! And everyone’s like: “Yeaahh”!

On her blog, the 24-year-old writes that she recently separated from her now ex-husband and Sum 41 singer Deryck Whibley, but that she still considers him the greatest person in the world and respects him more than anything. But we all know: that will change when I jump naked out of a surprise cake on her birthday and play “Complicated” for her on the ukulele. Yes, feel free to picture that. Hurts, doesn’t it?

Of course, I do feel a bit sorry that their crazy marriage didn’t last, but anyone who occasionally watches a certain kind of trash on MTV and VIVA knows that relationships between two (rock) stars never last long and are more or less doomed to fail. Good for me, bad for everyone else. And even if the whole thing turns out to be just a publicity stunt for her upcoming album, when a hot rock chick calls for mental support, I’m the first to throw myself onto a plane around the world for her. Avril Lavigne, I’m coming!

Watashi wa Marcel desu

High schools have this oddly unique smell of well-to-do overachievers, teachers from the ’68 movement, and brain matter stuck to the walls that immediately reminded me of my temporary time attending that fitness camp for brains, from which I was thrown out headfirst after a short while. Mind you, without ever having seen the treasure in the basement. Nevertheless, yesterday evening I bravely entered the John Lennon High School to finally learn the language I’ll need someday to marry Sailor Moon: Japanese.

Instead of the promised female teacher, a Japanese rock musician stood before our group of fifteen—consisting of little schoolgirls, burly policemen, and the funny Abdullah—who were all into that crazy island nation just like I was. Daisuke Hasegawa. Lively, wild, constantly laughing and fooling around. In short: we loved him.

Diligently, diligently we learned to write our names in katakana, played little group games, and by the end we were able to introduce ourselves. Iie watashi wa Detlef dewa arimasen. The pronunciation and speed are still lacking a bit, but I’m confident that soon I’ll be able to order three Japanese prostitutes to my room. Until then, from now on I’ll bombard you with Far Eastern art until you see nothing but lots of little red dots—from the “Hello Kitty” PC to beautiful views to musical high art. Watashi wa Marcel, dozo yoroshiku.

Pussy of the Week: Kanye West

Without a doubt and without beating around the bush, our award for the biggest pussy in the universe this week goes to the exceptional talent, the down-to-earth one, the irrevocably God-sent Kanye West, who once again managed, with the restraint and sensitivity of a swine flu, to be the center of attention.

What kind of person must that be, I ask myself, who rips the microphone out of the hands of sweet Taylor Swift at the biggest and happiest moment of her music career, declares her competitor the actual winner of the evening, and then leaves the stunned newcomer standing alone on stage in front of a bewildered music channel and an audience bursting with envy?

Not without reason was he crowned the clueless Gayfish by the creators of the series "South Park," and because of his diss against the blonde young thing, the self-proclaimed musician is currently mutating into an absolute internet hype. Whether Pokémon, the recently departed Patrick Swayze, or even my beloved Keyboard Cat, Kanye pops up everywhere and ruins the fun for all of us. And anyone who even gets dissed by Obama is without a doubt our Pussy of the Week.

What The 4Chan?!

The internet – infinite expanses. While the well-behaved citizens of this tranquil globe browse their favorite reads at bargain prices on Amazon, cultivate friendships on Facebook, and scour Chefkoch for fresh recipes, the bad boys band together into Pirate Parties, download movies and music for free from The Pirate Bay, and illegally publish videos from MTV on YouTube. And then there is 4Chan.

4Chan is the realized nightmare of every housewife, mother, and Ursula von der Leyen. The imitation of a Japanese website long since lost in the fog of obscurity is the terrorist, colorful mixture of homosexual racists, necrophiliac child molesters, and pubescent petty criminals that has developed into the inviting, warming home of the worst scum this planet has to offer: us!

Because this little garden of sin gives its visitors exactly the three prerequisites needed to escape their humanity for a few moments and develop into a perverse shadow of themselves: internet, anonymity, and the feeling of moving within a group of like-minded people. That is the reason why, especially on /b/, everything seems to be allowed: jokes are made about dead Jews, photos of naked ten-year-olds are rated, and cute little kittens are abused – and after just a few moments the spook is over again.

But while many view the site as the concentrated and unstoppable evil of humanity that must be smoked out and banned immediately, I believe that 4Chan is merely a mirror of our dark, true nature, far removed from kindness, love, and respect, where hatred, racism, and disgusting excesses of base perversions reign. And how exactly do you intend to destroy something that is anchored so deeply within yourself that the mere thought of it makes you shudder and you do everything to ensure that this monster never emerges? Exactly: not at all. Therefore, it still applies: Tits or GTFO and PedoBear is watching you...

Gay Killer Viruses from Mars

You love us, we know that. Hannah knows it, Caro knows it, I know it. I mean, we love you too, after all. Every single little nerd, wimp, and lamer in front of the screens. You’re just like us. Only without the halo. And you can’t go on without your daily dose of AMY&PINK. But listen carefully, out there – yes – there are also forces that absolutely do not like us, one could almost speak of hatred.

So please don’t be too shocked when I tell you that yesterday we were the victims of a nasty, insidious attack. It must have been around 2, no 3 p.m., when our site was bombarded simultaneously by Christian associations, Scientology, Kanye West, and gay killer viruses from Mars with hundreds, thousands, even millions of requests – in mysterious nerd language that’s called a denial-of-service attack. No wonder our server didn’t feel like dealing with that anymore, and whoosh, AMY&PINK was unreachable for hours.

And those of you with glasses, polo shirts, and side parts who are currently compiling your Linux kernel and haven’t yet been admitted to the oxygen tent due to excitement, please enlighten us as to whether there is a technical, reasonably understandable way to fend something like that off if some bored chancellor candidate thinks he can come at us again with his death server. And if you have no idea about technology, firewalls, and home savings contracts, you can at least play detective with us and speculate about who could possibly hate us so deeply that they want to see us offline. Great, now you’ve made Hannah cry...

Lamers Save the World

Doing something good for our planet and everything around it isn’t that easy anymore. We are constantly led astray by money, fame, and delicious ice cream, feel lost in a wide field, and have to find our way in a dog-eat-dog society in which everyone thinks only of themselves. But if everyone does that, at least everyone is being thought of, right…?

Sara with the new haircut and I therefore set out this weekend on a three-stage mission to save the world – which may not even deserve it – from itself. Without a plan, without weapons, and without common sense. We found ourselves in the midst of the largest gathering of nerds who had crawled out of their basement lairs especially for the "Freedom Instead of Fear" demonstration and took to the streets with us against data retention, against surveillance, and against censorship. The "World of Warcraft" servers and Linux memorial forums probably haven’t been that empty in a long time. And while we were peacefully hopping around next to the van of the Pirate Party, we really felt like we were making a difference. I can has privucy?

After we had successfully helped humanity to more freedom, in the second step we of course had to take care of the other inhabitants of Earth. No, not animals and certainly not plants, but naturally the extraterrestrial shrimps who were vegetating there, lonely and abandoned in their holding camp. Through our sheer willpower while sitting in the cinema, we transported them from "District 9" directly back to their home planet. Or something like that. The movie was pretty good, even though I constantly wanted to punch that jerk of a main character in the face. If he shows up again in the sequel, I swear...

At night, Sara and I had no choice but to help ourselves. We were on the guest list for the Vice Party for the preview of the game "Dirt 2" at the Cargo and sneaked together through the parallel world of pretentious hipsters, laser shows, and game screens projected onto the walls. And despite the delicious water, we decided to leave the party crowd shortly thereafter, found ourselves on the subway a few minutes later, and came to the conclusion that we are absolute lamers. But at least we saved the world.

Ed Hardy Is Very Beautiful

I really don’t know what you all have against Ed Hardy. Okay, the clothes might not be quite as trendy as American Apparel, Zimtstern or Carhartt, but at least they dare to try something. They have wonderfully creative and colorful patterns on their shirts, printed with the fiercest creatures of the animal kingdom and marked with that discreetly subtle lettering. THAT is art.

And I’m not the only one who loves the brand of this completely down-to-earth and extremely likable fashion designer god more than steamed vegetables, snowstorms in the morning and rotten eggs in the fridge. Our favorite pseudo-goth Marilyn Manson likes to wear it just as much as loser Hilary Clinton and the suck-up hero from “How I Met Your Mother”.

That should finally prove once and for all that not only antisocial dimwits, ghetto-style illiterates and tanned short-haired yobs are into Ed Hardy, but also respectable, honest and wealthy people we look up to. And if anyone claims otherwise again, I’ll come by with Justin and Jaqueline and there’ll be some real trouble.

Nothing Lasts Anymore

Nowadays we all live in a generation full of short-lived trends, we get bored quickly and farewell and new beginnings are constantly passing the baton to each other. Emotions, feelings, adrenaline – we want to lead a fulfilling life full of fun, excitement and surprises; there is no more room for anything else.

There should be lots of sex, heaps of money raining down, happiness popping up on every street corner. We want to be cheerful, to give something positive back to the world, to be surrounded by good friends who love and respect us and to whom we give the same in return, to meet people who make us laugh and inspire us, and to have relationships in which we feel secure, challenged and fucked. Everything has to be special; routine is dangerous, stagnation is death.

Nothing lasts forever and we have learned not to let people and situations get too close to us anymore so that we can quickly separate from them again if necessary. Because life is too short to let negative influences ruin your day, and that is exactly why it’s right to give things that bore / annoy / depress you a roundhouse kick à la Chuck Norris in order to quickly create optimal space again for the people who lift you back up. Because every farewell carries within it the wonderful feeling of a misty summer morning when you have thrown off the old burdens to devote yourself to completely new tasks. Baby, it’s a wild world.

Your Personal 9/11

There are days in every person’s life that, mildly put, are a catastrophe, push us to the brink of despair internally and change our here and now abruptly from one moment to the next—without warning. When that happens, all you can do is watch as the rubble of our hard-built existence collapses over us and try to limit the damage. And it doesn’t even take an airplane crashing into a skyscraper.

It can be the death of a good friend who was still sitting in a bar with you the evening before, laughing and beaming with joy as he told you about his future plans in Brazil. It can be the moment you realize that your long-term girlfriend has been having an intimate relationship with her professor for some time. Or it’s the answer to a question you should never have asked.

Blows of fate happen again and again, everywhere, and once the smoke of destruction has cleared and the view is directed at what remains, the question is written across the victims’ faces like a tattoo of an often very unfair life: “Why me?” Therefore, on the anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, we would like to know from you: What has been your personal 9/11 so far? And how on earth did you get through it?

Bat For Lashes – The Two + Two

One listener describes the fantastic Bat for Lashes, a.k.a. Natasha Khan, as possibly “the greatest musical gift of the 21st century,” and I can only fully agree. “Daniel” was an absolute revelation; to her music you can have great sex, indulge in depressive suicidal thoughts, or simply sit in Mauerpark beaming with joy—only very few musicians can boast such a range of possible listening scenarios.

Very soon the special edition of her album “Two Suns” will also be released here, which, in addition to bonus tracks, includes a documentary called “The Two + Two” that gives us a look behind the scenes of the recordings, photo shoots and into the very private life of Natasha Khan. The standard edition is already one of my favorite albums of the year.

At the end of October, the stunning brunette will once again give a concert at the Postbahnhof in Berlin, and until then I advise each of you to listen to the anthem about the “Karate Kid” star at least five times a day, then buy the two albums and afterwards joyfully engage in suicidally good sex in Mauerpark. That was an order: chop chop!

Pixie Lott and I in a Private Jet to London

Thanks to the charming Jessie, I spent the short night at the Hilton Hotel in London after we, together with the editor-in-chief of BLANK Magazine, Johannes Finke, accompanied the British singer Pixie Lott for a day on her promotional tour organized by Baby-G. With the roaring support of her slightly tipsy girls in tow, I chatted with the blonde star about her favorite band The Kooks, how incredibly proud her parents are of her, and how happy her best friends are about her success—because they get to accompany her all across Europe.

And although most of her songs are a bit too poppy for my taste, even the ProSieben team constantly buzzing around us would have to admit that Pixie has a powerhouse voice live, which she proved both at the Delight Studios and at the London Forum. Voice, looks and chart compatibility are definitely there; I would have preferred more courage and a little less Hannah Montana, though.

Thanks to Britta and Lakshna for the wonderful day, and now I’ll throw myself into the sunny shopping streets of London, grab the record by Pixie’s sexy support act—whose name I unfortunately never properly understood, which makes the search noticeably harder—and then take in the sights of the city: British women with big breasts but strange faces, checking out all the Tesco branches and snagging FRONT at purchase price. Goodbye folks!

The Big AMY&PINK Tumblr Porn Guide

If you belong, like me, to the pitiful species of full-time nerds who only know the primary and secondary sexual characteristics of girls from the internet, then first of all you should probably hit the gym more often, and secondly you shouldn’t waste the very limited time you could be spending coding NASA websites or leveling your "World of Warcraft" characters by endlessly searching the web for pink slits. I mean, what do you have little Marci for? I practically LIVE in the dark internetz, and that’s exactly why I’m presenting to you, in three stages, the sexiest Tumblr blogs on the net. Come along. Haha, wordplay.

Level One - Faces: Let’s start gently with a few pleasant little internet pages that simply bring us closer to the beauty of sweet bra-wearers. On websites like Dead Girls, Fuck Yeah Skinny Bitch or Skinny Dream we find partly amazing photographs and skillful self-portraits of young ladies who eat no more than a slice of bread without butter and bread per week and still manage to breathe, just like on Dirty Little Style Whore, Emo Girls and Distillation. MCSG SYM brings us Japanese girls, Heroines brings art, and Blue Pony brings warm dreams.

Level Two - Tits: Stage two is like a medical checkup for bronchitis, because now some of you are seeing living breasts for the first time in your existence. Okgirls shows girls topless, just like SexSets and Hot Chicks In Panties – some titles simply deliver what they promise. If you’re still not ready for the ultimate level, you can prepare yourself by visiting Yimmys Yayo, Looklook or Ikandi. Now you’re definitely ready for the grand finale.

Level Three - Cunts: Welcome to the premier league of Tumblr blogs. Nothing is left to be desired, no items of clothing remain on, and no body parts remain unstimulated – we’ve arrived at the full-on sex sites. WareHouse, That Hipster Porn and Tendres Cousines are wicked and notorious and strike the same chord as Fuck Me Like That, SEXTR and Bend Me Over.

With such Christian prospects, falling asleep shouldn’t be a problem anymore, and if any of you know additional Tumblr gems, just drop them in the comments – fresh meat is always something nice. In that sense, good night, and you’d better stock up on screen cleaner. Have fun!

School

Which of us old sacks doesn’t fondly remember what it was like to be in school back in the day. We were constantly brewing new magic potions, playing Quidditch high up in the air and fighting dark forces at night with our little magic wands. Oh wait, that was Harry Potter. For us, on the other hand, it meant getting up at 6 a.m. five days a week just to have our day ruined by pubescent pizza-faces and unqualified teachers who had just been left by their spouses. That can be fun too. Not.

The result is that every one of us is probably damn glad to have escaped these torture chambers scattered across the nation and that only a few pedophiles regularly want to return to this place of horror. Or me, because despite my advanced, wise age, I have the great pleasure of finishing what feels like my tenth final school year in order to finally complete my training as a web designer.

And for those of you old geezers who have ever even remotely dreamed of sitting in a classroom again so you could fool around with your friends in the schoolyard and make out with underage girls: forget it! Because since the 1930s, at least when it comes to educational institutions, absolutely nothing has changed. The books are still the same, the teachers have replaced their physical bamboo sticks with psychological ones, and various cliques and groups have continued for generations to fight for dominance over the schoolyard. The only difference is that now there are also a few self-harming emos hanging out in the bathroom.

But such a senselessly wasted day can also be fun. For example, if you have a sexy Yvonne Catterfeld lookalike in class. If you can make fun of Gülcan’s bulging eyes. Or since technology has advanced so far that even the last ghetto gangster brings a MacBook to school in order to gallantly play "Plants vs Zombies" when the education officer isn’t looking. That makes pseudo-learning twice as fun. You can find photos of this waste of lifetime here, and my deepest sympathy goes out to all fellow inmates out there: never stop reaching for the stars, after all you’ll soon be the elite of the country. And heaven forbid a university student feels addressed now.

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24 Hours Berlin

For over 12 hours now, the longest documentary of all time about our collective favorite city, Berlin, has been running on Arte, on RBB and on the internet, and what strange people we have gotten to know and love so far. The old granny who prepares a delicious potato soup for her relatives and then comfortably dozes off in her allotment garden, the extremely likable and not at all controlling-looking BILD editor-in-chief Kai Diekmann, and a quiet contemporary who simply hangs out comfortably in the basement of an apartment building.

But the event isn’t only taking over screens around the world; there have also been and still are all kinds of events happening in the capital itself. Including readings at C/O Berlin, experimental music at the bar künstliche BEATmung, or the “Schöne Party” at the Kalkscheune. And don’t worry about missing anything: the documentary is running everywhere in the city on large and small screens.

And it’s getting particularly interesting right now, as it slowly gets dark in this live look into the past, the night owls crawl out of their holes, and the party life gradually gets into full swing. So if you haven’t tuned in yet, you should do so quickly to get both a detailed and manageable and sympathetic insight into the lives of 3.4 million Berliners and their visitors.

Lisa Mitchell – Coin Laundry

Average little pop starlets who bounce around on stage, breathe their tiny little voices into the microphone and try to compensate for their inadequacy by wiggling their butts truly exist in this world like sand by the sea. But really good singers who touch your heart and make listeners cry with their vibrations… we’re slowly getting an abundance of those as well. Just think of Regina Spektor, Charlotte Martin or Lady Gaga. One of those was a joke, by the way.

Nevertheless, we gladly welcome the adorable Lisa Mitchell into this circle—born in England, raised in Australia—especially when, as in her new video for "Coin Laundry," she lives sweetly inside a washing machine and asks for coins, stories and memories. What a charming idea that is, please.

At the moment, the 19-year-old is only touring around Australia, but hopefully wanderlust will grab her soon and bring her to autumn-infested Europe to enchant us with beautiful songs like "Incomplete Lullaby" and "Neopolitan Dreams," known from a detergent commercial. We’re keeping all three thumbs crossed.

If I Were a Girl…

We all have certain types of toys hanging between our legs that, from birth, determine the rest of our lives. What color our childhood bedroom is painted, whether we’re allowed to like “My Little Pony” or “Transformers,” and that at some point a time comes when some of us shouldn’t run around topless at the swimming pool without getting strange looks. And then, of course, there’s the matter of sex.

To stick it in or to have it stuck in: unless your name is Lorielle London, you’re a manga character named Ranma, or you simply belong to the gay faction, you probably only know one of those worlds. Yet for science, for humanity, for the entire planet, it would be an absolutely desirable and enlightening experience to know both sides.

The sexual level of us guys would probably skyrocket by two hundred points if each of us had once had a finger on a clitoris, a penis inside us, and experienced that strange vaginal orgasm. It’s obvious that we poke around like a blind fisherman in the ocean, drool around like Lassie, and wait for you to finally start moaning like crazy—because we only know the whole thing about pleasurable penetration from a sick mixture of cheap porn, wildly exaggerated locker-room talk, and our first time with the town slut. It’s no wonder nothing useful comes out of that.

So dear fairy godmother, grant me just one wish and give me a Ferrari Nora Tschirner just for one day the miracle of womanhood, so that—besides touching myself all day and taking showers—I can finally get properly screwed. For the sake of science, of course. And what would you do if you suddenly woke up in the body of the opposite sex..?

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Do You Have That in Ugly?

It is widely known that clothes make the man and people in turn make the clothes, but dear fashion world—you designers, fashion bloggers and vintage victims—let’s be honest for just a moment. Let’s hover briefly above the billion-dollar fashion circus and sit together on the cloud of self-discovery. Because if we place our hands on our hearts for just this instant, then fashion itself is nothing but hot air, marketing, a sales argument, the engine of a huge industry. And nothing more.

When I look at the upcoming campaigns of fashion houses like 47Street, Via Snella or Butterflysoulfire, I certainly see plenty of hot, skinny girls photographed in fairytale or stylistic scenarios by the best photographers on the planet—but the clothing itself is secondary, sinking beneath the eye-catchers and fading behind the artificial dream world. Presentation is everything. And it has always been that way.

Of course, an anorexic 16-year-old with long legs, a sweet face and blonde, velvety hair can put on a Turtles T-shirt with nerd glasses, ripped jeans and bright green Chucks and look young, attractive and sexy. Karl Lagerfeld himself could sew her into an Aldi plastic bag or a diamond-studded evening gown: a Lisa Olsson, Filippa Smeds or Felice Fawn will always look good in it. But that probably applies to only about two percent of the people living on Earth.

So while we recently asked when one is old enough for fashion, today I’m even wondering whether fashion itself isn’t just a farce, a money-making scheme, an involuntary compulsion to set yourself apart from others or to blend in with them. Proving whether fashion itself is beautiful—and not the perfectly staged mix of presentation, models and photography—would probably only be possible through a directly comparative photo series showing the two extremes of human existence.

So let a photographer or even a label like Levi's, American Apparel or H&M take one of the seasonal catalogs lying around and shoot two identical versions of it—once with sexy, slim, graceful showcase models and once with unattractive, pimply, overweight Herberts from the street. Then we could finally see whether the fashion itself is really that great—or just the image sold to us in the media.

The New Scala

Without a doubt, Berlin has the most multifaceted and distinctive nightlife in the nation. Whether clean disco electro, dirty indie rock, or simply a chill house lineup—every form and color of personal taste is catered to. And whether you’re a Jappy slut or an unshaven studded-belt wearer, if public transport cooperates, you can easily party 24/7.

But there are only a few clubs that truly have that certain charm, a history surrounded by legends. Bar 25 certainly belongs to that group, as does White Trash or the Scala, which closed a few months ago. How we cried, suffered and cursed at the farewell party, but when it gets dark, a ray of light comes from somewhere, because the Scala is coming back.

Its creator, party legend and organizer of the Berlin Festival, Cornelius “Coop” Opper, has now given an interview to the Berlin city magazine Proud, in which he not only talks about his inspiration, his work and his most extraordinary moments, but also proudly announces that by the end of the year the successor to Scala will open. There will be a surprising location, it will be different, and without a doubt it will be legendary again. So keep your eyes and ears open for the city’s new best club.

Zombie Flashmob Berlin

Yesterday was a beautiful day to die. At least for Sara, Till and me, because together with a bunch of other blood-soaked and scarred weirdos, we played were the spawn of hell, rotten flesh between life and death in search of the only thing that would save us from the eternal purgatory of hell: brains!

So we marched from Potsdamer Platz past the Reichstag all the way to the Brandenburg Gate, regularly collapsed onto the ground there and then limped after a screaming girl, while the VIP zombies choreographed the song “Thriller”—in memory of Michael Jackson and his birthday yesterday—and, incidentally, we also crashed another flashmob.

It was insanely fun, especially when we continued walking through Berlin in full bloody and torn outfits and ate sandwiches at Subway. I will never forget the expression of the little girl who, with wide frightened eyes, asked fellow zombie Sara what on earth was going on here. Photos and videos are available here, Jeriko wrecked his camera, René missed it, and I have one white T-shirt less. But whatever: BRAAAINS!

A Wild Snow Leopard Appears

Where once there were valid reasons like religion, skin color or simply money for Homo sapiens to catapult each other out of life with pitchforks and torches, today in the Generation Upload (heh heh) it’s about the most essential choice of all: what operating system runs on your computer. And you should choose wisely the path you intend to take before heading to the MediaMarkt checkout.

For basement kids and nerds who have no clue about fashion, vintage and the geek look, but wear glasses because they’re simply blind as a mole, there is Linux; for the majority of humanity who doesn’t know any better, Windows simply installed itself onto their gray boxes; and for the creatives, the chosen ones, the gods among us, there is the word that makes connoisseurs tremble with pride and subordinates fall to their knees: Mac OS X.

The latter will release its long-awaited sixth edition tomorrow for a mere 30 euros, nicknamed "Snow Leopard" (because Apple foresaw the ultimate internet trend years ago and gives everything and everyone cute names of sweet kittens), and for the freaks among us in some cities even starting at 0:00—just like Harry Potter.

The good piece doesn’t bring killer features; instead everything just becomes nicer, faster and better, and besides, that orgasmic feeling is built in that you haven’t gotten lost in the code jungle of the constantly somewhat backward-seeming Linus Torvalds, nor fallen for Bill Gates’ zombie boxes. That’s exactly why the better ones among us will be getting a new pet tomorrow and nibbling from Uncle Jobs’ LSD tree. Apple FTW!

Dolly Rockers – Gold Digger

Okay, I admit it: It can actually happen from time to time that I introduce certain chicks with boobs here whose music I might somehow find okay to freak out to, but whom I simply just want to sleep with. Pixie Lott was one of those candidates, just like Lovers Electric or Those Running Days. Okay, although I actually think they’re pretty great again.

Long story short: The weird island with the quirky queen and the best TV series in the world has once again thrown a pop mutation of the finest kind onto the market. Dolly Rockers is the name of this spawn of sleazy, dick-driven music producers; their little song "Gold Digger" has been making the rounds there recently and God is my witness: I want to make love right now and right here to the one in the middle. Watch the video and you’ll know which of those dolled-up bouncing dolls I mean.

And I could start another Q&A now about how much staged sexuality and zero talent should legally be allowed (see the half-man with the penis), where once again nobody would answer me anyway, but my God, how irrelevant is that when you look at THE ONE IN THE MIDDLE! I think her name is Brooke Challinor. Or Lucie Kay. Or Sophie King. Ah screw it—and don’t any of you dare come at me now with the Spice Girls.

Geffffunden!

What would the world be without the beautiful images in life, memories of better times, photos in your head and on your screen. And the most beautiful of these masterpieces nowadays aren’t only found on various Fuckyeah Tumblr pages or the grand blue hyperlink collection to your left, but above all in our sleek FFFFOUND! corner. Large format and unbelievably sexy.

If you hurry, with one click you can currently see, for example, Kate Moss riding a bike in a bikini, feast your eyes on the amazing photos of a certain Carl Heindl, who was recently featured at Jeriko, and admire the exposed breasts of a certain Dominique van Hulst. If that’s nothing, then I don’t know what is.

If you’re still not completely satisfied after the 25 pictures, you’re also welcome to visit our FFFFOUND! account and click wildly and freely through the world of the most beautiful photos. And if you happen to find photos online that either make our eyes pop out of sheer beauty or tear our laughing muscles apart (like here at Fuck Yeah 4Chan), feel free to send us a link via mail or Twitter. We’d be happy.

Stadthunger at the Lake

Seven incredible parts of our serialized novel "Stadthunger" have already been published, and I’m happy that the story about the dreamy runaway Sina, her best friend Paula, and the party photographer pissed off at the whole world is being received so well. The texts come from the heart, formed from painful memories, shattered dreams, and the ever-blossoming hope for true love. And I hope you can feel that.

Chris from Pratschwitz (who doesn’t know it), near Dresden, has now sent us this beautiful photo of the printed-out “Stadthunger” being consumed at the lake. And that makes me a little proud. Doesn’t it you too? “I turned your blog novel into paper format and took it to the lake. Rocks, I like it. But waiting a whole week each time is pretty tough. It’s like during Ramadan not eating, drinking, or being allowed to think about sex all day.” That’s what it says. That’s awesome.

I’m now really hoping that the big boss or his assistant secretary from a major German publishing house reads this, seizes the unique opportunity, and signs us exclusively right away so that the story about longing, sex, and sour candy reaches even the last Herbert. But you know what? Actually, I like it the way it is right now. So look forward to the eighth part, reread the chapters already published if needed, and stay curious about what happens after Sina’s rushed move-out, the bloody dream, and the ringing at the door. It’s like television in your head.

I’m In Love With Lisa Olsson

You know we’ve had them all in our little Q&A session. Whether my favorite redhead Filippa Smeds, the incredible MTV host Palina Rojinski, or Rockie Nolan, who cuts a fine figure both in front of and behind the camera. The beautiful and (well maybe less) rich have already answered our questions. Only one has now turned us down twice despite our request.

Lisa Olsson is the name of the 15-year-old Swede, who is a fashion blogger, cheerleader, and model all in one and absolutely refuses to be interviewed by AMY&PINK—which somehow turns me on. And even though, despite a recent late-night meeting with two Nordic schoolgirls, I still don’t understand a single word of Swedish, I read look through her blog carefully, know that she’s already been in Teen Vogue, likes American Apparel, and rides a skateboard. She has the greatest legs on the planet (which she knows too, otherwise she wouldn’t photograph them so often), a sweet little scar on her forehead, and apparently likes to sit in the sun. Otherwise she wouldn’t be that tan.

So you can see how much I’ve already found out about her without understanding even the tiniest bit of her language. The internet really is an illustrious thing. And if you still want to know what she likes to eat for breakfast, what her favorite color looks like, and where she got that awesome pink watch, you should first try translating the sentence “På datorn och på en extern hårddisk.” into German and then bookmark her blog.

War, Death, Doom

War, my dear children, is something extremely cruel. It destroys human lives, tears families apart, and costs a hell of a lot of money. More than I earn in a year. So I’ve heard. And you can really count yourselves lucky that you’re still able to read these lines from me, because that means I’m still alive. Because yes, it’s true: We were at war yesterday!

And forget everything you’ve ever heard from Grandpa or read in BILD about the opposite of peace. Vietnam, Russia, France—that’s all peanuts: I’ve got bruises everywhere, sore muscles, and a ripped-open elbow! Because I slipped… But that’s beside the point, because I witnessed the horror with my own eyes. Everything was covered in pink paint and burst jelly balls. My comrade Pedder was even hit in the head… he had so many dreams left…

And before I cue the heroic orchestral music and address the relatives, just quickly for the dummies: We were playing paintball yesterday, in the woods and in abandoned buildings, there were sausages and lots of shaved heads with a slightly too realistic taste in combat outfits. You can find more photos in Rioo’s Flickr account, and I’m going to play "Call of Duty – World at War" now before I do something like that again. But next time I’ll take out more than just two helpless girls. Promise!

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Bring Me Keiichi Nitta!

The Japanese photographer Keiichi Nitta is, as you know, one of my absolute favorite photographers alongside Terry Richardson, Richard Kern, and Dash Snow. He shoots Polaroids of Lady Gaga, eats disgusting fish, and above all photographs lots and lots of naked Japanese women. And I envy him so much for that. So much.

In Taiwan, Terry Richardson’s protégé has now opened an exhibition where he presents some of his works, clearly showing why he is simply the Japanese god of nudity. The walls of the cool, futuristic Apple-style art venue are adorned with life-size nudes, one of which Hannah could easily have brought back from Tokyo for me.

And that’s why there are now two options to restore my inner peace: Either a reader living in the land of the rising sun sends me one of these Ayumis, Nanamis, or Ricas by airmail to Berlin, or Mr. Nitta personally drops by, plays a bit of Tine Wittler, and redesigns my apartment so I never have to leave the house again and one day you’ll have to carry me out of there dead with a grin on my face. The choice is yours!

Alice In Wonderland

I bought Hannah’s favorite movie “Alice in Wonderland” on DVD, I’m going to enjoy it now with the right kind of helpers and then crash Sara’s party. Have a nice evening!

Welcome To The New Viceland

Well look at that. Since yesterday the latest issue of our favorite magazine VICE has been floating around town, and the German goofballs have finally managed to adopt the web design of their American colleagues. It’s much cooler and clearer and just better overall. And of course there are boobs again.

This time from the extremely attractive half-Egyptian Zaida, who got naked for Richard Kern, of whom there’s much more to see on VBS.TV. There’s also a special dedicated to the artist and photographer Dash Snow, who unfortunately recently died of a heroin overdose, and they skillfully demonstrate why waterboarding is for pussies. Wusses.

So you see, a lot is happening at good old VICE, and although our national comrades are making an effort when it comes to translating articles and writing their own entries on their blog, their colleagues overseas are unfortunately already one step ahead again, because they’ve figured out how to win elections in Germany: with an unwashed and permanently drunk guy named Leslie, who looks like the last Herbert from Neptunbrunnen and whom you just sit down in front of a keyboard. And just like that the CDU has an anthem. I know why I’m voting for the Pirates.

Two Years in Berlin

Surprise: I’m not even a native Berliner! Yes exactly, I’m one of those newcomers everyone loves so much. Who would’ve thought. For some of you, your heads have probably just exploded, a whole world collapsed and your faith in humanity vanished; others might not sue us right away but at least delete us from their feed reader. We understand that, but it simply had to come out.

And what has little Marci experienced here over the last two years, apart from riding the roller coaster of emotions, shutting down a Berliner schnauze here and there, and exploring the districts of the city piece by piece like in a 90s role-playing game? Exactly: nothing.

Work, school, blog, sleeping, eating, gatherings of people at night… there wasn’t much time left to save the world, adopt orphans, or simply wash the dishes. But that’s not so bad, because for that we’ve got Obama, Angelina Jolie, and (as soon as I can afford her) my personal cleaning lady on the job.

Of course, an important part (and probably the most important) of such a retrospective is the outlook. So what does the future hold for the unique me? First of all, the third year of my cute apprenticeship at aperto, the final round of vocational school with my better half Gülcan, the crazy Thomi, and lots of pretty girls (someone should really turn that into a series), and of course my long-awaited Japanese course (for which I’m now looking at everything and everyone only in Far Eastern language), my wedding to Nora (to which you are all warmly invited), and my resulting appearance on MTV Cribs. Look forward to it — I certainly am.

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Bring Back The Lyrics

I know that a small piece of your heart died, that you were sad and already pulled the rope out of the closet when Sara announced she would hack her SeptemberRave to pieces. She looked straight into our empty little brains, recognized the problems of the world and wrote beautiful, profound, almost poetic texts using the filthiest expressions on the web. About puking, fucking, love, friendship. And it was great.

But times change, life goes on and people venture into something new. Saripari recognized that and with her new project dragstripGirl she is combining her individual passions, taking an interest in topics such as music, design and the web, and saying goodbye to the essentially profound.

To celebrate the day, we of course did not go together with her Australian roommate to the extremely boring Vimeo party at Stadtbad Wedding, make fun of the people there and steal oversized posters that work great as carpets, but instead spent the night chilling with a few beers and a load of “Scrubs.”

And now, my friends, hurry over to dragstripGirl, subscribe to her feed and start an online petition so that Sara comes to her senses and once again pours properly dripping lyrics of sorrow, happiness and desire onto the net — or at least publishes a book with her collected works. Or both. Bring back the lyrics!

Against Nazis with Blumio

Fitting my revived (but never really dead) love for Japan and my upcoming language course, the likeable Düsseldorf rapper Blumio has now made it into the playlist of MTV Urban and thus into rotation on the former music channel. Congratulations at this point!

In his video for “Hey Mr. Nazi”, bursting with wordplay and intellect, the 24-year-old of Japanese descent skillfully sings about love, racism and the culture of the Land of the Rising Sun and does not fail to mention that his daily shower is important to him in order to do well with the women of the nation. I call that true to life.

His “Yellow Album” was already released in June on his own label Japsensoul and can be ordered at Hipstore. And I really have to say that I like the overall work of art that is Blumio quite a lot, with clever lines, an endearing manner and disarming joie de vivre against the brown mob — that’s what I appreciate!

Grey’s Analtomy

Admittedly, the title is really more than unimaginative, childish and pubescent and would at best be suited for Joko and Klaas’ “Porno Ping Pong”, but it serves as the introduction to the next major American sex scandal. That Americans are more than prudish is an open secret, at least as much as they are hypocritical. They are downright panicked by nipples, doctor games and mothers breastfeeding their little ones. So how much must sex (that thing with the holes, penetrations and something about plugging) throw them off their virginal path?

Because after such silly figures as Paris Hilton, R. Kelly and “High School Musical” bouncy doll Vanessa Hudgens, a new scandal revolving around hole-plugging is currently shaking the land of unlimited possibilities. This time starring: “Grey’s Anatomy” series favorite Eric Dane.

He and his lovely wife Rebecca Gayheart were long considered the model couple par excellence, until, yes until recently this video surfaced showing them splashing around in a tub with Hollywood starlet Kari Ann Peniche, smoking crack and then making the walls shake a little.

The US of A freaks out, we remain calm. Because oh shock, who would have thought: a married couple has sex. Admittedly not alone and nasty, nasty drugs are involved as well (keep your hands off drugs, kids, they’re bad, m’kay?), which personally makes oily McSteamy even more likable to me.

And now the big question at the end: how bad are sex scandals really? Are they the end of civilization? Do they kill the little souls of our children, or is the whole thing simply a feast for Christian heavy-hearts who go after the protagonists of such videos and photos with pitchforks and torches, while in their little community every Sunday they nail innocent missionaries to the cross? Or do you perhaps have little filmed secrets of your own lying in your sock drawer that you plan to publish to the highest bidder in order to finally make it big? Use them — this is your chance!

Stadthunger: The Infinite Truth of Being

Sina celebrated her 18th birthday at Bar 25. We danced closely entwined to the hard beats, were completely wasted. In the bathroom two girls absolutely wanted me to take photos of them and undressed each other. I had a headache and had to resist the constant urge to just throw up loudly. The taller one gave me a blowjob while I counted the white, glossy tiles on the wall. When she was done, I went back to my birthday girl to continue the interrupted dance. “Can we go home? I’m tired.”

That night Sina’s tears wouldn’t stop flowing. “Why do I even put myself through this shit?” she screamed hysterically through the room and threw a basket full of apples at my head. “I love you, you asshole, but you’re a coward, a freeloader, a hypocrite. You hate this world, but you exploit it. You hate these people, but you fuck them. You hate these drugs, but you keep snorting one line after another.”

She threw the packet against the wall; like snow the little white dots slowly drifted to the floor. I sat on the bed and watched her crusade without reacting. “This world means nothing to you, I mean nothing to you, love means nothing to you. How can I give myself openly to someone to whom love means nothing? Explain that to me!” “I’m not answering that trick question.” She grew even angrier.

She stomped into the kitchen, came back with a large knife and began stabbing the pillows and the mattress. I leaned against the wall, smoked a cigarette and calmly watched the spectacle. The feathers flew around the room. Sina looked like a naked exploding angel. “I have to get out of here,” she suddenly screamed and dropped the weapon. She began stuffing some clothes into her Hello Kitty backpack and ran out of the apartment before I had even remotely grasped what was happening.

When I finally snapped out of my paralysis and ran into the hallway, she was already slamming the door shut. I ran to the balcony and looked down the dark street. When I spotted her reddish-blonde head, I shouted down. “Sina, where are you going?” No answer, no explanation—she disappeared into the next subway station. I grabbed an orange juice from the fridge, took a sip, and then hurled the carton against the wall in a fit of rage. A large yellow stain still decorates the white surface to this day. Her phone lay on the bed. I grabbed one of her slips, snuggled into the torn-up pillows with it and repressed the dark time.

That night I had a tragic dream, the abrupt ending of which sat deep in my bones for hours after waking up drenched in sweat. I staggered into the kitchen, poured milk and cornflakes into a bowl and still saw her corpse-white face, which I pressed tightly to me while screaming half the city together, right in front of me.

That peculiar smell was still in my nose and I looked down at myself so that the blood I had just been able to make out at the corners of my eyes, which seemed to cover half my body, revealed itself as a cynical play of light and shadow. When I dipped the spoon in and brought a load of cornflakes to my mouth, I recognized the faces of the night again, who had screamed her name with me in front of the club, loudly. Over and over again. In one hand I held my phone, in the other the tequila bottle.

The people around me told each other she had disappeared completely drunk with a more than shady guy from the Chan Shin, no longer in control of her mind. I screamed for my life. Her name. The louder I would scream, the more everything would turn out fine—I was sure of that.

Opening the window now seemed like a good idea. The cold, fresh air washed around my throbbing wounded thoughts and I tried to chase away the memories, how the way to her was shown to me, I ran, I cried.

And when I turned the corner and saw her lying there so defenseless in a filthy backyard, everything was over. All the feelings in this world concentrated into that unreal moment, like a shot, a bang, a blow. I ran to her, screamed words that didn’t even seem to exist, but so loudly that I hoped they would still reach her.

The faces around me merged into one huge mash of pity as I held her so tightly until everything around me burst. I choked on blood and tears and the last thing that burned itself into my thoughts was the image of her unhappy, restless face, whose dull eyes seemed to admonish me as the one who was not with her when it happened. The phone rang.

This was the seventh chapter “The Infinite Truth of Being” from the furious blog novel project “Stadthunger,” the serialized novel at AMY&PINK. The photos this time are by Daniel Douglas. This part contains a revised adaptation of a previously published short story. You can continually find all parts under the category “Stadthunger.”

Japanese for Beginners

In my life plan carved in stone, it is well known that not only my wedding to Nora Tschirner and control of the entire world are firmly written down, but also that I will one day flood Berlin in order to then spend my twilight years in Tokyo. Twilight years means by my thirtieth birthday at the latest. At the latest. Live fast, die young and so on.

And what do you have to master in order not to just babble something like hello and goodbye in the land of the rising sun? Exactly: Japanese! That’s why from mid-September I’ll be attending this beginner’s course at the John Lennon Gymnasium with a certain Saki Matsuda, to learn the snappiest language in the world and finally understand what Ayumi Hamasaki and Utada Hikaru keep screaming into the mic at me. Maybe they’re constantly singing about death, doom and sex—who knows?

Anyone who wants to sign up is warmly invited (invited in the sense that I’d be happy), the reduced price is quite okay, and if anyone can recommend tips, literature, memory games, websites or people who can help get this rather complex language into my small softened brain, please get in touch—we can go eat sushi sometime.

[audio:bluebird.mp3]

The English Front

I’m currently on a bit of an English trip, which may be especially due to the fact that here in Berlin we constantly have to drag some kind of tourists around—be they Swedish schoolgirls, the cousin of Reamonn or a somewhat camp-looking perpetual questioner. And through my nightly “Skins” flat-rate watching, I’ve picked up an elastic slang that is second to none. London and Exberliner are calling.

Unfortunately, British girls in particular are not exactly known for their radiant beauty (Emma Watson excluded), but even though Montana recently told me that print products will soon be a thing of the past, since we’re from the internet and will wipe them all out, one magazine proved the opposite to me: Front.

I haven’t seen so much concentrated hotness on 160 pages in a long time. And their blog is no slouch either. From sexy skater girls to exhaust lovers to the breathtakingly awesome Jessica. And not to forget the soxy column by Alex Sim-Wise. I’m deeply impressed.

So if there haven’t been enough tits, penises and vaginas flying around your ears here lately, you can now calmly run to the international newsstand of your choice and grab the current Front with cover girl Vikki Blows. Something tells me that’s not her real name, but one can still dream. So, are you on your way yet?

Who Sells Me a Charge Plug?

I’ve really become a lazy bastard lately. True to the motto “sport is murder,” I’ve skillfully avoided my once beloved leisure sports like soccer, swimming or cycling. But that’s going to end now. The gut has to go.

Being typical me, during my search I specialized in one very specific product that is supposed to have me speeding like the wind through the streets of Berlin very soon: the Charge Plug, the hottest bike beyond the hemisphere in my little eyes. But when I asked at the bike dealer I trust, he almost fell off his chair laughing. I was years too late; the thing had been so sought-after that it had literally been torn from their hands. I should wait for next year’s edition. Next year..? No no, good man, I want it now!

But in the small head of even smaller Marci it rumbled and rattled… if so many of them are buzzing around here in Berlin, then surely there must be someone who doesn’t feel like having theirs anymore and would let me have it for a fair price. Right? So if anyone has a Charge Plug, knows one of its owners or can steal one for me: get in touch!

Caro Is Now One of Us

For over half a year now, Hannah and I have been doing our thing together with the new AMY&PINK, and so far it has been a grand time. We’ve produced a lot of shit, written texts about masturbation, heartbreak and big cities that smell like semen, and with our obsession we’ve made friends and enemies, lovers and haters, fans and blockers. And it was great.

But it was clear from the beginning that we didn’t want to remain just the two of us forever, that we wanted to—no, had to—transform our cozy flower-sex relationship into an orgy of creativity. Because alone we can hardly withstand the pressure of constantly showering you with the hottest shit on the street, bringing the music, the parties, the art, the sex into this blog that is so down-to-earth. For the people. To bring fresh wind in here, to create more uninhibited wordplay and to reach a new level of pseudo–lower class.

And salvation was so close at hand that it fell from our eyes like burdensome scales. We couldn’t see the tree for the forest. That red hair, the moles in her head and the sexual intercourse with Til Schweiger on my couch… it can only be about one person, the unique, indestructible and more birds in her head than in the sky-having… Caro Carö Carolin!

She is the chosen one who simply snuck onto our straight path to world domination and from today on will supply us at AMY&PINK with turnovers, horror stories and nude photos. So please warmly welcome the newest member on our ride on the aerial railway, and now all we’re missing is a brunette, then I’ll be satisfied, change my name to Charlie and from then on only give comments and instructions by telephone.

Nora and I

You may now all sink to your knees, kiss my Chuck-clad little feet, and from this moment on murmur my name in an eternally continuing chorus. Because today, here and now, I may ceremoniously announce that I have achieved my life’s goal, that I will now log off from the internet and from life and can die a happy death. Because yes, it is true: I met Nora Tschirner.

We talked, we laughed, yes, we even hugged. And it should be clear to all of you that from now on I will never again wash certain parts of my body. Thanks to my favorite project manager Na-Young and Basti for mentally helping me not to suddenly forget my abilities—painstakingly learned over decades—such as speaking, standing, or breathing in Nora’s presence.

You can download the two photos of Nora, Basti and me here and here, print them out and have them framed, and I’ll just call the nearest church right now and set a date for the wedding. Summer next year sounds great, doesn’t it? You’re all invited, Nora and I will be delighted.

Amanda Blank – Might Like You Better

The American showcase rapper Amanda Blank may have more hair on her forearms than I have on my head, but she’s just one hot piece, there’s no other way to put it. On The Boobs I’ve now come across her new video "Might Like You Better" from the album "I Love You."

In bright colors and with understandable lyrics, after collaborations with greats such as Santigold, M.I.A. and Ghostface Killah, she now sings a romantic story about intercourse, red hair and monogamy. Perhaps expressed a bit differently, but the meaning remains the same.

The aforementioned album with the somewhat daring yet emotional title is in no way inferior to the feeling of the video and convinces with clever tracks, a handful of retro, and with "Leaving You Behind," a heart-wrenching ballad featuring Lykke Li. Speaking of Swedish exchange singers: where is something new from Lykke, anyway? I’m slowly getting impatient.

Aperto Is Looking for the Super Apprentice

I could now give you, as usual, a long, imaginative and intimidating introduction to the topic we’re about to address, but let’s talk straight and get down to business: We at aperto are still looking for a clever young guy, quick-witted girl or over-intellectual German shepherd whom we can put through a grand apprenticeship in Digital and Print Media Design. And preferably quite spontaneously.

And we don’t want just any losers who have only just learned how to get Solitaire running on a PC—no: you have to be seriously good in all the areas that matter to us—just like we are. Pause for laughter. You have to live the internet, consider design the highest art in the world, and be able to code websites until Firebug starts smoking. Ideally, you also have your own blog, feel at home in the social web, and impress with passion and charisma.

The lucky winner of this whole presentation can look forward to a breathtakingly good apprenticeship that sharpens and perfects your already existing skills, unconditional involvement in many groundbreaking projects, and invaluable knowledge that will open doors for your future. On top of that, we have the prettiest girls, Bionade and breakfast to die for, and last but not least you even get to spend the day—and if you’re female, tall and blonde, even the night—with your favorite star, namely me!

So what on earth are you waiting for? Put together an application so grand that it hurls us across our sunny agency in Berlin Mitte, and we’ll soon welcome you to the heart of the design world. Further information about your ticket to happiness is beautifully written on the aperto blog, and you can apply on our page specially set up for you. Good luck!

The Aston Shuffle (feat. Danimal Kingdom) – Do You Want More

You know the problem. Ever since last Christmas you’ve been lugging around a big belly in front of you, desperately wanting to lose it through excessively healthy eating, fiber-rich foods and a tiny little fasting week (but definitely without physical exercise), yet before you know it you’re sitting at McDonald’s again, waiting in vain for Heidi Klum and her top models.

But it doesn’t have to be that way, because now there is "Do You Want More," the new video by The Aston Shuffle featuring Danimal Kingdom, which I discovered here at TO:WEAR, the blog of the Frontline Shop. In it, a few strange characters stuff themselves through a menu full of delicacies, throw up, and are then led one by one through a mysterious door. But just watch and see what awaits the winner…? Yummy, yummy.

So the next time you get a massive craving for bratwurst, pizza and bean stew, just watch this delicious video all the way to the bitter end and I promise you, afterward you won’t even feel like eating a stalk of rhubarb. And if even that doesn’t stop you from the big feast, you may reward yourself by watching the guy running around in his underwear. Bon appétit!

City Hunger: The Farewell

He collapsed to the ground in front of me, yelping, gasping. “Right in the balls!” Paula shouted to me jubilantly and beamed from ear to ear. It was dark, it was cold, but through this good deed I was practically glowing inside. I felt so liberated. What a victory, what a triumph. Johnny pulled a face twisted in pain, his brain-amputated buddies looked at me like paralyzed rabbits. “Go ahead, come at me, you idiots, I just discovered Chuck Norris for myself!” I yelled at them and glared as fiercely as I could. I had nothing left to lose and they were supposed to feel that. Johnny howled.

“Sina, hurry up, the damn train is about to leave!” I grabbed my backpack and started running. I ran away from my old life, my boyfriend, my family—just get out of here. Johnny shouted after me: “You bitch! If I catch you, I’ll kill you! CUNT!” At that word we jumped onto the train, the doors slammed shut loudly behind us, and shortly afterward we were on our way to a new, better life. I was so relieved that I knelt down and just started crying.

Paula was my best friend. She had big breasts and an even bigger heart. I loved her, I adored her, I would have given my life for her. When I opened my eyes we were lying tightly in each other’s arms. Outside, trees, mountains and houses shot past us. I snuggled into her lilac sweater that smelled so wonderfully of roses and breathed in deeply. “How much longer?” I murmured into her ample bosom. “A few hours,” was the short answer from above. “Oh man…”

When we arrived at Berlin Central Station, we first trudged happily and exhausted at the same time to the nearest Burger King, ordered the fattest menu plus bacon and large fries and rejoiced in our newly gained freedom. I was happy, truly happy.

“If you want, you can quickly go to the bathroom, I’ll wait here for you.” Paula had put on her brightest smile. I nodded cheerfully, took another quick sip of my cola and ran off. When I came back she was gone. At first I thought it was a joke, didn’t stop smiling and acted completely unfazed so as not to grant her a victory as soon as she jumped out from the next corner. But she wasn’t behind any corner. She was nowhere.

Slowly panic crept up inside me, I ran along the station, every platform, every shop, every corner. She had my phone. With my last bit of change I called home and tearfully explained my situation. But my mother only laughed cruelly, said it was my own fault, that I should see for myself how to get out of it and muttered something about reaping what you sow. Everything was spinning. I found myself on all fours, calling only Paula’s name. But she didn’t hear me.

This was the sixth chapter “The Farewell” from the furious blog novel project “City Hunger,” the serialized novel at AMY&PINK. You can continuously find all parts under the category "City Hunger."

Je m’appelle Marcel

On Sunday at noon, after a two-week recovery break in Good Old Bavaria, I arrived back in the capital and I have to say that I really missed Berlin. Even though Montana and I watched dirty manga porn, André and the two Silvis danced competitively with me at Schön&Wild, and Ira and I devoured expired chocolate cake and not-so-fresh pizzas. I miss Bavaria, but the big B is the here and now.

And this time I really have to thank the people at Deutsche Bahn for still not taking their job all that seriously and occasionally making the S-Bahn disappear without a trace, because otherwise I would never ever have met Chloé. An exchange student with an entirely sweet French accent. We laughed, sang and practiced French — it was absolutely adorable.

We then let the weekend fade out at the Spreeterrasse, where the Sunday Seance Summer Affair Open Air Party took place that evening and where we met such funny people as the flamboyant Frank from iHeartBerlin and the sweet Juliane from Reigen. With them we chatted about such important topics as confetti, slave labor and grilled sausages, and I strongly hope that Mr. Frank will once again have breathtakingly good going-out tips at the ready this weekend. Or won’t he?

Heroes of Our Time: Steve Jobs

Drugs are shit, dear children. They make you addicted, sick and infertile. If you throw too much of that stuff into your system, you’ll inevitably end up at Bahnhof Zoo, selling your battered little bodies for a few euros to the stinking john next door and putting an end to your pitiful life with a well-aimed golden shot. There’s no other way out. Unless, of course, your name is Steve Jobs.

For all the snobbish nerds of this world (myself included), the former extreme junkie is leader, prophet and god all in one. Because while other junkies just ride pink elephants and then wet themselves because they think the wall wants to eat them, Mr. Jobs, together with his chubby clone who is also named Steve, managed to use the power of LSD to build the greatest company in the world from the ground up. No, not Nintendo, but Apple!

I attentively read his biography to find out firsthand how this spoiled only child of a brat (just like me, he is!) went from being an annoying and misanthropic dreamer to the coolest geek of all time. And now I’ve uncovered his secrets to success. Listen closely.

First of all, he cheated everyone around him out of money — including his closest friends — cried like a little child when he didn’t get what he wanted, and flatly refused to leave a room until everything went exactly the way he wanted it to. Steve asked every new employee whether they were still a virgin and then kept them like slaves. He also vehemently refused to pay child support for his illegitimate daughter Lisa. That’s what you call saving money wherever possible.

And what do we learn from this? You have to be an asshole in this world. Otherwise you won’t achieve anything at all — certainly not building a cult like Apple. Oh Steve, you little rascal, for me you are and will remain the greatest hero on earth and I want to be just like you. But that also means I’ll first need a shopping cart full of LSD. Just send it my way, thanks a lot.

When Are You Old Enough for Fashion?

The fact that, as the pimp of a fashion blog these days, you can make it to more than just a brief mention in trade magazines can be seen especially in recent developments — the boom that the possibilities of the participatory web, combined with an increased identification with fashion, have triggered. They find themselves in the middle of large-scale photo spreads, give interviews on television and have become an influential movement in the international fashion circus. Among them well-known names such as the cute girls from Les Mads, the wanderer from Facehunter or the sun-tanned Lisa.

Tavi Mugs is a delicate 13 years old, writes on her own blog Style Rookie about fashion magazines, Thomas the Tank Engine and Karl Lagerfeld, and has the same haircut as Twiggy in her best years. Her extraordinary sense of style and the courage of a girl who has only just entered puberty to approach her own definitions of trends and color choices have now even landed her on the cover of the current preview issue of LOVE Magazine.

And Tavi is not alone in the ranks of babyfaces. Whether Andrea, Bronka or the just eight-year-old Arlo Weiner — they all fascinate and shock in equal measure with their grown-up style of dress and raise the question of when one is actually old enough for fashion. Whether children who immerse themselves too early in the style-dictated world of fashion victims give up part of their carefree lives far too quickly, and how much of their clothing choices are truly their own? You decide.

Skins

The cancellation of “O.C., California” changed me deeply inside and brought me a dreadful dry spell in the search for another series I could cling to, that could give me support and warmth, by which I could align my interpersonal goals. And as a native television child, I probably would have starved mentally if at some point the British series Skins hadn’t started airing on E4, which I had already mistakenly described back then as the British counterpart to my former favorite series.

As so often, it’s simply about the various relationships between a few teenagers, but the depth, realism and the way the whole thing is told — funny, sad, shocking and relatable — keeps you captivated by this oft-quoted world of drugs, sex and love. And as is well known, I’m totally into that kind of shit, like Amy is into Drake. And so are you.

Why I’m once again showering you with endless hymns of praise is obvious, because finally the series that saved me from suicide on many a multi-hour ICE trip is making it to our territory as well — on the pay-TV channel FOX Channel. As probably the last country on this planet, and even in our lovely language. The first episode can kindly be watched for free on this MySpace page, and yet I still urge you: get the seasons in the original version on DVD from Amazon instead.

But no matter how, when or why you want to watch “Skins” (or not): just do it, no matter what! The enchanting and somehow constantly high Cassie, the sympathetic asshole Tony and his best mate Sid — oh, I simply love this series. Thanks to Pasue and Stiller for the great tip.

Hangover

There’s a certain party movie in our circle that is simply legendary. A few teenagers drink, screw and smoke their way across Europe, make out with their siblings, bond with hooligans and prank the Pope. Scotty doesn’t know and all that — the film is called “Eurotrip.” And we would have considered it absolutely impossible for any other movie in this lifetime to come close. But then it happened.

Because last night we finally went to see “Dude, Where’s My Car?” “Hangover,” and it was so insanely funny that from here on I could only write the rest of this article in smileys, hahas or those disgusting pseudo-Asian grinning eyes. This story, these guys, Mike Tyson — I laughed, I giggled, I covered my face with my hands, all like a little Japanese schoolgirl in the evening.

The result is that I hereby issue an absolute recommendation, no, even a command, to the last two remaining people who haven’t seen the film yet, because you must know: “Hangover” will change your life. Really.

And to all aspiring directors out there I can only say: if you’re planning to make a totallyyyy funny movie soon, and deep down you already know while reading the script that it will never ever be as good as “Hangover,” then just leave it. Just leave it be. That will save both of us a lot of trouble. The bar is simply too high now.

Vöri Importänt People

It hasn’t been that long, maybe just a little over a year ago, when I grandly announced that we were just about to make the totally important entry into the German Blog Charts. That would have made us part of the unmistakable elite, the upper ten thousand, the decision-makers, the truly important ones of this whole shebang. Since then, they had punished us with contempt.

But oh behold, in the early morning dawn, Denkfabriq, bursting with joy, pointed out to us that as of today AMY&PINK is represented in the list of kings. And straight in at number 55! We thank our producers, God, the hordes of loving fans and Nora Tschirner, who will surely call me any minute now to properly congratulate me.

And since from now on we belong to the absolute Vöri Importänt People (as if we weren’t before...), starting today we expect invitations to all the important upper-class parties, to the press ball, the fashion weeks, film premieres, world tours and everything where there are free gifts and delicious finger foods. That’s really not too much to ask, after all we’re famous now. World domination and all that — here we come!

The Lookbook Look: Rockie Nolan

The 19-year-old student and photographer Rockie Nolan has been one of my absolute favorites since last year with her sun-drenched photographs. As part of our Lookbook Look series, I now had the opportunity to talk with her about her work, first great love, and the curse of red hair—and I also had to endure the embarrassment of considering Jenny Lewis and Rilo Kiley as two different people. I am just so professional.

You really take breathtakingly beautiful photos. Are there any particular secrets to shooting such amazing pictures? How do you do it?

I’m glad that you like my work. But honestly, I don’t really have any secrets. I love scheduling my shoots at sunset and I really enjoy creating my own little characters in all of my photos. At the moment, I only use a 50mm f/1.8 lens, and I plan to stick with that.

You grew up in plain old Texas—what’s it like there? What kind of environment do you live in, and do you think the USA is a very fashion-conscious country?

I live in the second most conservative city in the entire United States. And that sucks because I’m very liberal myself. My city is full of cattle ranchers, Bible worshippers, and pregnant teenagers. There’s a college here, which is why a few young liberals have moved here. That makes it a bit more livable. And we have a fairly modest music and art scene.

I think that, for the most part, the USA is very fashion-conscious. At least in certain areas. In the city where I live, Lubbock, I sometimes get strange looks when I walk around in clothes that don’t fit the typical student image. That’s how many people dress in this city. People here simply don’t expect you to walk around in a style they themselves don’t consider attractive.

I absolutely love red hair. Your favorite singers Rilo Kiley and Jenny Lewis are well-known redheads—just like you. Is that just a lucky coincidence? Do you think your red hair gives you any advantages or disadvantages, and how do people react to it?

Jenny Lewis is actually the lead singer of Rilo Kiley. And I’d say it’s just a lucky coincidence. When I met her for the first time, she was thrilled that I also have red hair. That was a really beautiful day. But I don’t think it gives me any advantages. Supposedly redheads have a higher pain tolerance. And I can get skin cancer more easily. When I was little, I was constantly teased because of my hair color, but despite all that, I wouldn’t trade it for any other color in the world.

What inspires you, what drives you? Where do you get your outfit ideas from, and do you have any role models?

Jenny Lewis really inspires my style, but most of my outfits simply result from spending too much time browsing through thrift stores. I rarely spend more than $20 on one of my outfits. My biggest role model is my mother. She passionately supports my artistic endeavors and is an amazing woman. I’m proud to have her :)

How did you meet your boyfriend Andrew? Tell us a sweet little love story. And what kind of people are your best friends?

We both study photography at the Savannah College of Art and Design—it was simply fate. We both had many mutual friends, and our group had already been messaging each other online before we started at SCAD. When we finally went to college together, I wasn’t even sure if he liked me at all.

One day we watched Scrubs together in my room, and I was really excited and nervous because we had never done anything alone together before. Shortly after that, we started seeing each other regularly, and in about a week we’ll have been together for nine months. You can check out his portfolio at www.andrewhefter.com.

My best friends are simply fantastic. We’re really very similar. We’re into silly things and start dancing for no reason. We can philosophize about coffee for hours. I hate having to leave them again and again when I go back to Savannah. But I’m truly lucky to be blessed with such wonderful friends. Sometimes they model for me as well.

What kinds of movies or TV shows are you into? What kind of music do you like to listen to, and which magazines do you prefer reading?

My favorite movies are Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Virgin Suicides, Spirited Away, and Amélie. On TV, I like watching The X-Files, Adult Swim, and lately tons of movies on Lifetime. But please don’t ask me why—I just always end up watching them when I’m awake at 3 a.m. and can’t fall asleep.

Musically, I’m into Jenny Lewis, Thao with The Get Down Stay Down, Tegan and Sara, Dear and the Headlights, The Decemberists, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Mates of State, Soko… but I’d better stop now, because I could go on for hours. I enjoy reading Vogue, JPG, Nylon, and i-D.

In your opinion, what are the best websites for fashion, photography, and lifestyle?

Definitely Lookbook.nu. Carbonmade is a fantastic site for artists to create their own portfolio. And I love We Heart It.

To come back to fashion, what do you think will be the upcoming trends for the end of the year—or is that completely irrelevant to you because you wear whatever you like anyway?

Hmm, I’m not sure. I usually just find things that I like and hope others feel the same way. I’m pretty bad at predicting upcoming trends. I think vintage will inspire upcoming looks and remain popular. At least I hope so, because I’ll keep wearing it.

And what are your goals for the future, besides continuing to wear vintage?

I really want to become a fashion photographer. It would be an absolute dream to shoot for the Urban Outfitters catalog. I worked on several fashion shoots this summer, and I hope to continue focusing on that and advancing my career. Hopefully it will pay off. If not, I’ll probably end up either owning an antique store or becoming a cat lady. But either one would be fine with me.

Thank you very much for the wonderful interview, and you can find more photos of Rockie on her own portfolio site, DeviantArt, Facebook, and even Twitter.

Bat For Lashes – Sleep Alone

There are only a few albums that have truly carried me away this year. “Horehound” by The Dead Weather is one of them, for example. Or “Hands” by Little Boots. But of course also “Far” by Regina Spektor. So you see, I’m simply into female singers – someone please have a psychologist explain that to me.

And honestly, who hasn’t been into the enchanting, graceful, mysterious and altogether wonderful Bat For Lashes, aka Natasha Khan, at least since her second album “Two Suns”? What a woman, what a voice, what intense songs. Since “Daniel”, she has been, alongside Lykke Li, one of my absolute favourites.

Now the 29-year-old presents the insanely great video for her third single “Sleep Alone”, which, as usual, comes wrapped in bittersweet melancholy, soaked in misty melodies and perfect for making out by candlelight with a good bottle of red wine. I love this woman. But honestly, who doesn’t…

Element Skateboard’s “Make It Count”

The label Element with its striking and memorable logo and the cute girls’ brand Element Eden is as much a part of every skateboarder’s life – and their numerous eager groupies – as decks and wheels. And besides surfers and rock stars, there’s probably nothing sexier for prepubescent girls than talented skaters.

Now this mammoth among skate labels has put the first part of its large-scale documentary “Make It Count” by Kirk Dianda online. In four parts inspired by the elements, it tells the story of the sport, the rise of the brand, and its unique appeal. Element founder Johnny Schillereff as well as numerous companions and pioneers reminisce about the best years of the skateboard.

On the first of every month, following the initial chapter “Wind,” another part will be released. And now that I think about it, I’ve probably rediscovered my weakness for uber-cool skater girls. I’m going to listen to the corresponding song by Avril Lavigne and be annoyed that in my early years I wrecked three boards in a row and never tried again. If only I had, I’d be Tony Hawk by now.

Stadthunger: Adam and Eve

We ate lavishly on their rooftop terrace in the evening. Sina and Eva had cooked: lasagna with salad, pudding with little chunks in it. Just the way I liked it. Adam talked about the business. The club. The Chan Shin. How difficult it was these days to keep a thriving place running. There was so much competition in the city that the clientele kept getting stranger, but also more entertaining.

He was tall, with monumental tattoos on both arms, lions and eagles, stars and roses. Piercings adorned his face, eaten away by madness, and his dark voice underscored everything he said with an unavoidable emphasis.

Eva, on the other hand, was small, slim and slender. Together with her blonde, shoulder-length hair, she often transformed in my imagination into the figure of a bright fairy. Her voice was gentle and composed. I would love to have Eva read me a bedtime story sometime.

I nodded incessantly, but basically I didn’t give a damn about anything Adam was explaining to me at such length. I was one of the most dazzling figures in the business and I couldn’t care less. Sina knew that. She looked at me with an understanding expression and took a big bite of lasagna. At the time I found it cute when she stuffed large pieces of food into her mouth.

“Why does this world make you so happy?” I ask her as we walk home. “Which world do you mean?” She loosely wraps her arms around me and then dances cheerfully across the cobblestones. “The parties, the clubs, the over-the-top people. The drugs and all that.” She stands still and slowly turns toward me. “Because you live in it.”

I look at her in disbelief. “But I hate it. And you know that.” “And why?” “Because none of it is real, everything is overblown and artificial. People suppress their problems and worries, wash them down with alcohol and push themselves into some kind of mental worlds with drugs before crashing all the harder onto the ground of reality the next morning.”

With a smile she comes toward me, takes my hands and presses a kiss on my mouth that is as tender as it is passionate. “I’m real,” she whispers softly. “And we both live in this world.” A glaring beam of light pierced my murky thoughts, ruled by darkness. Howling and screaming in pain, the demons of my self shattered into a thousand pieces and made way for a green, healing bud that broke through the cold, withered earth.

A grin spreads across my face, which just moments ago had been so thoughtful and grim with deep conviction and aversion. “See,” she says, then runs off and spreads her arms. “Come on, let’s fly!” she calls and disappears around the next corner. Wait for me.

Sina was like a little child, a whirlwind. She reminded me of my own resolutions and convictions that I had lost through life here. Her nature was always cheerful, carefree and full of positive surprises. She was Ernie, I was Bert. “Don’t be such a Bert.”

I enjoyed every minute I spent with her. At least that was the feeling I had in retrospect; in truth she often annoyed me with her overly naive view of existence. Maybe I was just jealous.

I often looked at her bright body, photographed it, caressed it. I knew every freckle on her, every scar, every tiny hair. I knew how to stroke her stomach so that she would start giggling like a chicken, which places she didn’t want to be touched, and how I could drive her to inner despair and all the way to orgasm.

Sina was an open book to me, and yet so many pages still seemed unread. Maybe unwritten. And I was afraid of them. A past that was waiting for me, but that I didn’t want to know about. Because it would change everything, destroy our world, annihilate our existence.

This was the fifth chapter “Adam and Eve” from the furious blog novel project “Stadthunger,” the serialized novel at AMY&PINK. You can continuously find all parts under the category “Stadthunger”.

Pixie Lott – Boys And Girls

I simply don’t get it. Pixie Lott, a crisp 18 years old, English, blonde, tall, slim, talented and equipped with a thousand times more sex appeal than our favorite transvestite Mr. Lady Gaga, in my opinion absolutely has what it takes to make really awesome, modern music. Something along the lines of Lykke Li, Robyn or, if you insist, Little Boots. But she doesn’t.

If you watch her new video for “Boys And Girls” without sound, you’ll be flooded with crisp, fresh impressions: sexy models who could have come straight out of the Kate Moss clone machine, uber-cool guys making out with disco balls, and a location that would do justice to the most underground Berlin club. And damn, Pixie Lott looks hot in it. Like, really hot.

But then you turn on the damn sound and what do you hear? Insignificant, almost embarrassing generic pop that doesn’t fit at all with the pumped-up world you’ve just been lulled into. Unfortunately, the entire album “Turn It Up” promises no improvement, so we either have to wait until someone finally gives Pixie something better than Diet Coke, or until the tripped-out island monkeys lose interest in her. Until then, we’d better watch the clip on mute and play a soundtrack by La Roux over it.

Hannah on TV

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I know, it’s been a long time, but do you still remember the fantastic year 2008? Exactly, strain those gray cells. The one that, when you think about it excessively, wasn’t all that fantastic and could boast only a handful of positive events and aspects.

Among the highlights and as one of the milestones in Hannah’s career as world ruler (next to me, of course) was certainly her appearance in the culturally extremely high-quality show “Mitbewohner gesucht” on our favorite channel VOX, which, among other things, broadcasts favorites like “Gilmore Girls” and “O.C., California” almost daily, and where she wanted to rent a room in her cute shared apartment to the totally likable and not at all snooty-seeming Linda—a room that Hannah already presented to us here.

And thanks to the incredibly great service of VOX Now and the help of a small program called ScreenFlow, after a short waiting time of just one year you can see this grand piece of television history here with us today and experience our universally beloved Montana together with her sexy playmates in front of her sparkling clean bathroom, right next to Scientology, in her stylish turquoise slippers. With so much concentrated femininity, you immediately want to move in.

WTF?! Vol. 7

Some of you may already know these modern websites that redirect you to other pages after you first enter a few terms that interest you. Google is one of them, for example. Or Bing. Or Yahoo. And since some many of you are little piggies who like to type in perverted stuff there, here comes number 7 of our pillory series, neatly structured to show which curious search terms brought you to AMY&PINK. Cast off.

How do I get my parents to let me go to Frequency? How tall is Palina Rojinski? Gays sunbathe in Berlin. Small breasts jiggle. Little Lilly fucks her best friend’s father. Hot ladies from Lower Bavaria. Bambi, where were you? Hot sex with disabled people. Women stick shit up their asses. Naked Swedish girls. Doctor games in the children’s room. Lose weight like Keira Knightley. Hot emos. Screw metrosexual – I’m going to chop wood now! Rent a porn star. Go mow the lawn. Family mattress gets fucked by everyone.

What does “paffen” mean? Free porn with women who are breastfeeding, no registration required. Is Emma Watson shaved? Bouncing tits. How do you “paffen”? Emma Watson with a cucumber in her vagina. Hentai Bambi. Is Pink English or American? Watch photos and films of former porn stars for free. Vagina nerves. Cobra in old German script. I came home from school and saw my mother having sex with the mailman. Sister’s boyfriend seduces. What are the hottest Oakleys? Running robot. Only vanilla sex. Hot turd. Lady Gaga topless. What do men think about ex-girlfriends?

Wish for a Film!

Films are something great. Tearjerkers make us cry, horror flicks make us cuddle, and action movies turn us into pseudo-superheroes who crash into the nearest tree while drifting right after leaving the cinema. But what’s even better than just plopping down in front of the TV or the big screen? That’s right: making your own movie!

Roman, one of the organizers, pointed us to the Jugendfrey Film Festival in Berlin, founded by the association Freygeist e.V.. Selected participants up to 25 years old can grab a camera and a few friends until August 20, smear them with fake blood or set them adrift on the Wannsee armed with nothing but a spoon—and even win some great prizes with their recordings.

So that interested parties don’t have to search forever for a brilliant idea, we want to know from you: What have you always wanted to see in a film of your choice? Vegetarian aliens, pirates allergic to salt water, or finally Megan Fox naked in a new robot movie? Your ideas are wanted!

Jessica Daniels

I tend to prefer that certain kind of person who can’t immediately be shoved into a specific drawer, but instead keeps everyone’s imagination running with little secrets. There’s nothing sexier. Except cheesecake, of course.

And that’s exactly the category American Jessica Daniels from Los Angeles falls into, whom I stumbled upon here at Sex in Art. Even while looking at her photos, I couldn’t quite figure out what role the girl actually plays in this soulless internet. What is she? Nude model, musician, photographer? Or all of the above?

In any case, her Flickr account is full of great shots that stimulate my already endlessly perverted imagination like crazy. Whether sexy suggestiveness, dirty groupie shots, or sugary-sweet childhood photos—here you’ll find no answers, only more questions. But perhaps these pictures with Eric Kroll reveal more than they should. And now I want a piece of cheesecake.

Vomit Girls Are Sexy

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New York star photographer Merlin Bronques became a luminary of the international party scene with his brilliant website LastNightsParty, inspired me among others to create the main character in "Stadthunger," and even triggered a real boom among third-rate pseudo-photographers. Since then, parties have had to be even flashier, sexier, and more over-the-top—they might end up on the internet, after all.

Now, after his successful photographs—some of which were published in book form in 2006—Merlin has ventured into the world of moving images and presents boozy videos from the wild parties of Brooklyn and the rest of the world with LastNightsParty.tv. “Ruff Night” is the first installment. And many more are to follow.

And I could almost get jealous that I’m not spending my dreary existence in the dark world of the New York underground, but only in completely harmless and sparkling clean Berlin. And until a drunken bird abducts me to the American East Coast, I’ll sit here with popcorn and a Coke in my mouth watching puking models, fucked-up junkies, and rich hip-hop snobs. I think it’s great. Oh, what a wonderful world.

Stadthunger: My Name Is Sina

Close friends describe me as a little stubborn brat who, like a sudden raging storm, can fall head over heels for things and people with full passion, only to drop them just as quickly out of boredom. In my short life, there are only a few scenarios that cause me bone-chilling fear. One of the worst among them: that I might one day become wealthier than my father.

Because in my sweet little head it’s proven: all that money is to blame for the idiot constantly jetting from metropolis to metropolis with an army of blonde, anorexic secretaries no older than me, while his loving family always comes up short. That he’s sleeping with at least half of those soulless Barbie dolls—my mother doesn’t know. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to.

Another uncontrollable fear I definitely have is of small children. I don’t know how to deal with them, I don’t know what to do with them, and I especially can’t handle how eight-year-old gnomes with thick pants and even thicker balls can either call me a slut or constantly grope my ass at the bus stop. And when you slap them, suddenly they start crying and call for their bull of a father, who then tears into you with a mix of disgust and dripping horniness. Thanks for that lovely morning.

But what truly, really disgusts me most is the idea that someday, during a daring jump into the swimming pool or Lake Stollensee, my bikini might float away. That happened to my best friend Paula last summer. Since then, the whole school knows that she has the biggest boobs and the ugliest nipples of all time. And not only those precocious bitches from fifth grade find it hilarious—Johnny, self-proclaimed total moron and destined winner of the BILD newspaper reader of the year award, loves to ride that topic too.

Although at that particular moment he was probably more busy riding me, making disgusting grunting noises and almost falling off the bed while trying—and failing—to finger me at the same time. So he decided to leave it at that.

Which was probably better for both of us, since he was only slapping around on my stomach like a deranged lunatic anyway. At least during his very personal interpretation of World War II I didn’t have to look into his eyes, so I used the opportunity on that sunny day to glance out of the open window into the park and think about the important questions of life.

Whether Paula also forgot the history presentation Mr. Dächler had assigned her. How many women at that very moment were on all fours in front of their beloved, counting clouds with intense concentration. And whether I should finally redeem my voucher at Douglas tonight.

There was this new Calvin Klein perfume that smelled like a mix of vanilla and raspberry and blended incredibly well with my phenomenal natural scent. I had to have it. “Turn around, you slut!” someone shouted from behind, and before I knew it I was on my back and Johnny’s miniature version of a penis was heading straight for my nose.

The idea of going to Berlin to completely turn my life around and finally figure out what I really wanted to do with my existence came to me a few minutes after that splashy experience in Johnny’s grimy bathroom.

I had just rinsed my face with warm water and reached for the towel when I accidentally stared straight into my deep green eyes, which almost looked back at me with disdain. Slowly I examined my face while the post-romantic sounds of Rammstein echoed from the living room. The smell of marijuana drifted into my nose.

In that moment it became clear to me: I was more than just a little red-haired girl whose sweet face merely served as a sperm graveyard. I had character, I was fucking creative, I was something special. And I had great tits, too. With this realization in tow, I ran into the living room, grabbed my clothes, shouted a loud “Adios, you wanker!” as I passed Johnny, and stumbled out the door into the courtyard, relieved.

The deaf-mute elderly couple sitting across from me on a green bench by the house wall seemed to enjoy my striptease outdoors. I took my time getting dressed, pulled a cigarette from my pocket, and headed toward the bus station. And heaven forbid there’d be a gnome standing there now.

This was the fourth chapter “My Name Is Sina” from the furious blog novel project “Stadthunger,” the serialized novel on AMY&PINK. This part is a revised adaptation of a previously published short story. You can continually find all parts under the category "Stadthunger".

Evan Rachel Wood Strips Down

After both Lily Allen and Lady Gaga already got naked for i-D Magazine out of boredom, publicity, or simply for the money, the fledgling and former lover of Marilyn Manson has now also stripped for the tree killers.

Evan Rachel Wood appears in the current August issue of the magazine, which could slowly push the aging Playboy into the background, posing sexy in patent leather boots, lasciviously with two fingers in her mouth, crawling naked on all fours in front of photographer Terry Richardson. Just like Miss Allen, and equipped with a bit less up top, small breasts seem to be totally on trend at the moment. And I don’t even mind.

And although I find the thought that goth Manson has already hopped around on the girl a bit gross, I’ve been totally into Wood ever since one of my favorite films, "Thirteen," regardless of the fact that she hasn’t really accomplished much in years—or am I mistaken? I’m just curious who will be the next to drop their clothes for the magazine.

Will The Real Japanese Please Stand Up

Lately I haven’t given my favorite country (I almost just wrote homeland) nearly enough attention. And I’m sorry for that. After all, it’s such a crazy, quirky and yet unbelievably creative nation that those cute slant-eyed people have built up over years of tradition. And I actually had to catch "The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift" on TV for my love of Nippon to awaken again from its slumber. Oh Han, I want to be like you.

Anyway, just this very moment on the not entirely watertight Nerd Planet I found these magnificent Polaroids from a Japanese Halloween party in 1964. And now tell me: aren’t they wonderfully ridiculous and stylish at the same time?

For exactly that reason I’m going to devote myself once again to the culture, the knick-knacks, and the often incomprehensible incomprehensibility of the Land of the Rising Sun. If you’re lucky, I might even let you share in my discoveries from time to time. Maybe I’ll even take a language course again. Are there actually any Japanese people reading this? Does one of you want to be my friend? That would truly make me happy. Get in touch with me. I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that.

Heroes of Our Time: Eric Cartman

It’s time to finally honor the true heroes of our generation, to forget Obama, Gandhi and Mother Teresa, and to orient ourselves toward the teachings of a handful of extraordinary people who have truly changed the world.

Our number 1 in this new series is therefore the little asshole Eric Cartman from idyllic South Park, Colorado. Sure, he’s a racist, manipulator and murderer, but there are plenty of positive aspects to be found in his soul steeped in darkness.

From him we can learn to reach even distant goals with ease by never letting up, acting in unconventional ways, and viewing the mechanisms of the world from a bird’s-eye perspective. True to the motto: what doesn’t exist doesn’t exist.

In doing so, previously unseen paths open up to us that promise quick and uncomplicated success. Additionally, his enormous obesity unconsciously nudges us more often toward enjoying a fresh fruit salad instead of grabbing greasy cheese nachos.

Anyone who now feels called upon to change the world themselves—and preferably every evening—can attend a free session on August 6 on Comedy Central. There will be a very special Cartman special, after which you will surely also want to become a rock star, process your parents into chili, or exterminate the Jews. Or redheads—just as you please.

Win Awesome Stuff with bebe Generation

You probably still remember the sweet girls you were able to vote into the four shared apartments of the bebe Generation recently. I hope you voted diligently, because sixteen selected pretty girls have now been chosen and can look forward to moving into their dream WG.

Whether music, fashion, lifestyle or active—there’s something for every taste. Berlin and Cologne have already welcomed their newcomers, and they’re already making quite a stir. The music crew is calling for cheerful karaoke singing while the fashion freaks from the capital (who live just around the corner from us) are preparing to design their limited edition jeans.

Only Munich and Hamburg are still missing, whose future residents will be moving into their brand-new homes in the coming days. But why am I telling you all this? Because you can actively participate in all the bebe Generation activities and snag some really great prizes. From digital cameras to music vouchers to surf sticks, everything’s included. So join in and cash in, I’d say. Good luck!

Ron’s Sexy Little Sister

Okay, let’s be honest. Ginny Weasley aka Bonnie Wright isn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes even in the current "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." Small, red-haired and always walking around with that crazy psycho look. Like a little gnome. Even though I’m actually into gingers. I always preferred model student and would-be model Emma Watson. Even if the topless photo of her that recently circulated in the media turned out not to be entirely real. Unfortunately.

But after seeing various photos of Ron’s little sister on Buzzfeed, I have to revise my opinion. There, Mrs. Harry Potter shows herself as a stylish, chic girl, hopping around at the premiere of her new film in a sexy dress by Miu Miu and posing incredibly well for Grazia magazine.

That certainly makes the decision not so easy anymore: Hermione or Ginny? The 18-year-old has definitely convinced me with her stylish and (so far) scandal-free appearance. I’m curious to see how the Potter crew will have developed by the next film, and now you can place your bets on which of the young stars will experience a total breakdown first. Will it be Harry? Ron? Or Neville? We’re excited...

Nick Turns Your Naked Ex-Girlfriend into Art

I’m a self-confessed fan of Nicholas Gazin. To be honest, I don’t really know why. Maybe because he has an insanely good clothing style. After all, he’s 25 years old, an artist and lives in the New York underground. He has to have it. Or because in one of the last issues of VICE he talked about grabbing pictures of random naked ex-girlfriends from the internet and turning them into magnificent drawings.

Or maybe because he creates art featuring crucified eyes, mutilated people and skeletons annoyed by the entire world. Brain-licking demons, devil-possessed ice cream and murderous plums. Goddesses licking fried eggs off feet, rockets flying into giant, hairy vaginas and dead Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

And all this modern nonsense is earning Nicholas plenty of female fans, worldwide fame and his own exhibitions. So those are probably enough reasons, and now I slowly understand why I quite like the nice gentleman. Or maybe I’m just into him because he has the best Facebook profile picture of all time. Yes, that must be it. Case closed.

Urban Hunger: Blood and Sex

Basically, everything we did was about sex. Not about love, not about dancing. When she let that disgusting junkie take her on the toilet at the opening of Chan Shin, while I was busy taking funny photos of the party crowd that disgusted me, I didn’t really mind.

And yet I beat Sina bloody in the parking lot when she happily told me about it. With every punch, every blow, every kick, his face flashed through my mind—how he mounted her like a wild animal, having no idea about her dreams, her longings.

That she liked to drop three cubes of sugar into her coffee. That she snorted like a little pig when someone said something funny on TV. And that she wore pink underwear when she had her period. That asshole had no idea about any of that when he pressed her against the wall and shoved his disgusting thing into her again and again. And he didn’t give a damn.

When they pulled me away from you, you were lying on the dark concrete, gasping and crying. The blood flowed gleaming down your beautiful body. You stood up and looked at me like a mother looks at her son who has done something stupid but incredibly sweet.

“You love me, don’t you?” you ask me as we lie together in bed at night, taking turns on a joint while I kiss your wounds. “What makes you think that?” I reply curtly. “Because you were jealous. Because I fucked Cosby in the bathroom.” You giggle cheerfully. “I hate you,” I say, turn my back to you, and fall asleep.

I wake up the next morning to the clicking sounds you’re making on the laptop. I blink, see you sitting on the floor in your white nightgown, and kneel down behind you. The rage foams up inside me—you’re chatting with Cosby, early in the morning. I grab the MacBook and throw it out the window. Like a Frisbee. You look at me, puzzled, give me a kiss on the cheek, and make us some scrambled eggs with bacon. “Buy a new one, I want to listen to music.”

This was the third chapter “Blood and Sex” from the furious blog novel project “Urban Hunger,” the serialized novel on AMY&PINK. You can continuously find all parts under the category “Stadthunger.”

The Fallen Angel

Oh Mischa dear, what on earth is going on with you? Sure, you miscalculated a bit when you left “O.C., California,” you didn’t exactly hit Hollywood like an atomic bomb in 1945, and you really had to struggle through some pretty lousy B-movies, but everyone makes mistakes. Relationship problems, wrong beauty ideals, depression…

But that doesn’t mean you have to attempt suicide. Especially now, things were finally looking up for you again. You had a new series, “The Beautiful Life,” on CW, you got to play a stalker under the direction of Morgan Freeman in the new film “Homecoming,” and you’re finally no longer with that disgusting Cisco Adler. Or is that exactly the crux of the matter…?

But it’ll be okay. Everything will be fine. The usual stuff. As your biggest fans on this planet, we wish you a speedy recovery. And if I ever see the idiot who wrote this MTV news piece, there’ll be a proper beating. One left and one right while I shout, “This one’s for Mischa!” See what I’d do for you.

The Big Putpat Giveaway

It’s music that keeps us all alive. That saves us from ultimate despair, wraps us up warmly when we’re lovesick, and sets the tone when we’re freaking out. And because rhythmic melodies combined with a voice delivering more or less valuable lyrics basically save your life, here’s a batch of insanely good music—and you can even win something. So, who’s the best?

We’re giving away five completely exclusive invitations to the beta phase of Putpat, the new revolution in music shining in the firmament. And that’s saying something. All you have to do is listen to these insanely awesome songs and post in the comments which one you like best and why. It runs until Monday, and even if you’re not into the pseudo-lottery: the tracks are definitely worth it. So tune in and enjoy.

“Colourless Colour” by La Roux. “Oasis” by Amanda Palmer. “Home Sweet Home” by Those Dancing Days. “Lisztomania” by Phoenix. “Two More Years” by Bloc Party. “Longing For Lullabies” by Kleerup. “Eet” by Regina Spektor. “Earthquake” by Little Boots. “Extraball (feat. Amanda Blank)” by Yuksek. “Little Lies” by Fleetwood Mac. “Sick Muse” by Metric. “Mistaken For Strangers” by The National.

How Mandatory Vaccinations Are Supposed to Kill Us All

Do you remember that the government wants to get rid of every one of us? And we laughed about it? Well, my dear people, the greatest genocide of all time is slowly taking shape. Because this fall, the Ministry of Health wants to forcibly vaccinate 22.5 million Germans against swine flu. And other countries are planning similar measures.

That sounds like a good thing, but according to Austrian journalist Jane Burgermeister and the FBI, this is the beginning of the end. They are known to believe that both swine and bird flu were bred in a laboratory by the WHO in cooperation with governments and pharmaceutical companies in order to usher in a new world order, after which only important individuals will survive the pandemic and the lower classes will either disappear or be kept as slaves.

What sounds like a bad 1970s science fiction movie can unfortunately be supported by some facts. In the USA, there are already over 800 functioning concentration camps, guarded around the clock, fully operational, but completely empty. Officially, they were built in case of a massive increase in illegal immigration. Experts, however, assume they are intended for the surviving slaves after the swine flu.

It is also strange that all well-known individuals who have recently contracted the virus have gotten away with a black eye, while others die from it quite quickly. That is because there are supposedly two different vaccines. One helps, one kills. Twenty-one homeless people and one ferret have already died from the potential poison cocktail called Tamiflu, for which Roche had already forecast rising sales figures before the outbreak of the flu wave.

By forcibly vaccinating doctors, nurses, and the police, the helping units are to be removed directly in order to save money and time. After all, who would then treat those who are not on the list of the chosen ones? Problems like internet censorship, demonstrations, and overpopulation would suddenly dissolve into thin air. And if none of this is true, Uwe Boll can at least make a bad movie out of the story. Amen.

Style And The Family Tunes Loves Us

Paper is dead, long live the screen. The death of the established old guard is currently on everyone’s lips. But especially the sexy fashion magazines in the glossy high-end milieu still have a certain charm of exclusivity despite—or precisely because of—these critical times. Large photos you can touch, culture to read, print for eternity. Paper, after all, is patient.

A shining beacon of hope amid the somewhat calcified Vogues and Elles is the lively magazine Style and the Family Tunes, which not only skillfully talks about fashion, music, and culture, but also occasionally invites some of the most important people on earth for a little interview. Including greats like Jette Stolte, Sascha Funke, and the adorable Lisa van Houtem.

And now guess who they took directly to their soft bosom for their latest inquiry? That’s right: the one and only… often copied… never equaled… me! So seize the opportunity and soak up my wisdom about hell, broken noses, and pulled-down pants for free and right here. And always pay attention!

Here’s To The Crazy Ones

Nothing burns itself into our memory—whether positive or negative—like the special moments in our lives, the ones that remind us we are still here, breathing, bleeding, laughing. They are the stories in which we defy the well-established rules of the nation, throw all doubts about the beauty of our existence overboard for a short time, and perform acts that seem absolutely senseless but still give us so much more than all promotions, declarations of love, and hymns of praise combined. Because they come from the depths of our own selves, led by the heart, spontaneity, and the invincibility of the moment.

Whether we run naked races through the dark streets of the night with our best friends, transform a wall in front of her house into an eternal canvas of our torn feelings with colorful paint while suffering from heartbreak, or stand alone in a vast open field screaming our lungs out in sheer happiness or deep pain. Giving your best friend a tongue kiss, emptying your savings account and jetting off to Iceland, getting the Statue of Liberty tattooed in bright colors.

But only a few let go of their inner reins, and those of us who dare to do so through alcohol, drugs, or pure bliss do it far too rarely—or even regret having granted ourselves that freedom. Because of the looks of others, the constant need to justify ourselves, the embarrassment we exposed ourselves to. And could have avoided.

But if we look beyond that, if we believe in ourselves, in the short life available to us, and in freedom from everything and everyone, then we can be crazy. Dare things without having declared them to exhaustion beforehand. Take risks that can change everything. And escape the everyday life without meaning or reason.

Be brave. Be crazy. Be different. And now tell us: What crazy thing have you done in your life? Was it great, was it terrible, did you cry afterward? For love, for friendship, for yourself? And what do you absolutely want to try? Learn deep-sea diving, celebrate orgies, save lives? Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently.

The Killers – Goodnight, Travel Well

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I was really looking forward to the new video by one of my favorite bands, "The Killers," but while watching it I genuinely felt a cold shiver run down my spine. The story being told is so dark, so sad, and painfully real.

In collaboration with MTV Exit and Unicef, the viewer is drawn into the cold and icy world of forced prostitution, where young girls are humiliated like animals, held captive, and forced into sex. The dramatic, recurring beat, the hopeless lyrics, and the gloomy visuals burn themselves into your memory and refuse to let go.

The question that naturally arises at this point is what can be done about it. About this abuse, about this disgusting trade in lost souls, about the lives of these poor girls and boys. A dark topic that demands attention—and internet censorship is not the right answer. Because the abuse happens in the real world. Here, there, everywhere.

It’s Getting Hot In Herre

The city is simmering beautifully right now, my fellow humans and colleagues are groaning and sweating under Berlin’s humid, cloudy sky, and the water supply of world ruler Danone is slowly running dry. Before we later get completely plastered on ice-cold Bommerlunder sangria together with a messed-up lower Bavarian school class, we’d like to heat you up properly one more time and, as we do at least once a month, draw your attention to our snazzy FFFFOUND! corner.

There you’ll currently find not only the hottest photos from The Cobra Snake, The Lovely Bones, and Lindsay Lohan Is Better Than You, but you can also uncover the secret of a good cook, watch the incredible Hulk tackle heavy everyday work, and take a peek into the future of your favorite superheroes.

That way, the heat becomes fun and twice as easy to endure. All you need are plenty of naughty bits, pretty girls, and a pinch of pseudo-art. You’ll find all that and much more in our constantly updated FFFFOUND! collection. Enjoy making big eyes.

Zweiohrküken

As you all know, Til Schweiger and I have been total best buddies since this summer. Back then I had the hottest haircut ever, by the way. The good Marc has now drawn our attention to the first trailer for "Zweiohrküken," in which Nora Tschirner wears the same sexy facial expression the whole time as I’ve been wearing lately. But enough about me.

Because in the sequel to "Keinohrhasen," things get serious in pony-farm land. When Ludo runs into one of his former flings, Anna flies into a jealous rage. He, in turn, can’t stand this jealousy at all. He finally wants more freedom and time for himself—but quickly regrets it when Anna’s ex-boyfriend Ralf shows up. "GZSZ" on a grand cinematic scale.

And maybe this story, taken straight from life, will remind one or two of you of your own existence (now dig deep inside yourselves and rummage around), and from this film I simply wish for lots of Nora Tschirner. Lots of funny dialogue from her, lots of sweet facial expressions from her, and ideally another nude scene. With her. And with me. Not with Til Schweiger. Thanks.

Stadthunger: Tears on Your Face

The first time I saw you, you were sitting in the middle of Alexanderplatz. Huddled together, unwashed, with greasy hair. You were hiding behind a cardboard sign on which a message was scrawled in shaky handwriting that flowed straight into my heart. “I’m homesick. Please give me money so I can afford a ticket back home.” I sat down on some steps a few meters away from you and watched you.

You were crying. People walked past you without a glance, avoiding you, practically despising you as the dirt of society. Spring hadn’t really arrived yet and it was slowly getting dark. I couldn’t bear the sad sight any longer, stood up, and slowly walked toward you. “Come with me, I’ll buy you something to eat.” At first you didn’t want to listen, resisted my help, resisted me—but then you gave up your fortress. You stood up, brushed a strand of hair out of your face with your long fingers, and then walked beside me at a proper distance.

“My name is Sina,” you muttered while stuffing a big bite of cheeseburger into your mouth. I found that disgusting. “Why do you look like that?” While I waited for an answer and increasingly wondered why I had even brought you here, you disgusting little thing, my thoughts took me on a journey through Berlin’s nightlife. In that moment I could have given in to my urges, my feelings, my thoughts, gifted myself a trip into nirvana, and then slept with some cheap emo in my huge apartment.

It didn’t seem to escape you that I was grinning broadly, and so you began to spill the beans to draw the attention back to yourself. “Paula and I ran away from home. She’s my best friend.” You almost choked and first took a big sip of your Coke. I felt nauseous. From your demeanor, the smacking, that disgusting smell. “I was in the bathroom at the main station, and when I came back she was gone. With my backpack, my phone, and my money. That stupid slut.”

A tear ran down your freckled face. Inside me, a feeling of pity flickered up. Now I remembered why I had ended up in this unspeakable place with you and, smiling, ordered two more meals. We talked all evening. You told me about your awful family, your stupid ex-boyfriend, school, the feeling of not knowing where you belong. And that Berlin was your last hope to finally get your life together. I knew that feeling all too well.

In return, I babbled about my job as a party photographer and how I had always wondered how I could make so much cash with such an unholy occupation. I didn’t tell you anything about the drugs, the excesses, and the prostitutes coming and going, but I did reveal that my father never took me seriously, that my very first love had sex with my two best friends, and that I once went to prison. Why remained my secret—for now.

“If you want, you can stay at my place tonight and tomorrow I’ll buy you a ticket home.” You looked quite bewildered. “Why would you do that? Why would I do that?” “No idea. I have money and you need money. I was raised Catholic. You know, sharing and loving thy neighbor and all that crap.” “Fine, but if you touch me, I swear…” Suddenly you were a cat, with fangs and claws and that look full of mistrust, fear, and self-protection.

I liked your strength, bursting with vulnerability and inner greatness. In your sparkling blue eyes, I seemed to meet myself before I had lost the fun in all of this. The voices of many ghosts overcame me as we finally kissed in the dim light of the streetlamp. You were pale, unknowing, innocent—your being so full of pain and strength. That was the most beautiful part of it all.

We did it all night. In the bed, on the table, against the wall. And the next morning you didn’t want to leave anymore. I tolerated you with me, like my house cat. My little monkey. And step by step I introduced you to my world, which after a short time seemed to give you more feelings of happiness than it had ever managed to give me.

This was the second chapter, “Tears on Your Face,” from the furious blog novel project “Stadthunger,” the serialized novel at AMY&PINK. You can continuously find all parts under the category "Stadthunger."

Scarlett Johansson Hanging Out

Just last night, a friend and I once again watched my absolute favorite film, "Lost In Translation." Without sound and with a different main activity, but during a breather we talked about the fantastic Scarlett Johansson—and about how, unfortunately, she became too Hollywood for us after that movie.

Now Kevin sends me this stack of magnificent photos showing our little Scarlett just hanging out at home. So to speak. In underwear, lounging in the garden, or with those totally awesome sunglasses and a cigarette between her lips.

And that’s when I realized: maybe I just need to change my opinion of her again by watching some of her films. So fans of the blonde and busty angel, pay attention: recommend your favorite Johansson movies to me—preferably ones where she’s as naturally sexy as she was in Tokyo. And then just come over for a DVD night. I’ve got popcorn too.

Love Us on Facebook

All you little voyeurs out there can rejoice, because after slates and cave paintings, Montana and I have finally arrived in the 21st century and now have our very own snazzy fan page on the face-book! That we should live to see this.

From today on, you can follow us, love us, and adore us there, never miss grand links, videos, and funny bits and bobs again, and discuss hippie stuff, your annoying little brother, or cheesecake with us late into the night. Provided we feel like it.

So become a fan of AMY&PINK on Facebook today, decorate your own profile with a charming color somewhere between purple and magenta, and be closer to us than ever before. Mark Zuckerberg and we agree more than ever: this is going to be fun.

Lily Allen – 22

We are proud, as the quasi-official Lily Allen fan club (alongside Nora Tschirner and Lindsay Lohan—oh, we’re fan clubs of many things, especially of cheesecake of course), shortly after the fantastic "Fuck You" and sweet-as-sugar nude photos, to throw her new clip “22” from the album “It’s Not Me, It’s You” into your peepers here and now in a German premiere.

This time it’s about the profound topic of getting older, the midlife crisis, and the question of how one could have wasted their life like that. With an almost 30-year-old woman at the center who is dissatisfied with herself, goes out every night hoping to get a piece of love, but basically knows that her existence is already over.

Sad but true, and if Ms. Allen keeps releasing new singles at this monkey-like pace, she should be done with the album soon, which in turn means that maybe a new one will be waiting for us very soon. And that would of course make me very happy. Lily, you are a treasure.

Lily Allen Is Allowed to Take Her Clothes Off

After the pop thing called Lady Gaga, shortly afterward the next well-known and respectable singer strips down and proudly presents in the new August issue of i-D Magazine everything God gave her. And that’s not exactly all that much.

But it’s not necessarily the first time that little Allen, whom as you all know I really, really adore, has offered her breasts to some strange people like us. Whether it was her hairdresser, the party crowd of the nation, or innocent bathers. But I think Lily is allowed to do that. Really. I hereby issue her official permission.

Because she has remained true to her typically rebellious and provocative nature, doesn’t let her handful of little breasts be disfigured by disgusting cosmetic surgery and cheap silicone pads, and therefore may wiggle them in front of the camera as often as she likes. More beautiful pictures from the shoot can be found here, and I’m already curious who will be the next to get too hot in their clothes.

To Pass Away

Dying is the inevitable event that we all have to face sooner or later. Whether naturally, in the unfortunate impact of a truck, or while brushing your teeth—it can be over faster than you think. With this thought, we imagine our own funeral, fantasize about what kind of music will be played, what those present will be wearing, and which of our former life partners will throw themselves crying and wistful onto the coffin, deeply regretting that they ever left us. But then it’s too late.

For most, death means the end of life. Game over. Rien ne va plus. After that, most either go to heaven or hell—depending on how many good-mood points you collected on this planet and how often you ran to the priest you trust to have your soul cleansed with a few prayers. A certain Kenny McCormick experiences that quite often, by the way.

Other chosen ones, in turn, end up in boxes, castles, or in nirvana, outwit the Grim Reaper as half-dead beings, vampires, or zombies, and the truly creative are reborn as fish, trees, or happy clouds. Individual deceased people like Elvis have even been spotted at various gas stations in Nevada, and Michael Jackson has supposedly been seen here and there as well.

Since our ancestors unfortunately didn’t tell us what exactly awaits us after the final visit and what the whole point of it all is, each of us will probably have to bite the bullet and find out for ourselves. But we can at least speculate and therefore ask you and ourselves: What do you think happens after the last day, why are we here, and have you seen the King of Pop running around outside? Stories about near-death experiences through the pilot test are expressly encouraged.

Me Boss, You Nothing

Dear attendees, friends, family, enemies. Before I sink into long, rambling, and extremely sleep-inducing flashbacks about the origin story of AMY&PINK and keywords like MarcelTV and Tokyopunk, I would simply like to tell you that today practically screamed to do something special that will change the future of this world and everything around it forever. You could say it was fate.

After rushing today from the trade office to the Chamber of Industry and Commerce all the way to the tax office, making phone calls as far as Timbuktu, and actually being advised everywhere by very nice and competent people, I may now, here and with my chest swelling with pride, announce that as of today AMY&PINK is an internationally operating company with all rights and even more obligations. And it was a breathtaking feeling to step outside after the whole procedure, to see the cloud cover break open and the sun’s rays let Berlin shine beneath them.

This means that with this step we are once again a little closer to world domination, so that we can finally issue fully official invoices and I am now the boss of my own company. They call that a young entrepreneur. And damn, that makes me sexy. Even my senile old neighbor wished me all the best and good luck. And that’s saying something.

My first official act as a freshly baked boss, by the way, was immediately buying the biography of Steve Jobs, which I will of course deduct from my taxes. As required reading or something like that, just to start off with the right role model. Have I ever mentioned, by the way, that business administration is my absolute passion? Yes? Well then nothing can possibly go wrong.

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Palina Rojinski in Interview: Palina in Wonderland

Alone among men. The 24-year-old student Palina Rojinski is now attempting the unimaginable and has moved into the refreshing forced flat-share MTV Home together with star darling Joko and wisecracker Klaas in order to keep things in order there. Speaking with AMY&PINK, she now talks openly about this difficult time, her passionate fondness for fashion and music, and why she is not allowed to show Joko taking a dump.

Palina, you were swept away from icy St. Petersburg to what is unfortunately currently quite rainy Berlin. How long have you been here and what does the Big B have that your hometown does not?

I’ve been living in Berlin since I was six. That means I have two hometowns: the fairytale-like yet at the same time gray, tough, rugged St. Petersburg and the cool, multicultural Berlin.

Both metropolises have shaped me. I love classical things and kitsch, just like the architecture in St. Petersburg, but I’m also into street art, the bullet holes in buildings from World War II, and the liberated lifestyle in Berlin. But unfortunately, there are no White Nights here…

At least you’ve settled in quite well in the local nightlife, you enjoy partying and even DJ yourself. What are your favorite clubs in the city and where do you hang out during the day?

I follow the music and end up in all kinds of different clubs. I really liked the Scala, for example, because some of my favorite artists played there – including Rye Rye, Metronomy, and Zombie Zombie.

But as is typical in Berlin, the club has already had to close again. Keyword: Bar 25. I hope this great location won’t suffer the same fate, because the club is also very suitable for good vibes in the (pre-)morning hours. Freshly rested, I like to go there and do early dancing instead of early exercise. Walks with my French bulldog Iwan in the Grunewald are also a refreshing balance.

In the Süddeutsche Zeitung Magazin I read that thanks to your two German championship titles in rhythmic gymnastics, you’re an absolute hammer in bed. Is that true, and is that the secret tip for all the frustrated housewives at home in front of their screens?

A little gymnastics can’t hurt.

Your boyfriend must be a truly lucky guy. How did you meet and can you reveal to us little nerds the profound secrets of perfect flirting? How and what must a man absolutely be?

You don’t have to know everything. But attentiveness, healthy self-confidence, and humor suit every man.

Okay, but there’s of course more to your life than partying, studying, and having sex. Recently you’ve been at home in music television and tidy up after Joko and Klaas on MTV Home. How did you end up in the flat-share, are the two of them always nice to you, and is it fun to run your own blog there?

I moved into MTV Home due to a requirement from the landlord. After all, someone has to maintain law and order. My roommates are more busy with themselves and love listening to themselves talk. Especially the new guy at MTV.

On my blog, to my great regret, I can’t post everything I’d like to: for example, Joko taking a dump, because a whole bunch of rights are involved that could potentially be violated. But it’s still fun. Check out mtvhome.de!

If you work at the world’s largest music channel and haven’t yet been damaged by ringtones, you must have excellent taste in music. What do you prefer listening to and who are your personal favorite bands?

At the moment I’m listening to a lot and, above all, dancing a lot to UK Funky House, Booty Bass, and Crunk. My favorites include Rye Rye, Buraka Som Sistema, Little Boots, Fake Blood, but also romantic chansons by Nouvelle Vague.

Girls are famously into great clothes from birth. Would you describe yourself as fashion-conscious, how important are current trends to you? And please try to convince even the last idiots out there to deeply hate Ed Hardy.

I’m into beautiful, unusual pieces. I like combining the most absurd items and don’t consciously follow trends. If I like something and my wallet allows it, I buy it and keep it until it hits me like a bolt of lightning and I’ve found the perfect combination for it. And regarding Ed Hardy: to each their own. You already said it yourself “…the last idiots out there…”.

So what are your plans now? What does your future look like, what do you still want to achieve in your life, and what absolutely profound piece of information would you like to share with our readers before they bite the dust?

For now I’m just looking forward to MTV Home every Friday live at 4:30 pm, then to my own show, uh, I mean my own channel. So remember the name Palina and take good care of yourselves.

Thanks for the great interview and all the best for the future.

The Playboy and the Country Bride

Welcome to a new round of retro nostalgia at its finest, because after old songs and even older photos, the temporary fanatic of the past, Hannah, has dug out our yearbook. And since we almost threw ourselves out the window while reading it (well, not really), we present another rarity from the days when everything was better, I ran around with shoulder-length sexy hair, and Montana was still young and crisp. Today read: Our sunken characterizations, which somehow still apply today. Or don’t they?!

Marcel: Tall. Dark-haired. Slim. Marcel. Our playboy, who made himself very popular with our girls in a charming way. It would have been too nice if he had shown the same enthusiasm for classes. Because despite constant attendance, he managed to get caught up in a nasty entanglement of eating and chatting, caused by a certain neighbor who made it impossible for him to follow the lesson—even if he exceptionally wanted to.

Not to be left unmentioned is his Mac addiction; he never leaves the house without his iPod, and woe betide anyone who thinks Windows is better than Mac OS. Besides this quirk, he is also completely infatuated with everything that comes from Japan, which he lives out on his website that changes every two days.

We also owe his technical expertise an insanely cool film about our study trip, with which some special moments of our school year can be relived again and again. Not only the film, but also kilos of apples came out of his school bag, which were distributed to the entire class within seconds. And so we ask you one last time: “Excuse me? Is there absinthe here?”

Hannah: She is the country bride from Stötten with an Elvis car, who doesn’t always manage to tame the 60 horsepower or the reverse gear. Unfortunately, she has to get her beloved Elvis dirty whenever she has to pick up Angelika in the middle of nowhere (but what would Hannah be without Angelika? Unthinkable!). Miss “Totally Social” certainly doesn’t shy away from any backwoods area—provided she manages to find or even see the driveway in her emo outfit.

If you try to call her, you’ll first be put on hold by the Black Eyed Peas, since she doesn’t always answer. But with her packed schedule, that’s understandable. Some of her hobbies include, for example, ripping the clothes off men, dancing with several men at the same time (the party mouse), sleeping in a room with a boy in Prague (scandal!), trying to undress men in Angelika’s bed while drunk (what?), calling everyone at the rival school “sluts” and immediately battling them with Angelika, and of course acting in theater (just the way we know her!).

She has no problem with her opinion and expressing it loudly. Nevertheless, she is our favorite class representative and also student representative with vision. Sometimes Hannah also has childish fits that trigger loud laughter and giggling. But that’s what really makes social studies class interesting. In conclusion, I can only say: “Mother… why did you do this to me?”

Experience Berlin for Free

The fact that Berliners may be sexy but certainly don’t belong to the wealthiest bunch in our beloved republic is likely known far beyond the borders of the A-B-B area. After all, the daily cup of coffee at Starbucks is expensive, and highly coveted tickets for sold-out concerts like La Roux or Regina Spektor don’t just fall into your lap. By the middle of the month at the latest, most of us are broke and stuck at home from then on.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Daniel, Dennis, and Tim have been running the sleek Freeguide Berlin for several months now, sparing big-city rockers from the humbling task of collecting bottles and keeping them very up to date on all the events you can attend without spending a single penny.

Whether concerts, exhibitions, or other events – everything interesting and free is presented, reviewed, and dated by the guys. So that poor students can enjoy life again and don’t constantly have to hang out at Sankt Oberholz. A good thing, we think.

Why You’ll End Up Marrying Stinky Thomas Someday

On the day of the kiss, we become even more aware of how magnetically drawn we are to the other – or even the same – gender. Because even in the age of singles, careers, and the legacy of free love, romance still holds a high status in society. A loving, trust-based, and especially long-lasting relationship between two individuals is the declared life goal of a great many people. Ideally for a lifetime, anything but being alone, let alone dying an old maid. At the beginning, you’re still picky. Thomas smells weird, I’m not letting him near me. Inge has that pimple on her forehead; being seen with her would ruin my whole reputation.

As the years pass and the ticking of the internal clock grows louder, the invisible bouncer inside yourself starts occasionally closing first one eye, then both, and before you’ve gone stale and panic about missing your chance takes over, you suddenly find yourself at the side of stinky Thomas, skipping through the park with two children who don’t smell much better.

But why do we put ourselves through all the stress of searching for our better half in the first place? After all, with the start of every new relationship, you immediately make tons of compromises, sooner or later have to justify going-out times and locations, and yet you know perfectly well that even the greatest love won’t last forever.

But that’s precisely what is said to make you blind, stupid, and naïve. Butterflies in your stomach, the first night in bed, the most beautiful sunrise the morning after. Only a chronically injured anthropophobe would still be thinking about the war of the roses, the weeks, even months full of tears and heaps of devoured ice cream waiting for you after a heartbreaking breakup.

Relationships are as different as people themselves. Long and short, intense and superficial, born out of the moment or carefully built up over a long time. That’s why we’re burning to hear your answers to the questions: Why relationships? With whom and why? How long do your romances last, and was the longest one also the most beautiful? Why didn’t it last, or is it perhaps still going strong? And did you celebrate the Day of the Kiss properly? Answers that could change the continuation of humankind.

City Hunger: My Dream, Your Escape

I have no choice but to keep breathing. In and out. For all time. Forever. Until you discover me, sit deep within my soul and finally feel how great I am for you, no longer wanting anyone else in your life, sending the vultures home. My nightmares grow stronger, weaker, more colorful. Of coughing trees, blonde girls, graceful horses.

When I open my eyes again, the powder lies carelessly scattered beside you. Your breasts glow blue in the moonlight; I haven’t seen such a beautiful sight in a long time. For hours I watch the highs and lows, the rhythmic rise and fall of your being.

No trace remains of the one-sided faint after the great quake, my head clear again and soaked with the murky thoughts of recent times. How everything could change so much. You, me, both of us. Beside your reddish-blonde hair lies Hugo, smiling, drooling, sleeping.

An insatiable hunger penetrates my innermost being; my thoughts revolve around soggy cheeseburgers, greasy pizza, fried noodles baked over with eggs and cheese. I almost puke from appetite, get up without kissing you on the forehead one more time, and run naked through the apartment.

The refrigerator is filled with beer, Red Bull, and champagne. Not a trace of anything edible in sight. The room begins to spin, the bright light bores straight into my stomach, my lungs, my legs. I collapse onto the floor, start to cry, starve miserably.

When Sina sees me the next morning curled up like an embryo in the womb in front of the open refrigerator, she starts kissing me all over my body, doesn’t stop until I open my eyes, take her head between both hands, and look deep into her ocean-blue eyes.

Countless stars shine within them, the end of the world, the meaning of life within reach. My parents strike up a cheerful song, dolphins leap around. And before I can finally uncover the secret of our entire existence, the doorbell rings.

Sina smiles, gets up, and opens the door to the mailman without bothering to cover herself first. He doesn’t bat an eyelid, presses a package into her hand, and says goodbye as usual, politely and with a couldn’t-care-less attitude toward both of us. I’m ashamed. “Are you hungry?” she then asks me. “I’ll order us a pizza if you’d like.”

It takes almost an hour before I finally have something edible between my teeth. We sit on the couch watching “O.C., California” on DVD. The sun shines through the huge windows of the old apartment building. The TV tower towers on the horizon.

When Ryan holds Marissa dying in his arms, I run to the bathroom and vomit into the bathtub. In that moment it just seems more appropriate for my spontaneous undertaking. Sina follows me and we sleep together on the cold tiled floor. When I’m finished she asks me, “Do you promise me that it will stay like this forever?” I nod silently. She climbs off me.

The package contains a new camera that I ordered on the internet. It’s expensive, it’s beautiful, and the first thing I photograph with it is Sina cleaning the bathroom. Whenever I see these photos today, I get heart palpitations, an overwhelming, bone-shattering feeling of why I didn’t take better care of her. Why I wasn’t there sooner when it happened.

This was the first chapter “My Dream, Your Escape” from the furious blog novel project “City Hunger,” the serialized novel at AMY&PINK. In the future you can also find all parts under the category “City Hunger.”

Lady Gaga Is Now Half a Woman!

Everyone’s favorite transvestite Lady Gaga is presenting himself topless in the new V Magazine, although he recently turned down an offer from Playboy. I had assumed that decision was due to his little secret downstairs, but at least the hormone pills now seem to have worked quite well above the waist.

According to our team of experts, the breasts also appear to be real; practical tests will follow as soon as Michael Jackson’s brain has been reimplanted. Now we can only hope that Lady Gaga’s penis also falls off as a result of the hormone treatment, and then nothing will stand in the way of a Playboy appointment and perhaps even a somewhat respectable music career.

By the way, if any of our female visitors feel inspired by these pictures to free the upper half of their bodies and present themselves to our team, brimming with professionalism, they are welcome to do so in the comments or in an email to us. Tight lines.

Harry Potter and the Plastic Cup – Part 5

Anhand der Frequenz von Videos auf AMY&PINK könnt ihr ganz klar den Grad meiner persönlichen Langeweile erkennen. And that’s why I’m declaring today my personal YouTube memorial day, and because I always laugh so hard at these “Harry Potter” spoofs by the crazy Coldmirror, here’s Part 5 of “Harry Potter and the Plastic Cup” — I’m cracking up.

Wet, wet, wet — the other André once showed me all this stuff, played it for my ex and me all night long, and ever since then I’ve been able to take the wizard guy even less seriously than before. A shame, really. Oh, the sun’s shining again — I’m going to get some ice cream with Mandy the Mammoth and head to the lake, and you go ahead and laugh your brains out. Thanks. Class and stuff, my ass.

Dirty Projectors – Stillness Is The Move

I fell asleep last night with exactly this song in my ears and, thanks to the girls, had the craziest dream in a long time. High and colorful and glowing and adventurous and all that stuff. If only I could have remembered the ultra-insane story, then the next big blockbuster at a cinema near you would without a doubt be coming straight from yours truly. Well, there go the millions. Goodbye personal sexy housekeeper.

I still haven’t quite figured out the concept of the band Dirty Projectors, even though according to Wiki-whatever they already released their first album back in 2002. Apparently there’s this Dave Longstreth guy who runs all kinds of people through his music group, and the list of former members is longer than Michael Jackson’s heirs.

But the song “Stillness Is The Move” is beautiful, the video has something about it too, and just like with the Those Dancing Days, the lead singer here is once again the cutest one. What a coincidence. And there’s a llama in it too. Or an alpaca. Or a stork, no idea what that animal’s called. Let’s just call it Udo.

WTF?! Vol. 6

There are currently two large groups on the internet. Don’t get me wrong: both consist of perverted petty criminals. Just before the release of the movie “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” one group is mainly searching for Emma Watson’s naked feet and has catapulted the girl to the top of our popularity ranking; the others are, as usual, drooling over dog penises, Sailor Moon, and porn stars on Google and end up on AMY&PINK this week as follows:

Girls who pee into their own mouths. Michael Jackson’s death faked? Who is the model from the 2008 Kinder Milk Slice commercial? Hot popsicles. Sluts secretly being looked down into their cleavage. Amy in pink and pink in Amy. Photos of sex with skinned girls. We wish you a few naughty things. I have sex with my sister every day. Naked ass in the green. What are the names of Sailor Moon sex movies? Man looks under woman’s skirt porn. I’m not hyperactive, oh a squirrel! Dog sperm goes into human pussy, watch now! Mom stinks and takes drugs.

Porn star with freckles. I’ll break your legs. Swedish girls with hairy vaginas. Old, fat, horny, anal and free. Fuck or shit are not words for school. Dumb women fuck well. How much does a polar bear weigh? Heavy enough to break the ice. The washing machine song on YouTube. Hannah is coming to my birthday. What’s the name of the porn actress with the biggest tits in the world? Buy dog penis. Swine flu bred in a lab. Hot wife fucks young hot boys in the club. Glass explodes in ass. Can virgins smell like fish? I’m too horny for this whole shit.

Those Dancing Days – Run Run

It’s getting hot in here… Berlin is practically melting under the blazing ball of heat in the sky and that means for all non-Australians: sweat, fruit flies, and headaches for free! The latter is made even worse by the fact that I thought it would be a great idea to pour fruity cold sangria into myself for breakfast. And in the capital, only bums and abandoned housewives get drunk early in the morning.

And because today the conversations in the neighborhood and the ghetto revolve only around the weather, and we can’t constantly just shove the latest music clips at you here, today you get the track “Run Run,” released last year, by the band Those Dancing Days, five cute girls from the land of blondes. Sweden.

This is one of my favorite summer feel-good-and-more songs with a very high video factor, and I especially have a thing for the charming singer Linnea Jönsson, whose hair I would loooove to ruffle sometime, and who was recently running around the Technical University in Munich. And I’ve never said that about a girl before. World premiere. The urge, not the song. But that’s good too.

Hasta La Vasta

Wait, before I get to the actual content of this entry, I’m on a roll… Vasta, Canasta, Laster, Pasta, Raster, Plaster, basta, Tasta… tur..? Oh whatever, Hoecker, you’re out. First of all, I’d like to apologize to the responsible investigative authority for sitting at home on a Friday night, but I’m just a loser and today I’m so dehydrated that I could crumble away on my beautiful green couch.

And what do you do when you’re stupidly alone and abandoned and at home anyway, pouring Beck’s into yourself that matches the color of your couch, while letting your Sims starve and outside a few drunk hair salon visitors are throwing a party? Exactly: you watch TV. And my comfort victim at this very moment is a certain Nadine Vasta, the new face on my favorite pre-prime-time channel VIVA.

The hyped-up program directors really came up with something great with “vasta.tv,” and I don’t even want to know how often the term “Social Media” was dropped in those incredibly creative meetings: we grab a blog, transfer it to good old television, and cast the whole thing with a super-cute noodle you can really fall in love with.

And now I need to search deep within myself and get really serious, because I’d like to offer some creative criticism: not such a totally shitty idea, but guys. If you’re already snorting one line after another in the broadcast toilet and producing half-baked brain wank, then you could have gotten so much more out of the hour. You know, more substance and all that. Stupid guests, spaced-out actions, more courage to be absolutely embarrassing. Instead, fewer bench jokes, pointless wandering around the capital, and hammering mentions of the blog. My God, I should probably charge money again for these ultra-awesome tips.

But actually I’m just riotously jealous because AMY&PINK still doesn’t have its own show and I don’t have such a chic T-shirt as Miss Vasta Canasta. So, my Sims have now starved miserably, I’m about to call the Free Broadcaster Berlin to finally demand our own show, and I can only give Mr. Pasta Laster two ultra-wise options for the future: either move out or get better. Both are also possible. So, who’s building me new Sims now..?

Bloc Party – One More Chance

I’m totally into Bloc Party. Really. I practically devoured and loved their previous three albums; the songs are constantly playing up and down at my place. “Two More Years,” “The Prayer,” or “Blue Light” — the guys really have it going on. And that’s saying something.

On August 10, the summer single “One More Chance” by the London mood-makers will be released, and as usual it’s distinctive, instantly catchy, and has that typical British touch. The accompanying music video is a bit rather tacky this time, and I don’t really get the story either, but my God: screw it. Just be happy about the new material, and by the way, you can see them live at the Melt Festival on July 18. Everyone making the pilgrimage there: have fun!

Daria Is Back

When those two idiots Beavis and Butt-Head by Mike Judge celebrated their comeback on the newly revamped MTV a few years ago, their catchphrases became cult at our school faster than all Pokémon and Yu-Gi-Oh! cards combined. Bunghole.

But the much better alternative cult series was "Daria," the darling of all grim, misanthropic, and socially outcast pseudo-nerds at school. The cynic Daria Morgendorffer, her younger blonde bimbo sister Quinn, and the artistically gifted Jane. I loved this show, but honestly I can’t really remember it all that well anymore.

If you feel the same way, you’ll be happy to hear that MTV’s darling will finally be released on DVD next year. Then we can dive back into the grunge era and follow Daria in that small American suburb with her hatred for everything around her. I think she even reminded me a bit of my mother back then… okay, now it’s getting psycho.

Hey, My Name Is Alex…

...and I’m going to fuck you in the ass today. So forget the greatest pickup line of all time that we presented to you recently, because this one beats everything and gets you to your goal faster than going out for ice cream, red roses, and a bread maker together. Provided you swap the name for your own. Or your name is Alex.

We heard these extremely wise words at the German premiere of "9to5 - Days in Porn" by Munich director Jens Hoffmann, which we attended last night at the Central Kino at Hackescher Markt. He and his colleague spent a year and a half running around in the American porn El Dorado, the San Fernando Valley, accompanied porn stars like Sasha Grey at their hard work, and made a documentary out of it.

My companion Mr. Basti found it pretty boring, without surprises and something he’d already seen a thousand times on VOX. "Spiegel TV Reportage" or something like that. I, on the other hand, thought it was quite nice, sometimes pretty funny, and I even developed a little crush on Ms. Grey, who, by the way, has a little film called "Sasha Grey's Anatomy" on the market. Must be a spin-off of my favorite series. If you’re into "MTV True Life" and porn, I can only recommend it. Fuck it, baby.

Damn, I Used to Be Cute

Come on, we all know it: everything used to be better. We wore the coolest clothes in the craziest colors, Alyssa Milano was still the sweet little girl in "Who’s the Boss?", and in the afternoons we had our first doctor games with the girls and boys from the neighborhood—staring dumbly and touching. But probably not the last.

To bring that time back to our memory at least a little, the sexy nurse of doom Carö dug out an ultra-sweet old photo of herself without piercings, red-dyed hair, and that glazed alcohol stare, and is now calling on the rest of us to do the same.

So rummage through your old shoeboxes, flip through those long-yellowed family albums, tear your portraits off the wall, and then post your childhood photos on your blog, drop them in her comments, or send them by carrier pigeon. And be sure to link to the totally awesome blog of Til Schweiger’s beloved, because we really love this blog. And so do you. Have fun surfing through the past!

Happy Birthday, Lindsay Lohan

Oh Lilo, do you remember how I vehemently and so romantically defended you a few months ago when you were swimming in scandals, everyone thought you were crazy, and they all wanted to send you off to rehab? Yes? No?

In any case, you’ve really improved since then. No more drug stories, the alcohol excesses have disappeared, and those unappetizing pantyless color photos at dinner are forgotten. I’m really very proud of you, little Lindsay, even though you’re honestly starting to get a bit too boring for me again.

All of us in this room, your absolute biggest fans, wish you all the best for your 23rd birthday. Don’t drink too much, don’t snort too hard, and above all: always keep an eye on things down below. Then it’ll work out again with the next big film.

Fuck Me I’m Famous

It’s time to share a dark and embarrassing secret of mine with you. While Montana is into worn-out guys whose clothes she can steal, alongside my extremely cool love for Nora Tschirner I also have a shady side to my feelings. Because sometimes… yes sometimes I’m into people like… now brace yourselves… Collien Fernandes, Sandy Meyer-Wölden, and occasionally even Gülcan—as long as she doesn’t open her mouth.

And for everyone who isn’t already marching toward me with pitchforks and torches, shouting slogans, I’ll top it off: when the planets align and it’s the Year of the Pig… I even have a bit of a thing for Giulia Siegel.

Hello, I can’t help it. I mean, she’s tall, blonde, slim, likes cold beer, dark chocolate, and trips to the jungle, posed naked in Playboy, and works as a super-successful DJane. Who could possibly say no to that?!

Apparently 60 horny guys (me exceptionally not included) can’t, because starting tomorrow at 8:15 p.m. in "Giulia In Love" they’ll be trying to mount the daughter of hit mogul Ralph Siegel on ProSieben. That obviously lowers my chances enormously, but then I’ll just stick with little Nora. In the meantime, I wish the candidates good hunting and send me a card once you’ve made it to the top.

I Laugh My Head Off and Sit on It

Berlin is fantastic. Dirty charming and full of jobs with unlimited potential—as long as you don’t have to sell Motz. Tourists love coming here these days, can hardly believe that some lunatics once built an entire wall here, then pee into the Jewish Museum, spit from the TV Tower, and let their alternative tour guide whisk them off into the supposedly underground party scene—who conveniently drags the whole bunch straight to Oranienburger Straße anyway.

But that’s over now (once again), because the wise folks at VICE have recognized the signs of the times and, right in the middle of the total crisis, are bringing us a new edition of their "Vice Guide To Berlin," which painstakingly collected, summarized, and published everything truly worth knowing about the poorest city in the republic. And because they knew that we little pigs are, as usual, totally broke, the thing is completely free! Insane. Download it right here.

Obama Cut Off Our Juice

Apparently the Great and Powerful out there didn’t really like that we exposed their evil plans to annihilate humanity and decided, just like that, to cut off our power.

But of course we didn’t give up that quickly. Escaping from the Iraqi high-security prison was tough; disguised as sugary camels we then hopped unnoticed through the desert and finally joined an unspeakably awesome rebel troop that welcomed us with open arms.

The far more plausible explanation for our completely unnoticed absence might also have been the somewhat clumsy move to a newer, more awesome, better, faster and altogether more magnificent server, which makes all the nerds here cheer and lets us breathe a sigh of relief.

Because you little rascals have been so busy on AMY&PINK over the past months that our amateur webspace was slowly but surely giving up the ghost with wheezing and croaking. Now we’ll quickly sacrifice a sheep to the Flying Spaghetti Monster and hope that everything here now runs totally smooth and flowy. Woe betide us if it doesn’t…

VICE Is Throwing a Little Party

So if we’re supposed to drop hints about random parties in Berlin, we normally of course let ourselves be bribed with tickets, cash, or ladies’ razors. Hello, we’re not Caritas after all. But since I’ve got a massive melon in front of me right now and already have something else planned that day anyway, I’ll make an exception. I’m just that gracious.

After all, the Berlin Fashion Week is coming up again and not only is SpongeBob back home on NICK, no. Hard to miss for any capital city rocker, the Bread & Butter trade fair has also returned and to pay tribute to that, the magazine I love most besides Wendy is throwing one fat, fat poardy.

VICE is therefore calling all party- and fashion-crazy bipeds to the Michelberger Hotel on Warschauer Straße on July 2nd to really let loose there with Mickey Moonlight, GoldieLocks and the Moustache Mamas, among others. But beware: the tickets are limited and can only be won here. Crazy, right? Good luck, Sonja!

And since some people from VICE are reading along today: Hannah wants me to tell you that there are far too few breasts in the current issue. Go stand in the corner and be ashamed! Oh, now Mr. Jeriko will surely curse us. With us it’s really always just about tits and dicks… pathetic…

The Government Wants to Kill Us All

Do you sometimes feel sluggish, good for nothing, and your little buddy doesn’t want to cooperate the way you want it to? Even the stress test from the church you trust couldn’t really help? Then it’s simply due to the following fact: the government wants to kill you all!

Jane Burgermeister, journalist by trade and part-time hobby detective, is currently suing together with the FBI everything with rank and name, including the WHO, teacher’s pet Barack Obama and, alongside them, the United Nations. She accuses them of having bred both bird flu and swine flu in secret laboratories and then spread them in order to be able to exterminate underprivileged sections of the population with deadly compulsory vaccinations.

Also on board are apparently the two pharmaceutical companies Novartis, whose vaccine allegedly already killed 21 homeless Poles and a ferret, and Baxter, who are said to have simply lost 72 kilograms of viral poison.

Michael Jackson, who was a passionate opponent of vaccinations and had long been convinced that the government wanted to poison humanity—which also explains the constant face mask—is said to have been a close confidant of Burgermeister until the CIA pulled the plug on him with a radiation cannon.

Sounds all very plausible and convincing and if you haven’t already kicked the bucket because of plasticizers in plastic bottles, nerve toxins disguised as flavor enhancers and the sudden spike in gonorrhea after the CSD, then the deadly arm of the government will probably get you.

So say goodbye to your loved ones and if until now you’ve been wondering why the powers that be would even want to do anything to you, what Barack Obama gains from finishing you off and what the evil WHO has to do with it, then I can only tell you that… hey who are you? What, silence me? Hello, that’s my.. help.. ahhh.. not my.. waaahhhh…!!

But That’s Not the Point of It!

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With unlimited hallucinations in our heads, we brought Basti, who had been seriously injured after the botched sex accident, to the best clinic in the whole wide universe, the Charité, thanks to a friendly taxi driver, which apparently knew exactly how to deal with deep heartbreak wounds. In the ghetto…

While Hannah, pale and wan, was on the verge of kissing the floor, our sexy nurse Caröö had completely different ideas in her head and slid with her patient across the corridors, which strangely enough didn’t really sit well with the absolutely competent staff.

But Basti just wanted to have a little fun in the last minutes of his deprived life, to feel the scent of freedom on his perfectly styled hair and to take the last chance to see the world. Before he had to embark on his final journey to Igor, in his homeland a butcher, now a doctor. But that’s another story… Condolences please to us.

Berlin Smells Like Semen

The two sweet little firecrackers Hannah and Carö, together with Basti and yours truly, took over the capital this weekend. After the obligatory visit to Tacheles, a detour to this year’s Christopher Street Day (motto: Piece by piece into homo happiness) and Hannah’s realization on permanent repeat that all of Berlin smells like semen stardust (pretty standard at CSD, I’d say), we headed off to the Kings of Leon concert at the O2 Arena.

Even though we could only snag seated tickets at the other end of the world, the crew apparently couldn’t be bothered to put up large screens, and at some point my fat ass fell completely asleep, the extended family is nevertheless a vocal miracle and together with all the Ed Hardy wannabes from the eastern districts we belted out “Use Somebody” and “Sex On Fire.”

After that we headed to White Trash with Daniel Brühl. The snazzy boy band Valient Thorr was playing there and infected by the loud enthusiasm of the singer I just slit Basti’s hand open with a beer bottle he and Caro had a tragic sex accident. It’s not funny, it’s blood!

So in the middle of the night we went to the Charité, met some junkies getting beaten up there, raced through the corridors in a wheelchair and drove dried-out senior physicians up the wall. A proper party finale has to end in blood. And according to Hannah and Caro, scars on men are sexy anyway.

The chicks left this afternoon, took the sun back to Munich with them, became regulars on the subway beforehand, summoned the curse of the squeaky duck and had sex with Til Schweiger on my magical couch. Ultra-sexy photos of the whole thing can be found here, a funky Scrubs-style video will follow. It was fun, it was boozy, and next time we’ll take over Munich. I’m looking forward to it.

Marina and the Diamonds – I Am Not A Robot

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The fact that I was always more than terrible at accounting, I justified with my scientifically proven fear of becoming a programmed robot of the economy who day after day punches out balance sheets in a bank. A gruesome fate. Nothing, except perhaps mutated green space spiders, frightened me more. But maybe I was just a lazy pig.

I seriously doubt that the new song by Marina and the Diamonds, “I Am Not A Robot,” is even remotely dedicated to my most hated subject of all time, but robots are evil (as you’ve convincingly seen in I, Robot) and therefore I advise you: do as the nice lady up there does and don’t become a heap of scrap metal. Unless you’re Bender, I forgive him everything.

Heul doch, du Emo!

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The cozy times of the emotional ones are finally over. Dracula, Blade and the scare before dawn were yesterday, because from winter on the whole fuckin’ world will be full of bloodthirsty, civilized vampires! And they’re not particularly nice to their human colleagues.

In Daybreakers with Ethan Hawke, the battered former outcasts and despised finally take revenge for their centuries of torment. They were imprisoned in creepy castles, weren’t allowed to be vegetarians, even if they were only into tomatoes, and were beaten with garlic and crosses.

I can understand that at some point they snap, keep the human race in blood farms as food reserves and shoot down everything that stands in their way. And of course some idiots try to stop them, a human hunter switches sides, there’s probably a love story too, blah blah. Just let them rule the planet in peace, always these revolts…

Michael Jackson Is Dead

There are moments in life when I don’t really process what I’ve just been told or written, and that’s how it was this morning on breakfast television. Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, has died. Cardiac arrest. His body simply couldn’t go on, it had been battered enough.

The internet is completely freaking out. Twitter is reaching its digital limits, 2,500 tweets per minute on the subject. Features like search and top topics have already been shut down. Blogs will revolve around this one topic today, just like conversations in the cities. Taylor Swift, for example, writes that it feels so unreal, everyone running around backstage asking: “Did you hear?”

And it’s clear: no matter what Michael did or didn’t do in his final years, he will remain an icon for entire generations forever, his music unforgettable and his words, gestures and messages immortal. And I’m in such deep mourning that I can’t even make jokes about Menderes. Rest in peace, Michael Jackson.

I Married Nora Tschirner

Since I am, as is well known, the reincarnation of an Ikea lamp and therefore don’t have a life of my own, I unfortunately have to cobble one together artificially. And if you’re not the soon-to-be unemployed programming director of “Big Brother,” then the recently released “Sims 3” has to do the job instead. Gülcan initially got it for 40 euros, but today it was sitting on the shelves for an incredible 50 new marks. Outrageous.

Honorably, when creating my Sims, I naturally stuck as closely as possible to reality. So here too I am the head of the Tschirner family and, as a successful doctor, firmly established in life. My wife Nora, awarded the Pulitzer Prize and a journalist through and through, is just as sweet as our little, cheeky redhead Nami. And since I deactivated the aging process, we live happily ever after in our villa with a sea view.

“Sims 3” is the sequel to “Sims 2,” which in turn is the sequel to “Sims 1,” which I, in turn, never played. Not much has changed since the last installment: the graphics are better, the possibilities are greater, and the world is a bit more overgrown. Unfortunately, thanks to the illegal nude patch floating around out there, I have fallen into severe and deep depression, because I don’t have a penis and my lovely spouse is without nipples. If only I had known that earlier. To bring these torments to a pseudo-ending, I’m now going to let a few Sims drown in the swimming pool. Let’s see if I can empty the city… tight lines.

Lily Allen – Fuck You

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Oh, I totally love our little favorite bitch Lily Allen. She’s got a nice fat ass, likes to show her gay hairdresser her bare boobs, and probably isn’t completely sane either. Who wouldn’t be into that? And woe betide any of you popguns who dare to contradict me now.

In her new song “Fuck You,” she runs through downtown Paris after touring a castle and catching Wild Wild West flu, makes life hell for annoying passersby in Harry Potter style, and—surprisingly—isn’t in this really funny video at all. Which can be quite relaxing for a change. First on MTV and VIVA in 2016, already with us today. Wow, how awesome is that? And now fuck you.

A Hartz for Berlin

In our beautiful, big little city of Berlin there’s always something going on. From demonstrations to police operations to cold-blooded murders. Now Bela B., Icke & Er and Peter Fox, among others, have come up with a brilliant idea to boost the volume quota and are hosting a charity gala on July 19 at the Zitadelle Spandau, with 100% of the proceeds going to the venerable Berliner Tafel. A good cause, we think.

In addition to what will surely be absolutely fantastic performances by Sido, K.I.Z. and the darling of all language-phobics Michael Hirte, there will also be a great design contest in which the five winning designs will be signed and auctioned off. Apparently all good things whose support certainly won’t be in vain. So join in, go there, and celebrate along.

Why Don’t You Go Out on the Streets Again

Ok, now it’s getting serious, so hand on heart, you sleepers. If you’d had the chance to stop Hitler, would you have done it? You foresaw the iceberg X-Factor style—would you have warned the captain? If you could have punched the hunter in the face, would Bambi’s mom still be alive because of you?!

It doesn’t matter whether you answered even one of those questions with yes, because great disaster is currently sweeping over our country. Incompetent brain zombies yesterday passed a law on internet blocking that catapults the entire nation light-years back into the past, under the guise of fighting child pornography.

That this naturally doesn’t help a single child should be as clear as day, because just because your average pervert apparently can no longer access the dirty business of sex with minors doesn’t logically mean that this alleviates the suffering of the little ones in any way. The problem would have to be tackled at its root, as even “people” in this disgusting scene confirm.

But it hasn’t really been about Lolita sex for a long time now, because these blocks are only the beginning of a wave of national censorship that could arbitrarily hit anything the government doesn’t like at the moment. And that must not happen—the net should remain free, international, and independent.

So what are you supposed to do? The Pirate Party is calling for large-scale demonstrations in all major cities tomorrow under the motto “Delete Instead of Block – Stop Censorship!” against this decision nonsense. And we really advise you to go there—the entire freedom of the internet is at stake, or do you want conditions like in China? No? Then make yourselves pretty, put on your shoes, and get out onto the streets. It’s about time.

The Lookbook Look: Jennifer Medina

The Lookbook – infinite expanses. So many fashion-conscious, creative youngsters in one place. And because we want to give their art a voice, this time we grabbed 17-year-old Jennifer Medina from sunny Florida and squeezed her for thoughts about the transience of youth, her old home, and lots of coffee.

I think I’m really jealous of you. You live in Florida, there’s sun, beach, and sea all year round. That must be amazing. And besides old retirees, there are probably lots of fashion-conscious people walking around, right?

I moved here from Venezuela three years ago, and it’s pretty different from my old home. Really different. There are so many people here from different countries. Each of them has a different style, and it’s really interesting to see and get to know them all, but I don’t think there are that many truly fashion-conscious people here.

But you seem to be one at least. The question is: if there are only anti-fashion types running around everywhere, where do you get the ideas for your outfits?

Everything that has to do with art inspires me. Music, films, people, photos, books, and images. Honestly, I don’t have any special ideas for my outfits. I just wear what I find and what I think goes well together.

And what kind of films and music are you especially into?

I love independent films because my brother has made some, so I’ve always been enthusiastic about that style. Musically, I’m into this and that. Very few people like my favorite bands, which are all in the indie-electro corner.

What about love? Boyfriend, girlfriend, dog..? And what are your best friends like?

I haven’t had a steady boyfriend yet. And my best friends all have their own personalities and individual styles. They’re very different, but very kind and open people.

Every girl loves reading magazines—tell us which ones are your favorites.

Yes, I really read a lot of them. My best friend and I always head to the bookstore, grab some coffee, and flip through tons of books and magazines. I don’t really have a favorite magazine, but I like W Magazine because it covers many of my interests.

Let’s dare to take a bold look into the future. What’s going to happen there?

Ah yes, the future… I want to do so many great things, but we have so little time. I want to shoot more videos, take more photos, compose more music, finish more paintings. And drink lots of coffee!

Thank you for the great interview, and you can see more photos of Jennifer on her Lookbook page.

Sexy Tickets to Win for the Levi’s Berlin Unbuttoned Tour

We’re currently mutating into the ultimate wish-fulfillment blog, and that’s why we’re giving away 2x2 exclusive tickets right here and now for the Levi's Berlin Unbuttoned Tour on July 2 at Astra Kulturhaus. The awesome thing about it: the tickets are so damn exclusive and top secret that you can’t buy them anywhere—they can only fall into your lap through the gracious wink of fate.

On stage will be, among others, the gifted Subways, the even more gifted Amanda Blank, and the completely unknown-to-me Crookers—but my God, how gifted must they be if they’re allowed to perform at the Levi's Berlin Unbuttoned Tour?! Exactly!

To win, you don’t have one, not two, but three options! If you’re creative weirdos, you can take part in the Button Design Contest. Door number two is participating in this supposedly uncrackable music quiz, and the royal road, as always, is leaving a comment on our site.

This time we want to know from you: Where can you stick a walnut? As always, the funnier the better for everyone involved—but anyone can win. Apparently. This little game ends next Friday, and whoever writes “walnut hole” gets a French kiss from Hannah. Or from me—we’ll have to wrestle that out in the mud. Good luck!

Double Fat Giveaway for International T-Shirt Day

On June 21, the monumental International T-Shirt Day will take place in Berlin for the second time, dedicated solely to the most fashionable item of clothing this side of the universe. And because I unfortunately can’t attend due to sexual obligations, a certain Tobi (hello Tobi!) skillfully bribed me, and we want to do something nice for all of you again, there’s a grand, incredibly awesome giveaway happening right here and now.

This time you can win shopping vouchers galore for the cool online clothing stores Spreadshirt and laFraise, and one extra-lucky winner might soon call this little gem from trend label seen. their own.

All you chicks have to do is throw your favorite T-shirt slogan into the comments—no matter how worn-out or cliché it already is, anyone can win. But the funnier, the more fun for everyone. And if, by God, you can’t think of any snappy string of words, you’re welcome to link to your favorite T-shirt designs or point us to a photo of you wearing your favorite shirt. For crying out loud, just come up with something—it’s about voooouchers!

The deadline is next Wednesday, and if you love T-shirts as much as we do, then come to Berlin on June 21. There you can strut your stuff on the open runway with your shirts, make out with the guys from UARRR and StyleSpion, and generally have a whole lot of fun. Don’t miss out!

Soooooo Many Cute Girls at the bebe Generation

Do you still remember the girls’ shared apartments for the bebe Generation, for which we loudly called for participation here recently? In any case, tons of interesting, pretty, cute—you know, that kind of—girls applied and are now waiting for your votes to finally be allowed to move in and throw pillows at each other in their underwear.

Just take a look at the applicants here, pick the snazziest one, and vote for her. The one above, by the way, is Vany from Essen, who looks like Carö in blue and for whom I absolutely do not want to start a voting campaign here. (VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!) Because I’m totally neutral.

For anyone who now feels like participating themselves: smooth girls can still apply to move into one of the four stylish shared apartments until Friday. The final decision will be made on July 13, and if you still have time and feel like moving your mouse, you can also think about the furnishings here. If you have any questions, please write them on a piece of paper, tear it in half, and I’ll now flirt my way through the Berlin list...

Happy Birthday Nora Tschirner

Darling, I know you’re mad. And rightfully so. You don’t call, you don’t write letters, and you don’t come by either. And all just because I apparently didn’t think of your birthday. But that’s nonsense, of course I didn’t forget it. Hello, can these eyes lie?

It is without question an absolute disgrace that here—on the highly official Nora Tschirner memorial blog—not a word was said about your birthday, but after all I have an excuse that I’ll be using for the next few weeks and that is absolutely watertight: I had no internet.

So I hereby wish you a belated happy 28th birthday and solemnly promise that next year we will think of you with absolute punctuality. If we’re still around by then—in these stormy times, after all, anything is possible.

To make up for it and to conclude, here are a few wonderfully romantic quotes from you: “Anyone nowadays who is lazy enough to form their taste in music solely through music channels—I still have no sympathy for them.” “Sometimes I try to look as melancholic and introspective as possible in public. But that only works until someone talks to me.” “I really like staying at home, even though many people wouldn’t expect that because of how talkative I am. I actually enjoy being antisocial. No problem. During those phases I don’t answer phone calls and postpone all my appointments.” Amen.

No Internet, but a Red Bull Addiction

Murphy’s Law has fully struck me over the past few days and almost cold-bloodedly taken me out. If something can go wrong, it will go wrong. And as the saying goes, the devil always shits on the biggest pile. For poor little Marci that meant: lamps fell on my head, stoves burned me, toilet paper holders nearly knocked me out. “Final Destination” sends its regards. Certain household appliances suddenly gave up the ghost under my leadership, the Hurricane Festival is a wash for us, and 1&1 still hasn’t managed to get my new DSL running despite a technician visit and 30 euros thrown out the window for the “service” hotline. By the way, 1&1, it’s a brilliant idea to inform me about appointment changes only by email. Without internet.

Especially the last part is, of course, somewhat shitty—particularly when, let’s say, you run a totally unknown blog that, let’s say, is also called AMY&PINK. I should implement a feature that lets dried-up tumbleweeds or whatever roll past here after a few days of inactivity. We can only hope that our host and future DSL provider shows mercy and manages to get the things I bought up and running as soon as possible. Thank you.

Apart from my quasi-fatal injuries that almost cost me my left hand (at least my right one is still fully functional...), I’m doing great. I love how crazy the weather is right now—you never quite know what to expect when you look out the window. Also, I can’t start a single morning at the moment without downing at least one Red Bull and have (once again) conjured up a real addiction in that regard.

With Basti, I went on an extended adventure trip to the Ikea we trust. With Gülcan, I headed into the Arabic world around Hermannplatz to get myself a snazzy new shisha including high-quality apple tobacco and delicious baklava. So now I’m sitting around like an idiot, puffing apple clouds into the air and praying that my internet starts working again soon. Pray with me.

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Win a Lookbook Account!

You’re young, fresh and sexy, can recite all the hottest fashion brands alphabetically, by color, and by founding year in your sleep, and have a figure that even Heidi Klum couldn’t pull off that well after her fifth child? Then we’re giving you the chance to catapult yourself onto the international stage of the fashion world—and all without having to sleep with a coked-up modeling agent.

Lookbook, also known from our snazzy interviews, is THE international hotspot for anyone who wants to make it in the fields of fashion, models, and Mongolians, and we are hereby giving away an exclusive membership in the kingdom of the less wealthy but all the more beautiful.

All you have to do is write in the comments why you, of all people, want to enter the elite world, send us a link to your fashion blog, or link to a sexy photo of yourself. Whether you’re male, female, or Lady Gaga, make an effort. Deadline is next Monday. Good luck!

WTF?! Vol. 5

Pain itself is love, to be pursued, but there are times when toil and pain can procure some great pleasure. At other times, however, we denounce with righteous indignation and dislike those who are so beguiled and demoralized by the charms of pleasure of the moment, so blinded by desire, that they cannot foresee the pain and trouble that are bound to ensue. These cases are perfectly simple and easy to distinguish.

Pain itself is love, to be pursued, but there are times when toil and pain can procure some great pleasure. At other times, however, we denounce with righteous indignation and dislike those who are so beguiled and demoralized by the charms of pleasure of the moment, so blinded by desire, that they cannot foresee the pain and trouble that are bound to ensue. These cases are perfectly simple and easy to distinguish.

Konfuzius In Da House

Hello, Konnichiwa and Ni hao my little children. So that AMY&PINK doesn’t completely sink into the swamp of big breasts and to compensate a little for Hannah’s absence due to new love and exam tasks, from now on we are blessed by the unique, the daring, and the brain-overclocking Konfuzius, whom you have already seen hopping around here and there today.

To artificially push the comments upward, he will torment you there with wisdoms, truths, and brain-wankery, thus bringing you eternal enlightenment. From today on he will always stand by me and Hannah whenever we don’t feel like replying to you, when you’ve got us so cornered that we simply can’t think of a defensive answer anymore, or when we find a new awesome Studi group that knocks us off our chairs.

So give a warm welcome to the good spirit of AMY&PINK, and we’ll kick off his distinguished arrival by letting you ask him any question, absolutely ANY question, about God, the evil cold world out there, or who your ex is currently in bed with. Because Konfuzius knows everything. And when it comes to the topic of sex, David Carradine skillfully stands by his side. Try it out!

Sorry I Missed Your Party

Oh, carefree partying is just great. Really letting yourself go, being on a first-name basis with the boss, giving that little one back there a proper piece of your mind while you topple backwards contentedly and drift off with a smile and a few crumbs on your lips. Partying is what separates us from the animals. Or something like that.

And because I declared this weekend my personal trashy weekend and lazed around without going out, I really love the site Sorry I Missed Your Party, which shows gentle photos of exuberant people who by no means cross their limits. My favorites are the tunnel watcher, the beached whale, and the worst school picnic ever.

Social Media Idiots

There are certain selected terms that give me scabies, diarrhea, and the urge to put my violent video game fantasies into action. In the past it was “homework” and “season finale”; today it’s “Britney Spears,” “Take your hand out of my pants,” and new but already high up there: “Social Media.” Every uncool kid who used to score points in the chess club with his math skills and the number of pimples on his ass is now a self-proclaimed “social media” expert.

This usually asthma-afflicted species likes to meet at round-table meetups, philosophizes with devoted passion about the sense and nonsense of Twitter and Facebook, and is preferably found in fresh agencies or home offices furnished with Swedish furniture. I actually still find this cute behavior kind of sweet – somehow.

Until one particularly cunning specimen among them came up with a brilliant idea: If Studi, MySpace, and these weird blogs are so in… why don’t we just push every conceivable product through there – no matter how shitty and without any added value for the customer it is? Advertising 3.0, viral marketing 2.0, so to speak. “What does it do, what’s it good for?” “Who gives a shit, as long as as many people as possible see it, woohoo!”

And because that’s veeeery baaad, you bad people, I would like to recommend two behavioral options to bring you back to the good side of the Force: Either you stop screwing companies over with your self-invented superhuman powers by making them believe you can push any useless product by forcing poor, sick people to become fans of it on Facebook, and finally find a job your parents could be proud of again.

Or you stand in front of the product you want to market and think very carefully, veeeery carefully, about whether it’s really so awesome and irreplaceable for the entire population of Earth that people would miss the meaning of their existence if they didn’t see it. If that’s not the case: throw it in the trash, and woe betide any of you smart-alecks who even remotely dare to think of the words “Social” and “Media” in one sentence! Otherwise may the curse of Darth Vader, Sauron, General Chang or whoever else you freaks are afraid of strike you like a fireball. Amen.

I Want My Putpat

The model couple lia.R and mannfRed tipped me off to something pretty hot: Putpat – the music television of the future. Or something like that. The two big men behind this boozy idea are MTV cult relic Ray Cokes and VIVA-run-into-the-grounder Dieter Gorny, who by his own statements hasn’t been this convinced of anything since the Suicide Girls as he is of Putpat. That almost makes it sympathetic again. Still, my first thought about the whole thing was: shitty name and, in times of YouTube and co., a hopelessly outdated concept.

To convince myself of the superfluousness of the whole thing, I immediately logged into our beta test account, and now comes the twist: I love it. Shit, I really love it. Entered my Last.fm username at the start and since then one slick music video after another has been blasting into my eyes and ears.

The design is nice, the music is nice, and my name sits up there looking all pretty. The only thing that annoys me is that even in full-screen mode, help settings keep popping up constantly, which is worse than on any Windows, that ugly beta-test banner is permanently visible, and the quality of the videos could be better.

But what isn’t yet can still become, because otherwise this thing is better than any MTV and VIVA for letting music videos run without stupid sweetie-birds, baby-name generators, and fat mothers alongside. Best check it out yourselves and apply here for the beta test. Rock ’n’ Loll.

The Greatest Pick-Up Line of All Time

So, you slackers, I know your days of joy and hope have been destroyed, it has happened—something no one would have expected: Hannah is taken. Yes, our Hannah Banana Montana, plagued by self-doubt, noodle soups, and sweet freckles, is once again participating in love, sex, and tenderness. And the boys of the nation howl, cry, even contemplate suicide.

But don’t despair, ask Marci. Because I have here for you the ultimate, most charming, funky pick-up line in the world – and the best part: it works with all three genders. You want to hear it, you want to read it, you want to know it? Okay, but only if you promise to try it out immediately and write your experiences in the comments. Let’s go.

So I don’t feel completely gay, I’ll do the example with a human with a pussy; let’s randomly call her Nora Tschirner. So you ask her with a sweet wink: “Hey you, isn’t Tschirner actually a cookie or some kind of dessert?” She, all perplexed but somehow curious: “Hm… no, not that I know of, how do you get that idea?” And now you strike: “Hm, I don’t really know either, somehow your name made me think of cookies or something delicious and sweet…”

Tada, she simply has to smile, laugh, kiss you out of bottomless delight. If not, then she’s either a robot or Mexican anyway. And now off you go into the world, try it out. At Starbucks, at the university, on Studi. And then invite me to your wedding. Thanks.

Lenka – The Show

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Anyone who has always wondered where our quirky little oddball Kate Nash disappeared to—I have the answer for you: she had a child together with Lily Allen, and this miracle of technology goes by the cuddly name Lenka.

Born in 1978, Australian with colorful fingernails, now living in Los Angeles, and once hosted a show called “Cheez TV.” She makes loud, sweet, poppy pop; I’m not really in the mood for articles right now, and she now wants to conquer good old Germany with the song “The Show.” Will we manage that? Yes we can! After all, she’s American now. I wany my money back.

Jenny Wilson – Like A Fading Rainbow

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Welcome to a new episode of “Reactions in One Go”! Today: “Jenny Wilson – Like A Fading Rainbow.” First lesson: read the name. Reaction: “What, who?” Second lesson: read the title. Reaction: “Dude, that’s so gay. Rainbow and stuff.” Third lesson: start the video. Reaction: “Ahhhhhhh.. oooohhhhhh.... woooooowiiii!”

The chick has already released two albums, has been roaming the music scene since 1997, and even owns her own record label, Goldmedal Recordings, where her new album “Hardships!” has just been released—but I’ve never heard anything by the Swede. And now please let all the basement-dwelling music fans who’ve of course been Jenny Wilson fans since day one tear me apart. The video, by the way, is awesome.]]>

In & Out

IN: Eating yellow watermelons. Staying up for the rerun of “Grey’s Anatomy.” Brüno. Poking ugly people. Bingen. Just shutting the hell up for once. Letting “iCarly” teach you something about social media and all that crap. Maria Eugenia. Keeping the ship on course. Herb quark. Tidying up again. Arte. Drain cleaner. Daring to do something. Fritz Melon Soda. Walking a few stops instead of taking the subway. Annemarie Warnkross.

OUT: Beth Ditto. Our Windows commercial. The new “Kids” video. Sleep disorders. Chatting via StudiVZ. Calories. Following every damn fashion trend. Summer without summer. Stefan Raab. Everything that isn’t Berlin. Financial crisis. Bitter loners. Black and white. The food industry. North Korea. Little green men. Everyday worries. Annemarie Eilfeld.

WTF?! Vol. 4

Yayyy, you know the drill by now. People visit Google, type in spectacularly stupid terms, misplaced letters, sometimes even lyrical masterpieces into the search bar—and whoosh, they end up at… AMY&PINK. Ta-da. You can tattoo episode four of this collection right onto your butt, it’s that good this time. Let’s go.

Who’s making out naked over there? Awesome dog dicks. I’m doing a lot today and what are you doing later haha your mother you stupid slut. Kate Moss has awesome boobs. Video of the movie that was on TV today. Young fresh girls take off their shells. Fuck grandpa. I want to look like Stéphanie Sokolinski. Crafts with teenagers. Screwing until the beams bend. Spongebob WTF. Dating agency for nerds. Hot sex for reproduction. A slut in flip-flops. Ashley Olsen with coffee to go. Nutella boobs.

What is Amy&Pink.com? Best Japanese porn actress. But I swear I’m horny. Farmer girls fucking. Is Emma Watson cutting herself? Pulling back the skin of penises during sex. Things that show you’re getting old. Penetrating trees. Fuck you Google. A free sex movie please. Making out at 13. Fler shit on you. Show me your pussy you sow. “O.C.” over, what now? Perky boobs. One week only sushi. Sorry girls, I’m getting married. Gilmore Girl in nylon. Mom what is masturbation?

Lady Gaga — Paparazzi

Lady Gaga, branded a hooker by the Russians, with her beautiful bellboy haircut, aka Prince Valiant hairstyle, has released her new video “Paparazzi.” Lots of sex—as always. Plus sex, sex, and sex. And also sex. With disabled people.

Basti says he even saw some hearty nipples flashing in the brilliant anti-story about wheelchairs, crutches, and dancing human poodles. And what more could you expect from a Lady Gaga video? Watch it, download it as a ringtone, and then delete it again.

SuicideGirl of the Week: Celestine

Lalala, a cheer for our self-imposed boob quota. Yes exactly, dear people. No homepage without exposed female breasts. Where would we end up otherwise—after all, boobs keep you healthy. Or something like that. In any case, today’s SuicideGirl of the week, the tousle-haired Celestine, contributes to ensuring that you live a long and well-rested life.

21 years old, from the American capital (no, not New York—the real one, like the president… Washington!), hates cheese, loves the band Kill Hannah, is into guys who dare to shove her around properly once in a while, and can’t survive without sex and cheap vodka.

How likable is that? Although cheap vodka always gives me a headache, and you probably shouldn’t kill Hannah, because there would be an uprising here. By the way, Celestine doesn’t just play naked girl for the SuicideGirls, no, she also studies at the International Academy of Design. Respect, respect. And now let’s take a look at her boobs.

An Ode to the Hot Brownie with Ice Cream

Oh you wonderfully delicious hot brownie with ice cream. You are so great, so phenomenal, so abysmally tasty. Better than sex in the mouth, an oral orgasm, the gateway to paradise. Whoever made, invented, or gave birth to you, I wish them all the best in life, wealth, and a nomination in every conceivable category of the Nobel Prize that exists. You chocolate-brown, calorie-packed, dream-come-true, you.

And woe (WOE!) to the fat king of the Burger King land if he ever plans to remove you from the menu, to cut you out, to make you disappear. Then we will cry, start an uprising, fight until the last fatty of us has fallen. But seriously: if you ever stop selling the hot brownie with ice cream, we’ll protest like those idiots who desperately want to save their Charmin bear. Morons. So don’t even think about it. Thanks.

The Virgin Suicides

I know I’ve been throwing around the word “masterpiece” quite a bit lately, but only because there are so many amazing, grandiose things out there that touch us deep inside, that wreck us, that show us life at its very best. And that’s exactly what Media Markt sold me yesterday for five measly euros in the bargain bin.

God, I love The Virgin Suicides, the debut by director Sofia Coppola, whom I’ve adored ever since Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette. Death, love, sex, grief… the story of five enchanting sisters who take their own lives one after another because their freedom has been stolen from them—and whom the boys next door, hopelessly in love, remember years later—is simply tragic, disturbing, and yet beautiful, just like the soundtrack by Air and the adorable Kirsten Dunst.

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Holly Miranda

Today master mind Scott Matthew is presenting his new studio album “There Is An Ocean That Divides….” (including the alarmingly brilliant ballad White Horse) at the Passionskirche in Kreuzberg, and while following his trail I came across the unbelievably awesome band Holly Miranda from Brooklyn, Detroit, and Tennessee, who are in no way inferior to the suicidally depressive songs of their former touring companion.

And they completely leave me speechless. Such a grandiose firework of honest, renegade, and self-devouring music is rare—truly good music like this almost never exists. The group doesn’t even seem to have a record label yet; their first EP “Sleep On Fire” has been available since mid-March. And the singer is cute too—what more could you want? Have a listen.

Mian Mian – Panda Sex

The Chinese scandal author Mian Mian is so far the only writer ever who has truly pulled me in completely. Her masterpieces “Your Night, My Day” and “La la la” are always within reach so I can dive again and again into her abysmal stories about love, sex, and drugs.

As our dear little reader Alex aka 粱遝 told me, on August 24, 2009 (FINALLY!) her newest work “Panda Sex” will finally be published in German. It tells the story of the young sisters Mei Mei and Jie Jie and their friends, who are at home in Shanghai’s party and drug scene and who apparently become infected with the panda virus at the funeral of their buddy Little Beetle, throwing their love lives into turmoil.

And as always, it’s about relationships, sex, and the meaning of life. Her German publisher Kiepenheuer & Witsch aptly describes it with the following words: “With shimmering lightness and melancholy, Mian Mian sketches the portrait of a generation longing for love but fearing the risk of a relationship.” Brilliant. Pre-order now!

Filippa Smeds Backstage

I’ve really taken quite a fancy to Filippa Smeds, the little redhead from Sweden, whom we already interviewed here. Now she stood in front of the camera together with Linn Gustafsson, Emma Elwin, Emma Nygren, Karoline Andersson, Sandra Hansson, Miriam Assai, Signe Siemsen, and Cissi Wallin for photographer Emma Svensson, who also released a backstage video of it.

And because I also thought the music by the Swedish band The Sonnets was pretty darn nice and the sound fits perfectly with summer (if it weren’t constantly pouring rain), the whole thing was worth a post to me. Seeing Filippa in motion makes her even sweeter. I’m a fan and will immediately order her T-shirt. That’s how it is, folks.

The Most Pornographic Tumblr Blogs

I noticed it again recently when we were looking for cool photo series online for Hannah’s exam. The internet is overflowing with creative, sexy, and beautiful images that bring back our childhood, transport us to other worlds, or simply turn us on deep in our hearts. But where do you find these amazing photos? Yes, where exactly...?

The three big go-to places are, of course, clearly DeviantArt, Flickr, and our FFFFOUND! stream. But there’s a small image revolution on the web called Tumblr, where the best photo collectors hang out. I’ve listed the best of them here; if you know others, feel free to keep them to yourself or post them in the comments. And remember one thing: the best Tumblrs apparently always start with “Fuck Yeah.”

Dethjunkie. Fuck Yeah Skinny Bitch. We take sour sips from life's lush lips. ♥ parti. Dead Girls. Fuck Yeah Allison Harvard. Fuck Yeah Haggard Sluts. Thinspo. A Home For Ghosts. Little girls don't know how to be sweet girls. Yanoakiko. Chihilog. Lights In Brooklyn. Ciindyy. Imagination Behind Yours. Memorandum. My Castle Of Hope. Geek In White. Clepsydra. Noise 'N' Tangerines. Fragile Images. Fuck Yeah Pretty Women. Miss Misery. Princess Giselle. Inspire Me Thin. Cid's Blog. Little Ballerina.

Use Your Brain

Since little Marci, unlike big Carö, didn’t get completely wasted yesterday, he still had enough energy today to squeeze through overcrowded Berlin past annoying charity canvassers, potential hooligans, and kleptomaniac emos, and finally buy a few long-overdue clothes. Mom, they were really cheap, I swear, dude.

And because every idiot is currently filling a fashion blog with Birkenstock sandals and grandma’s clothes, today it’s my turn and I present to you: a white T-shirt with a chick on it who looks like Miley Cyrus, a red-white-blue checkered shirt that looks like one of my dish towels at home but fits excellently under my black sweater, and the super awesome, breathtaking, and worship-worthy shirt by N.E.R.D. for the new Designers Against Aids round from H&M, which even came with condoms featuring Katy Perry and Tokio Hotel. I am so fashion.

Bat For Lashes – Pearl’s Dream

Ever since the mega-hit "Daniel" I’ve been a huge fan of Bat For Lashes and the enchanting Natasha Khan. And her latest video for the song “Pearl’s Dream,” in which she sings about finally having to find her place, beyond oceans, kingdoms, and the sun, is once again a bit dark, full of smoke and fog, and features both a catchy voice and a beautiful, light melody. What more could little Marci want? I love it. Listen to it, like it, and become a fan if you aren’t already.

Keiichi Nitta: Polaroid

Good day, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. My name is Marcel and I’m into the following confusing things: Keiichi Nitta + Japan + photos + nudity + girls + autographs + Polaroids + art. And when all of that comes together, it becomes: Keiichi Nitta’s art of photographic Polaroids on which naked Japanese girls have signed their own names. How awesome is that?! I love it.

Bye Bye Scala

Lisa Wassmann, an insanely awesome photographer and house snapper of the Scala, captured the final, sad, and teary-eyed moments of our beloved, fallen club in a beautiful little film full of impressions, farewells, and black stickers that will hammer translucent, shimmering tears into your eyes. Take care, you crazy party crowd.

Package-Eating Monsters

I hate it, HATE it, HAAAAATE it when our mailman leaves parcels and packages with one of my schizophrenic neighbors. Why would he do something like that? Hello, maybe they’re grandmas and grandpas suffering from Alzheimer’s who, the very moment they take my dearly beloved package into their sweaty hands, have already forgotten that their names are Gerda and Heinz? Maybe tomorrow they’ll be starring in “Goodbye Germany! The Emigrants” and vanish off to Canada for the next three years! Or they’re package-eating monsters who have been waiting for this exact moment and have already set the table with fine china to pour ketchup over my property and really enjoy it?

The yellow guy has no idea what incredibly important treasures are inside that package! My long-overdue lottery winnings sent to me in diamond form? My ice-cold donor liver that I desperately need by now? Or perhaps a collection of valuable AOL CDs with which I can surf the net for 500 hours for free? How dare he entrust these valuables specifically to Gerda and Heinz?!

Dear mailman, all I wish is that—if I’m not at home—you would search for me, fight your way through hot deserts, humid jungles, and dark dragon caves, just to collapse in front of me, covered in blood but with the certainty that you safely delivered my package, and gasp your last words: “Here, sir, your package…” That’s not too much to ask, is it?! Even if it probably only contains a Pokémon cookbook I ordered from Amazon… It’s about the principle, after all!

MyKey Berlin – 30°C in the Shade

Haha, Basti showed me this neat song by MyKey Berlin, who somehow looks like Sido’s little brother, and whose track “30°C in the Shade” I didn’t know before, but which is a masterpiece for every Berlin fan. Especially on days that aren’t quite as apocalyptic as today. And I want – I WANT – this track to become Berlin’s new summer anthem. Chop chop!

WTF?! Vol. 3

Welcome to a new magnificent episode of “WTF?!” or “What do people disadvantaged by life and slightly backward humans and dachshunds type into Google as a search term in order to land on AMY&PINK for free?” And because even the hot babes from the Pimpettes have now stolen the idea (which was never ours anyway), we don’t want to waste any time and will get started right away. Pic unrelated.

My sister gives a prostate massage. Time to transform. Where can I watch the movie “Bee Movie” online for free with Flash Player? Cats having sex. AMY&PINK warning letter. Superhero with toast as a head. Love is a pain in the ass. What do young girls like most during sex? Japanese mushroom in penis form. Somebody oh oh, somebody oh oh oh oh. Can you pay with an EC card at Call-a-Pizza? Japanese porn movies on the subway. Shitty eavesdropping, surveillance everywhere. Head of man in Uschi.

Polka-dotted pony. Amelie wants döner, bring it here, right now or I’m coming! My sister put a dress on me. Freckles on the pussy. “Der, die, das .. wer, wie, was” song. Biggest sagging boobs in the world. Red-haired classmate sex stories. Impersonal mails in singles exchanges. Gross stuff. Wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully beautiful pics. Hairy sister. Hot grandmas at the beach. What is TinyEve? Are Aloha from Hell Catholic? Uzi sewing machine. Hair belongs on the head.

SuicideGirl of the Week: Cianna

Even if the world is ending outside right now, there should still be room in your hearts for the SuicideGirl of the week, even in the darkest hours of Judgment Day. And the lady who will get your air pumps swaying this time is named Cianna, is 22 years old and comes from the beautiful, unknown little town of Toronto in the magical land of Canada.

She’s into Coldplay, counts herbal studies and looking at boobies among her hobbies, and swears she’s still a virgin. Sure. And because we’ve already pretty much fulfilled our boob quota for the week, pseudo-Britney doesn’t exactly have that much wood in front of the cabin (which I personally find kind of cute again), and because she would totally beat us all at “Mortal Kombat,” today we’ve simply gone with a dressed photo. Scandal! If you want to see more, you know the deal: at the SuicideGirls, almost nothing remains covered.

Girls in Sneakers Are Sexy

Ballerinas give women ugly flat feet, only very few can walk around stylishly in high heels, and flip-flops just look unbelievably cheap. Which means for me, a little foot fetishist who has always especially been into girls in white Adidas sneakers: the one true footwear for the female gender is sporty, sexy sneakers.

The two girls and one guy from the Sneakergirls therefore deal exclusively, just for me alone, with the counter-trend to the current fashion blog scene and present tough ladies in colorful sports shoes. That’s how fetish life is fun, and my personal preferences are only topped by the opposite sex in Chucks. Someone please make a blog out of that idea too.

Otaku Play

The current issue of Otaku Mag titled “Play” takes you into the arcades of Japan freaks and shows you the most beautiful and latest illustrations, comics, and videos, presents great fashion, films, and accessories, and wants to give you an overview of cool toys, anime, manga, new technologies and and and. Beautiful layout, great content – what more could you want? For 15 euros within the EU the thing is yours, order here. And the boys and girls also have a cute blog.

Summer Like in Brazil

Thanks, Richard Kern. Not only are we sweating like crazy here and the entire site is on the verge of collapse due to the almost apocalyptic heat, now he’s also heating up our battered spirits with a photo series in the current VICE issue “The Brazilian Issue”, which of course is disguised as a fashion spread and in which I particularly like the bikini the T-shirt Bruna Haas. Yes, by now you should know me, and one request: please don’t look at the photos if you’re already on the verge of sunstroke – I don’t want to be responsible for any possible collapses…

Fuck Love Wasted Youth

The long weekend is already over again in no time and both Banana Montana in the sunny south and my frivolous self in the northeast of the republic of retirees naturally – hopefully like you as well – used the well-deserved break extensively for chilling, partying, and stuffing ourselves with scrambled eggs and bacon. In Wedding there was a mix of folk festival and fair going on, of which I didn’t notice much because I was personally much more occupied hopping around Berlin’s nightlife with Mr. New Hat and a few other characters, trying to set Anne up using physical force, and crying really hard because TRL is dead.

And that wasn’t the only tearful farewell. The Scala, where we were on the guest list thanks to Frank, is also history as of these days – but of course not without really going out with a bang. Slightly tipsy on Black Boss beer (which really is devil’s stuff, I’m telling you), we talked with a prophet in the former gallery about the truth of essential pop culture, created magnificent art with Ollio and his enchanting companion, and had ourselves photographed voyeuristically in a portable toilet.

It was definitely a bombastic farewell, and when I finally awoke from my coma yesterday, I found myself in a sea of black stickers printed in bold white letters with words like LOVE, WASTED YOUTH, and KOWLOON (?). If anyone wants a few of them, just let me know – you can even stick them on your forehead to immediately show the world what’s what. Such stickers are a great invention.

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We Love Hannah

Well would you look at what I found in the depths of the internet. No, it’s not the Holy Grail. Not the formula to make Google explode either (I wouldn’t tell you that anyway). And certainly not the secret footage of the “High School Musical” porn that doesn’t even exist and that I wouldn’t have been allowed to tell you about in the first place. No.

In fact, I once again stumbled across Hannah’s old Freenet homepage, which is so cute that I simply can’t keep it from you. And since we all love our little Munich brat so very much and always, always, always want to express that, I hereby order you to go there now, especially look at the great photo number 8, and scribble something nice in her guestbook. Chop chop, you’re not getting any younger!

Röyksopp – The Girl And The Robot

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The Norwegian music duo Röyksopp is one of the coolest bands in the world anyway, and I also absolutely adore the Swedish best friend of Lykke Li, Robyn, so the two of them recorded a great song together just for me alone, and it’s called: “The Girl And The Robot.” Tasty little treat, discovered via iHeartBerlin. Super track for partying!

The Excessively Fat Dofus Contest

Man, we are cool. We’re so cool that in collaboration with Ankama Games we can easily present you with a neat little contest for the online role-playing game Dofus. And we love this game. Really. The vibrant visuals, the massive world, the cute characters. So if that doesn’t make you want to drag your tight little ass in front of the monitor and dive into a universe full of fun, action, and adventure, then we can’t help you either. And the best part: it runs on every system AND you can play the base game completely free of charge.

So what are we trying to sell you? Well, three of you have the great opportunity to win not only a cuddly Tofu plush toy, posters, and manga, but also fantastic subscriptions that let you conquer the entire Dofus world without restriction!

To win, simply write in the comments what you would name your character in Dofus. The crazier, the more fun for us – but anyone can win. The deadline is this coming Monday. And if you can’t think of anything, you can always ask Jamba! if they’ll help you out with their baby name generator…

Goodbye Scala

All the whining in the world won’t help: the Scala on Friedrichstraße is closing its dirty doors forever this weekend. No idea why, since it certainly hasn’t lacked thirsty tourists, fantastic acts, or a deliciously drinkable location, and yet the party crew is following the gallery’s example and disappearing from the scene. Forever!

But of course not without really going all out one last time. Among others, the Junior Boys, Shir Khan, and Jack Tennis will be paying their final respects. Just release the hookers on O’burger around midnight, stagger around the corner, and beg for entry. It’s going to be great fun for the whole family. There’s naturally also a Facebook group about it. Be there!

Kish Mauve – Matthew

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With some videos I really ask myself why not all videos in this damn world are transmitted into our brains in such awesome quality. Razor-sharp, without stupid black borders, and with crystal-clear sound that feels like the band is standing right next to you. My demand therefore is: shut down YouTube and hand over all the gems to Vimeo.

The band just mentioned this time is Kish Mauve (once again an electropop duo – we know that by now) from London (that’s in England, dear children), who released their new album "Black Heart" at the end of March, and from which we now get to see and hear the single “Matthew.” Roll the clip.

SuicideGirl of the Week: Hezza

The whole world revolves solely around sex, sex, sex and big boobs. Naturally that’s also the case with us – you know us, after all. And since Montana unfortunately holds hers far too rarely into the camera and Carö won’t be dropping her covers until the Kings of Leon concert in July, today SuicideGirl Hezza has to get naked for us.

The brunette beauty is 25 years old, loves listening to Queen of the Stone Age, Elvis Presley, and The Doors, and comes from Uruguay. She even owns her own small fashion label, the MajoReyStore, where you can buy sexy lingerie, T-shirts, and pants. And anyone who enjoys watching “That ’70s Show” and “Two and a Half Men” on TV is simply hot. Okay, her nipple piercings probably aren’t entirely uninvolved either. Hezza, ladies and gentlemen.

The Incredible Insights of the Last Few Days

Dodgeball is one of the few sports I’m actually not that bad at. Basti is a princess. Gysi is a funny guy, but I’m still voting for the Pirates – I owe that to my little internet folk. As soon as a buddy has a total alcoholic meltdown, I instantly become sober again. Philipp Poisel sings beautiful songs. Sweet messages from Montana late at night paint a smile on my face. Iceland was much better than Norway. For the IHK, a shitty Fireworks dummy is worth more than valid HTML code. Gülcan and I are a great team.

Smashing Magazine loves us. Having no internet is quite a handicap for a blogger. Older women can be pretty sexy too. I’m into the role-playing game “Dragon Quest Monsters V – The Hand of the Heavenly Bride” for the Nintendo DS. You travel faster on the subway drunk than sober. Her breasts are still pretty awesome. Not everything tastes better with soy sauce. I have movies on my shelf that I’ve never watched. Old family sitcoms soothe my homesickness. With money, many things would move forward much faster. Ane Brun also sings beautiful songs. There are some emails I simply don’t want to answer. My hair feels great. The fake Pete Doherty is funny.

Hannah Montana Is Back In Town!

The eagle has landed! Five weeks can pass so quickly, and that means for us and you lucky people out there: our beloved Hannah Banana Montana has returned to good old Germany from her trip to Tokyo! Yes, bow before the great globetrotter, listen carefully to everything she has to tell us, and never come at her with sushi or noodle soups again – otherwise she might just devour you whole.

I say welcome home, sweetheart, and thanks for the tons of photos, videos, and texts that you managed to smuggle from one country to another straight through sweet communist China despite that shitty 56k-slow internet connection. You did great, and now the serious part of life begins again. Exams need to be passed, In & Out lists written, and freshly shaved Kings of Leon concerts attended.

And so you don’t immediately suffer from the German white-sausage shock and can gradually get used to the solid middle-class life here, here’s a colorful Japanese video by the not world-famous band Ikimono Gakari, which you should best play while falling asleep so you feel like you’re in the Land of the Rising Sun. Welcome home!

Shave The Queen

At the crack of dawn this morning, a nice guy left me a strange little package without a sender, and my first thought was: letter bomb! Would the jealous fellow bloggers really dare go that far and blow us up for good? Helmut, Marten, namesake..? Then I wondered when such a thing would go off and how I could open it without that happening. Highly concentrated and totally contorted, I opened it piece by piece, always with the thought in the back of my mind that my beautiful right hand would be blown into a thousand pieces any second. Which would suck. I still need it.

What emerged, however, was something I hadn’t expected at all: a razor from Gillette. Venus. Sara from Heidi Klum’s flea circus had sent me a women’s razor. A women’s razor! That’s not exactly what I’ve been wishing for since childhood (or maybe it is?) and of course I’ll forward the beautiful piece to Hannah so that she’s nicely shaved everywhere when we show up together with Carö at the Kings of Leon concert here in Berlin. But certain other companies are welcome to take an example from free gifts like this. Nintendo, Ferrari, and Apple – you’re up!

Is It Always This Sappy?

If you don’t happen to live in a retirement home, have to work one night shift after another, or have a penis dangling between your legs, then you simply love “Grey’s Anatomy.” The sexy bedroom stories, the spurting blood and the funny music in the background when someone gets cut open or two lesbians have their first time – all of that is great fun. For me too. I have a penis.

It’s different, however, when your friends are suddenly sitting next to you. You’ve finally made it so that at 8:15 p.m. the TV is on, the ProSieben logo is shining in the top right corner and that stupid hospital appears, and you’re looking forward to presenting yourself as a subscribed viewer of this masterpiece. You sit there with a big grin.

And what do your asshole friends do? In the best case they just sit there bored, but in the worst case they make stupid comments like “Is it always this sappy?” or “Is there a funny version of this?” And no matter how brave you are, how much you internally defend the characters and their stories, and how aware you are that this narrative arc also needs a long-winded or even embarrassing stopover now and then in order to rise again all the more euphorically afterward: at some point you cave in and admit to yourself: this episode really sucks…

And what do we learn from this misery? If your best friends didn’t co-found the “Grey’s Anatomy” fan club or don’t plan on sleeping with you after the episode, kick them out at 8 p.m., throw some popcorn in the microwave and then dive alone and happily into the fabulous world of Seattle Grace Hospital, where people screw, slice and cry until the doctor comes. Amen.

Die Ting Tings Move to Berlin

Our loyal reader and passionate 1LIVE listener Marc slipped me some top-secret information that the Ting Tings (famously awarded the title “Marci’s favorite band”) will soon begin recording their new studio album and, for inspiration, will be moving not only to Paris but also – and here it comes – to Berlin! The two of them say: “We’re crazy about Berlin, but I don’t think we’ll get much work done there. There are too many distractions in Berlin.”

Isn’t that wonderful, amazing, downright phenomenal? Once again it confirms that good old Bärlin is simply the greatest city in the whole world and that, besides Nora and little old me, Jules and Katie will soon be roaming the streets as well. So Munich and Hamburg, what do you have to offer, huh? New goal for me this year: meet Katie White…

Make the Girl Dance – Baby, Baby, Baby

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Running completely naked and singing through the city seems to be quite the mega trend right now. The bouncing ladies of the French crew Make the Girl Dance thought the same and, in their song “Baby, Baby, Baby,” send a group of hypothermic models running through Paris – wearing nothing but a few magical black bars that can even display the lyrics. The Illuminati must be behind this…

La Roux – Bulletproof

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I’ll admit it: girls have it easier with me when it comes to earning a spot on my ever-super-duper-favorite-music list. No idea why, maybe because I simply prefer listening to female voices rather than their counterparts. Unless they unleash some Peggy Bundy-style screeching on me. Anyway.

In any case, the English band La Roux, led by the sweet Elly Jackson with the freaky hairstyle, are releasing one single after another at a breathtaking pace, and after “Quicksand” and “In For The Kill,” it’s now “Bulletproof” that’s here to pamper your eardrums. I’m totally into it.

SuicideGirl of the Week: Vice

Well look who’s back! Exactly, our favorite category with the hopeful title “SuicideGirl of the Week”! Because in order to keep our promised boobs-and-dicks quota consistently high, sometimes tough decisions have to be made. Attention, I’m sticking with the wordplay now.

The lady who is saving us all from too much non-naked skin this time is called Vice, is 23 years old and comes from the US and A. She’s into Johnny Cash, porn and tequila, describes herself as emo, geek and gamer, and has incredibly great red hair. I’d love to play a round of Wii with her. More of her, as always, at the newly redesigned SuicideGirls.

Hot Games with the Copy Machine

Those of you who are neither unemployed nor working construction know this: there’s a sexy copy machine just standing around, its lid wide and invitingly open, and not a soul in sight. And what do you do as a loyal working inmate? Exactly: pants down, sit on it, push the button and off you go!

My favorite rascals from VICE picked this up as a topic and, under the guise of a “fashion series” (yeah right), sat kids naked on the machine and let the glowing beam run its course. Lots of naughtiness and bonus shots are available here, you perverts.

Plastiscines – Barcelona

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Well, look who’s back again. My favorite Frenchy posse: the Plastiscines! Their debut album “LP1” with awesome tracks like “Loser” and “Mr Driver” may not have been bought by a single soul, but I still thought it was great. And of course that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’m totally in love with the front chick Katty Besnard. No, neeeeever!

Anyway, now they’re back with a new style, lots of tailwind from Nylon and the new track “Barcelona,” and I have to say… girls… I liked you better before. Or in bad internet French: Je m'appelle Marcel. Je déteste le nouveau style. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)? That should do. Katty, you know where I live.

The Lookbook Look: Sonya Twinklepop

Once again, we’ve grabbed a poor, innocent Lookbook fawn and squeezed it out on the topics of fashion, photos, and all that other creative stuff. This time with us: 17-year-old Sonya Twinklepop from Moscow, who tells us, among other things, why and where she had a girl’s name tattooed on her body.

You’re passionate about modeling, photography, and journalism. Which of these three areas do you enjoy the most and why?

I left modeling school last year and for a while I didn’t feel like doing anything except going to parties and doing photo sessions. But that got boring pretty quickly, so I decided to approach things a bit more professionally. I wrote many texts and reports, and a Russian magazine even published my work. But at the moment I simply don’t have the time to write, and photography is much more fun for me. I even bought myself a professional Canon and use it to photograph people at various parties and my friends.

Moscow is certainly a pretty interesting city. Tell us a bit about it, and do you think Russia is a fashion-conscious country?

Moscow seems to be a pretty crazy city for everyone, but I’ve lived here since I was born, so I can’t really relate to that. But that might also be because I’ve gone a little crazy myself here. Still, I like it here; it’s beautiful. Fashion in Russia isn’t developing much differently than in other countries, but in my opinion it’s currently a bit brighter, and clothes are often cut from a single piece of fabric.

Where do you get your ideas for your photos, clothing, and texts? What inspires you, and do you have any role models?

I actually get ideas for my outfits from everywhere. But sometimes I like to copy small, interesting details and incorporate them into new styles. I’m especially into Cory Kennedy, Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen, of course, Twiggy, and Edie Sedgwick.

How are things in love? Are you in a relationship? And what kind of people are your best friends?

At the moment I’m having a few problems with my male admirers—they’re driving me crazy. And because I’m bisexual, I also have a girlfriend; her name is Asya, and four months ago I had her name tattooed on my leg. All my friends are very creative people. I met many of them at parties, and most of them are musicians and DJs.

What kind of films, TV shows, and music do you like? And which magazines do you enjoy flipping through?

The last film I watched was “Joy Division,” and I thought it was really good. I hardly ever turn on the TV, but I listen to a lot of music. It ranges from Santigold to Elvis Presley. At the moment I’m also listening to a lot of electroclash (Ping Pong Bitches, Ugress, Peaches, etc.). My favorite magazines are Vogue and Nylon.

What are your favorite websites when it comes to fashion and lifestyle?

I think it’s Lookbook. At the moment it’s simply the best website dealing with fashion.

What do you think will be the upcoming fashion trends for the second half of the year, and do you even care that much about it?

History and fashion always repeat themselves. So I wouldn’t be very surprised if Roman and Greek-inspired clothing becomes the trend this summer. Elegant sheer garments are also totally in this year. They were popular in the ’90s, in 2006, and they will be again in 2009.

What are your personal goals for the future?

I want to focus again on my modeling career and invest more of myself in it in order to finally make something of it. Also, later this year I will enroll at the Faculty of Journalism.

Thank you for the great interview, and you can find more photos of Sonya on her MySpace page.

WTF?! Vol. 2

Welcome to a new edition of: “What the hell are some nitwits actually typing into Google to end up on this weird site?!” And I’ll tell you just this much: There are SOME seriously sick minds out there. Truly sick.. And coming from me, that’s saying something. So here is another list of Google search queries that were illuminati-style redirected to AMY&PINK..

Sex with uncle. Living room color ideas by Tine Wittler. Biggest sagging boobs in the world. Intellectual porn. Fucking like mom. Real name of La Dolce Vegas. Bambi in the land of horny bucks. My ex-girlfriend, the stupid slut. What’s the name of the monkey from Tokio that smokes. Cigarette in the swimming pool. Hello Spongebob. Sexy photo of Nora Tschirner for free. Tine Wittler do it with me. I slowly pushed my hand into her pajamas. Girl on deserted island. Apprentice suck-up. I have feelings too, damn it! We haven’t seen each other in a long time and I don’t give a shit. Mutual masturbation with cucumber video. Whoever sleeps with my roommate gets the bread rolls in the morning. Tongue doctor Berlin. Why doesn’t the little prince have to be sad even though there are so many roses? Pus coming out of the penis. A blind man walks into a fish shop and says: “Hey ladies!” Doesn’t Gesine like Yannick anymore?

Whistling bird at the moment of death. Pubic hair stories. Her little pussy is filled by grandpa. Good morning, spring is here. Monkeys fucking. A vagina. I stretch my fingers toward them to feel them deeper inside me. Gushing lesbians. Emancipated women hairy. Mutual masturbation. Maybrit Illner naked. Boys groping girls. Ugly Marcel. Learn to fuck. Where can you get laughing gas? Evil boobs. Cobra with sledgehammer. Cake fight orgies. Redheads have no soul. Lena you wanker. Being happy is a state of feeling that one likes to have. Whipped cream or chocolate sauce. I have sexual fantasies about my teacher. Destroy Google. I am sweet and nice, but appearances are deceiving. Where can I get crazy sunglasses like Fergie? Perverse shaving in the intimate area.

Hardcore Personal Ads: Owney

Name: Owney. Age: 29. Height: 1.86 m. Place of residence: Dresden. Profession: Media designer. Zodiac sign: Pisces. Friends say: a romantic soul. The ex says: hard to get him out of his moods again. I go weak for: cucumber salad and herbal tea. When I’m in love: you have to be prepared for anything. ;O) I’m good at: reading stories aloud, just standing still for minutes on end. I’m not good at: screaming and doing cartwheels. My distinguishing feature: right eye, because it’s colorful. Secret passion: gummy bears (dark red, yellow and green). No-go: gummy bears (orange and white). I say: Sex is often underrated. I believe in: magic. My quirk: taking a bath almost every day.

“I’m not a stereotypical man. I certainly won’t engage in duels, won’t watch football matches (except the World Cup), and cars are merely means of transportation for me. I can’t offer a strong shoulder (physically speaking) either, but instead a perfectly seasoned mix of romance, silliness and depth paired with a good shot of realism. If it were up to me, I’d introduce an unconditional basic income for everyone tomorrow and give the whole world a big fat vacation first. Relaxation instead of stress. With that maxim, you’re at the right address with me. That’s also why Kings of Convenience, William Fitzsimmons and Anna Ternheim are among my favorite bands. Though you can’t really dance to that ... and dancing, I’m totally into that! So ... great location, good DJ and I’m off the dance floor for a few hours.

Now I’m no longer 21 like Hannah, but already 29 years old (uhm, young) ... many of my friends already have children and I’d be lying if I said I don’t want any. Yes, of course, I want children too, at least two, and not in five years’ time. I love these little creatures and I’m really looking forward like crazy to fully loaded diapers, sleepless nights and the moment when one of them will call me Dad! And of course there should be a woman to go with the children ... and that’s where you come in!

So if you think you could play model like Hannah and like to wear sneakers, that’s already a good start. ... I’m totally into sneakers on women! If you also prefer The Brothers Lionheart to Dostoevsky, that’s another plus point. Sex, you’re really into it? Wonderful, another point. You plaster my apartment with homemade crafts and play with me in the sandbox sometimes? Perfect! Then write to me now! ... and remember the sneakers! You can of course earn bonus points with red hair, green eyes or freckles! ;O)

If you want to get to know Owney, just send him a nice email or write something lovely in the comments. And if you’d like to take part in the hardcore personal ads yourself, send your meaningful text and a nice photo by email to us. Have fun! This section was shamelessly stolen from NEON.

Ruckus and Hullabaloo

No no no, did you wake up this morning too and the weekend was simply over again? As quickly as it came? And not only is it Monday again, no, in Berlin it also kept pouring endlessly in the evening? That’s simply a scandal! I demand a repeat!

But nevertheless we made full use of the few days to party, lived exclusively on Burger King and sandwiches and constantly saw Flintstones running around everywhere. Thanks to Style and the Family Tunes Magazine we were on the guest list on Friday for the Remmidemmi party at the Michelberger Hotel, had fun there with lollipops and balloons and – now hold on tight, because this even tops the story with Til Schweiger – met the one and only Peter Imhoff! Yes, you’re right to be speechless. What, you don’t even remember who that is? He once had a talk show on Sat.1, but he was still quite nice. And to the chick with the blue hat who mouthed off at me: You’ll get yours!

Saturday went differently than planned. Plan A: Show up at the Ting Tings concert! Forget it: T-Mobile hates me. Plan B: Celebrate Anne finishing her final exams! Canceled. Plan C: Head to Scala and dance a bit! Apart from Okay & Okay I thought the acts were crap. Plan D: Meet two girls at Friedrichstraße! There was a fight, one of them felt terribly sick and then the special task force showed up. Plan E: Put on duck masks and run quacking through downtown! We just weren’t drunk enough for that yet.

So under the influence of alcohol we watched ten episodes of “iCarly” on MyVideo, then let a taxi driver – who, mildly put, should rather not participate in “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” – chauffeur us through the city and finally met up with Maike and her people at the “White Noise Club” in White Trash. That way the evening was saved after all and we already have a date for next Friday in the bag, because dear Maike is celebrating her birthday then. I’m looking forward to it and hopefully you had a somewhat more planned instead of misplanned weekend. And now back to work, you lazy bums!

The Konami Code Lives!

Alright kids, after years of Tokio Hotel nonsense and DSDS brain mush you probably don’t really remember this anymore, but there was once a time – back then – when everything was better. The flowers smelled better, the ice cream tasted better and the video games were better. Especially if you were lucky enough to own a Super Nintendo.

And besides such magnificent games as Mario and Zelda there was a small game company called Konami, which was known not only for its awesome games, but especially for the ultra-secret Konami Code, with which you could score at any kids’ birthday party and make out with the hottest girl under the slide. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B and A. That was the key to success. Unfortunately, this pick-up line eventually faded into oblivion...

But now it’s back, more beautiful and better than ever: on – of course – the Internet! On Konami Code Sites you’ll find a sharp list of websites where you can use the code to unlock ultra-secret features or just a lot of nonsense. If that isn’t wonderfully retro, I don’t know what is.

And as the site tells us, up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B and A works, for example, on Facebook, Digg and even Google Reader. And those surely aren’t the only ones – do you know any others? Because as I’ve heard, the Konami Code is even pulling some strings on AMY&PINK... So type your fingers sore!

My (and Your) Favorite Videos for the Weekend

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No idea if I’ve ever posted two videos at once before, but this week there are two pieces that are just so insanely brilliant that I can’t avoid presenting them to you here and now (almost) at the same time. Promise me that you’ll download both tracks from iTunes immediately, put them into their own playlist called “Marci watched MTV Brand New,” and let it run all night long.

First up, something sweet and mellow from the even sweeter Hamburg native Mariha, who was already on the scene a few years ago with “It hurts” and is now striking again with “Heart Keeps Beating,” pulling us onto a frivolous party that then turns out to be a bit more low-key. Very beautiful song.

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The second one has been playing up and down on my iPod for weeks and until now I didn’t even know there was a video for it. Today Mr. Kavka set me straight, and when he announced the band with this song, I slipped out of the bathtub naked and soaking wet just to catch a glimpse of the video.

The video itself isn’t really that much of a burner, but the track “Help I’m Alive” by the Canadian band Metric, fronted by the hot Emily Haines, is all the more awesome. Especially because instead of “hammer” I always understood something about a ram, which somehow made the song even more endearing to me. And with these pointless words, I now release you into your well-deserved weekend. Please roam the city, spark gang wars of goodness, and just make us proud!

The Better Amys and Pinks

Well, things can change quickly in this fast-paced internet hell. Just yesterday we were the hype, the underground tip, the site your grandma doped up on Stannivalium always warned you about. So fresh, exciting and sooo damn sexy. Ah, those were the days, and I think back on them wistfully—but now it’s over. And even if neither you nor we would have thought it possible: out there exists the better AMY&PINK.

The parents of lia.R and mannfRed must really hate them for giving them such weird names, but what they’ve got going on, called Sexdrugsblognroll, is truly fantastic. The Mannheim duo writes with dirty wit about the top models, Annemarie and mindfucking Facebooks, gives away clothes, and even talks to you via audio.

I’m insanely jealous, would love to crawl into a hole, and now command you to delete us from your browsers, feed readers, and minds and instead paste in Sexdrugsblognroll. So, thank you very much. And since nobody can read me here anymore anyway, I’m going to go sleep with lia.R and then head to the zoo. Hannah gets mannfRed—she’s apparently looking for a boyfriend after all.

Since Yesterday I’ve Been a Trekkie

I really didn’t have particularly high expectations when we went to the preview screening of “Star Trek” yesterday, but holy moly, what J. J. Abrams delivered was seriously awesome. Okay, the story was a bit generic, but the action, the visuals, the music, and not least the atmosphere were absolutely fascinating. It was the best Trekkie film I’ve ever seen!

But then again, it was my first. But don’t you dare disqualify me from rating this movie so highly just because of that—“Voyager,” for example, was my favorite series for quite a while. And I was really damn sad when it was canceled ended. But there are always some hardcore Trekkies who think the whole remake sucks; I thought it was great and can only recommend it. It could easily have gone on for hours longer. Hopefully they turn it into a series. A spaceship flying around through space. Would probably be a success.

Eating Like at Mom’s

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At the beginning, we were only keeping ourselves alive at lunchtime with slimy canned ravioli, cheap instant spaghetti, and leftovers from the breakfast buffet, but now we’ve finally leveled up enough to take over the kitchen at aperto and let our cooking skills run wild (very wild!). And the great thing about it: we didn’t even have to be admitted to the Charité!

Whether it’s pasta salad with baguette, schnitzel with fried potatoes, or some kind of fried egg thing with bacon—we juggle pots, pans, and bowls and conjure up something new and delicious on the table every day. And quite often, by the end, nothing on the plate is moving anymore. We’ll keep this up until we reach the next level of the food ladder, which is called: screw the kitchen, we’re going to the Thai place every day from now on. But that’s still a long way off, and for now it’s back down to the kitchen: eating yesterday’s leftovers.

Paper Moon

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A game like a small, sweet nightmare. Done entirely in black-and-white children’s book style, designed like Paper Mario and accompanied by sugary-sweet melodies, Blurst has released the jump ’n’ run “Paper Moon.” To play it you’ll have to install some stupid browser plugin, but at least the thing then runs on Windows and Mac and is also free. That’s worth it, isn’t it? So what are you waiting for? Start playing!

bebe Young Care Puts Tough Girls into Shared Apartments

If I had just one wish, I’d definitely use it to move into a shared apartment with a bunch of nice girls. Preferably together with the cute gap-toothed Dari Maximova from the bebe commercial, whom I’ve actually developed a little crush on. Personally, I can only dream about that for a long time, but the people at bebe Young Care have informed us that at least a few stylish ladies have the unique chance to move into one of four awesome shared apartments in Hamburg, Berlin, Cologne, and Munich for four weeks, to really let loose in terms of lifestyle, music, fashion, and active living.

For the bebe Generation, a total of 16 girls between 16 and 24 years old are being sought who feel like dealing with each other and like-minded people on the internet with the true topics of life: Which styles are really trendy? Which music is best for partying, chilling, or making out? And how can I best combine fitness and fashion? If I weren’t a guy, I’d probably do anything to be allowed to move in there, so hurry up and apply for the shared apartment of your dreams. God, I’m poetic again today.

War in Kreuzberg

As we walked up the stairs and I turned to the left, a beer bottle burst in Sarah’s face. From everywhere masked figures dressed in black were shouting leftist slogans; it should already have been dark, but the burning Molotov cocktails, the camera flashes and the constantly rotating blue lights kept the sky above Kotti unnaturally alive. Sarah collapsed against the tiled wall, her blonde hair hanging blood-smeared in her face. She cried, sobbed. We had walked straight into a trap. The subway station had become a single fortress. The floor was speckled red, it smelled of vomit, alcohol and sweat. Armies of green-armored police officers had surrounded us, helicopters circled loudly overhead. The defenders of our castle threw bottles at the waiting attackers; they had closed the gate by their own force. “You come out and you’ll get punched in the face first thing,” an old man whimpered before disappearing again into the depths of the subway.

It was hard for the paramedics to fight their way through to us. The large green steel gate was opened and they immediately began to treat Sarah provisionally. I held her hand, but suddenly we heard deafening screams and trampling behind us. The cops had only been waiting for this chance and stormed toward us like a green wave, beating with batons. The paramedics threw themselves protectively over Sarah, cursing at the attackers. We raised our arms and shouted at the top of our lungs “Stop” and “Injured,” but it was useless. The green wave crashed over us with a dull thud, my lip split open. In slow motion people slammed against the wall and fell down the stairs – in my ear “Nothing To Worry About” by Peter Bjorn and John was playing. I cast one last desperate glance at the bloody spot on the wall, but one of the officers dragged us out and hurled me against a group of press guys, from whose side the lightning storm of flashes did not cease.

“Got a light?” an old drunk pulled me back to my feet and staggered off behind the wall of onlookers with their mobile phones and digital cams. Two girls danced around the police unit singing the Tetris melody, traffic lights and signs were knocked over and someone dropped his pants and took a dump on the ground in front of the Greens. The crowd roared, laughed and cheered. Then again loud screams and pounding footsteps. This time they weren’t green but black. They seemed more heavily armored and ran at us spraying pepper spray. Maybe I shouldn’t necessarily have shown up at this absurd theater of war all in black with my hood pulled over my head, but again I was grabbed and pressed with the force of a bull into the crowd standing at the side of the street. Gasping for breath, I managed to save myself onto a traffic island. The whole ground was covered with shards of glass and ripped-up cobblestones. We were surrounded.

All around us things were burning, the crowd was heated and threw everything it could find on the ground at the officers who positioned themselves around us. An ambulance drove away from the subway station, which was immediately sealed off afterward, and I hoped that Sarah was safe inside and that the injury only looked worse than it actually was. My head was pounding and for the first time I could get a picture of the situation, which was dominated by violence and beer-serving kebab stands. But it didn’t take long to figure out where you could stand in relative safety and how you had to react to the shouts, “Gas” warnings and loud steps without constantly being crushed by our crossing friends. Much worse were the projectiles that rained down crisscross over Kotti and did not distinguish between police officer or demonstrator, spectator or passerby. People around me kept collapsing screaming and covering their faces with their hands, again blood dripped onto the asphalt and again the cops ran over us without paying attention even once to the injured, paramedics or passersby.

It was a bizarre spectacle full of unleashed rage, violence and an amusing fairground atmosphere, and when I finally managed to escape into the subway a few stations away late at night, completely exhausted, I was suddenly back in the normal world. In that small microcosm there was war, a state of emergency, a violent mixture of fire, stones, glass and blood, yet here everything was so peaceful, so quiet, so normal that you were no longer quite sure of the reality of what you had just experienced. And with that thought I finally fell asleep while warm blood once again ran from my lip.

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Passion Pit – The Reeling

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Sarah LaPetite writes: “Great song. Great video.” What more could I possibly add? And although Passion Pit have been around since 2007, they’re only releasing their debut album “Manners” next month. Good things take time, and now I’m going to put a talking shopping bag over my head and disappear into my magnificent dream world. Nora and Keira, I’m coming…!

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

Sometimes there are things in this seemingly endless Internet that I just sit in front of, astonished and scratching my head, thinking: No way, that can’t be true, wtf, are they serious or not? That’s exactly how I felt just now while researching the film “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus,” which not only features my lovely Lily Cole, but in which Johnny Depp simply plays Tony. And Jude Law also plays Tony. And Colin Farrell also plays Tony. And Heath Ledger also plays Tony. Who the fuck is Tony?!

Is this film really supposed to exist, apparently premiering on September 24 in Holland? In my search for the official trailer I first ended up here (haha) and then eventually here. And that somehow looks quite… real, doesn’t it? And IMDb apparently knows this film too. Are they all trying to mess with me?!

So please PLEASE dear Internet community, have I completely lost my mind? Does this movie actually exist or am I just the last idiot in an endless food chain who fell for this fake / marketing gag / April Fool’s joke? But at least Lily Cole, she’s real… man, is she real!

Sigur Rós – Gobbledigook

I’m sick. It must be swine flu or something equally terrible. My throat is scratchy, my nose is running, and my head feels like it’s exploding. And I’m out of cornflakes, too. How bad can things get for a single human being? That’s why I hereby declare today the official “Have Pity on Poor Marcel” Day, and I expect you to immediately raid your medicine cabinets and send me all the aspirin, Grippostad C, and, for all I care, Ritalin that you can get your hands on.

As a reward, here’s a video that contains everything a poor, small, sick Marci loves: one of his favorite bands, a beautiful melody, and lots of naked people. The band is called Sigur Rós, the song is “Gobbledigook”, and being sick suddenly becomes twice as much fun. And now I need to find some cornflakes somewhere…

La Roux – Quicksand

God, I absolutely love this song. “Quicksand” by the English electro duo La Roux has now been released in the USA after the UK, and the album will be out in June. The new video by Elly and Ben for the new single “In For The Kill” is already out as well, but I like this one better. Besides, the clip is properly, wonderfully trashy.

At Least The Kooks Were There…

Oh Coca-Cola, what on earth were you thinking?! First you lure crowds of people to the Arena with a free Kooks concert and then you torture them for hours with six dreadful up-and-coming bands that reminded me of random barn parties in deepest Bavaria. And last year’s winning band was by far the worst, didn’t want to leave the stage, and anyone who ever voted for them on MySpace deserves a good, repeated kick between the legs from me personally. I want my money back!

But thank God there was at least one small miracle at this year’s Coca-Cola Soundwave Discovery Tour 2009: the boys from Bad Wimpfen, Andioliphilipp, rocked the hall with their insanely awesome German punk and rightfully earned their trip to Rock am Ring. So if you’re going this time: check out this crew!

The Kooks honestly seemed a little sorry to me, having to appear at the end of this mostly excruciating event (during which The View’s song “Face For The Radio” kept spinning around in my head), but they truly saved the evening with their amazing tracks like “Naïve” and “She Moves in Her Own Way.” Thanks for that—and a request to the red world ruler: next time, please pay a little more attention to who you unleash on such a large audience. You can find photos from the event and everything around it, for example, here. And now I’m going to drink a Pepsi…

The Ting Tings Live on Arte.tv This Afternoon

Many thanks to Pasue for the tip—otherwise I probably would have completely missed this major event of postwar history. Because this afternoon you can watch my absolute favorite band, The Ting Tings, live as part of the Festival des Artefacts in Strasbourg together with Patrice and Miss Kittin & The Hacker on Arte.tv. And if you miss it, I’ll punch you once from the right and then once from the left. I’m so excited.

Mando Diao – Gloria

I have to admit that “Dance With Somebody” started to seriously annoy me after a short time. And I know that puts me pretty much alone out there. But now and here comes the big chance for reconciliation between me and Mando Diao, whom I really liked at Rock im Park 2007.

Because the new song “Gloria” really appeals to me again, comes with a damn cool video (including a pretty model), and the shouted name, echoing the melody, sticks in your head instantly. And I hope, I beg, I pray that MTV and NRJ Berlin will show some mercy and not play the song into musical overkill on permanent rotation again. Not because the song isn’t good, but because otherwise I’ll seriously feel like throwing up.

The Lookbook Look: Felice Fawn

Today, from the huge pool of creativity-crazed Lookbook folks, we picked out the 20-year-old fashion photographer Felice Fawn, and she tells us quite a bit about her sources of inspiration, her relationship with her boyfriend, and which band she would staple to her ears.

At what age did you start taking photographs? When did you decide to do it professionally, and is the job as great as you imagined it would be?

I started taking photos for the first time at around 14, but it wasn’t anything serious back then. Just fun snapshots of our pets and my family. Two years later it developed into a real hobby for me. Before I even considered that I could do it professionally, I first completed an apprenticeship as a tattoo artist in my hometown of Cambridge. At 19, I then started my job as a fashion photographer and haven’t looked back since.

What do you enjoy more: photos you take for work or for yourself privately?

I think private projects are usually more fun. I can put much more creativity, time, and passion into my own stories, but of course you simply have to love what you do—whether it’s for yourself or for a job—in order to achieve a result you’re happy with.

Tell me about your hometown of Cambridge—is it nice there? And is England really as fashion-obsessed as everyone says?

Cambridge is simply wonderful for me; it offers a brilliant mix of countryside and city, and I absolutely love vast, wide landscapes. Almost all of my father’s family lives just around the corner—that’s totally perfect. And England is incredibly fashion-conscious. Especially in London, there’s a huge selection of amazing shops that instantly excite you. Personally, I’m completely addicted to fashion, and I have to be careful not to spend too much on it.

Where does a fashion photographer get ideas for new outfits, and are there people you look up to?

Ideas are constantly swirling around me, but they don’t necessarily have to come from the work of artists or photographers. It can range from cute little shops on the corner with great window displays to my favorite music—my eyes and ears are always open. And I’m a big fan of Patrick Demarchelier’s work. He’s simply indescribable, and I believe he will always be the epitome of my favorite photographer.

How about your love life? Are you in a relationship, and what kind of people are your best friends?

Yes, in April I will have been with my boyfriend for five years, and we are extremely happy together. We’ve even been living together for four years, and I can say with certainty that we’re inseparable. I have three really good friends with whom I’ve been inseparable since I started at the same school as them at age 12. And that’s not going to change. We simply share the same kind of humor, and I think that’s what counts.

What are your favorite magazines? Do you like watching TV, and what kind of music are you into?

I actually read the cliché magazines like Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and any fashion magazines I can get my hands on. My all-time favorite film is “Girl, Interrupted,” but instead of movies I tend to watch comedy shows like “Family Guy” and “American Dad.” Music is the most important thing to me, and I could talk all day about a huge list of amazing bands, but my two favorites are probably Thom Yorke as a solo artist and Radiohead. I could listen to them forever.

Do you spend a lot of time surfing the internet? In your opinion, what are the best websites for fashion and everything that goes along with it?

Wow, where should I start? I just recently signed up at Lookbook.nu, for example, which I find really interesting because the site feels so homey. It’s like a fashion blog for all the fashion-conscious people around the world. And it’s truly amazing what an impact all these trends have on young people everywhere across the globe. I think the opportunity to receive feedback on how you dress is fantastic, and you can get a lot of inspiration from others who share the same interests while also passing it on at the same time.

Spring has begun, and with it lighter fashion has returned. What do you think the trends are this year, and how much do they interest you personally?

I’ve always been a huge fan of pastel tones and floral patterns. I regularly go to Topshop, and I was really excited to see that they’re selling more and more feminine fashion with soft colors and patterns.

What do you wish for yourself in the future?

That I continue to feel young, stay happy, and enjoy what I do.

Thank you for the great interview, and you can find more photos of Felice on her DeviantArt page.

FFFFOUND!

Once again we would like to point out our fantastic FFFFOUND! section, where creative dreams come true, steamy thoughts are born and breathtakingly beautiful photographs become visible. This time, featured for a short while: the sweet Keeley Hazell in the bathtub, photos from Girl meets NYC and such a true quote by Mark Twain. Check it out before new photos roll in again! Because you know: our FFFFOUND! page never stands still!

Making Fun of Little Kids

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The internet isn’t just full of pornography, Nazi crap and monkeys peeing into their own mouths, as these cute little clips from CuteBreak prove — a wonderful site full of harmony and peace. Little kittens that have to sneeze so sweetly, mutated sloths that simply want to be scratched, and puppy dogs that look so adorable that you instantly forget your stupid boss, your dumb ex-girlfriend and the unfair salesman from earlier.

Whether it’s really that cute to make fun of little kids and pretend you want to sell their baby brother, I’m not entirely sure. But it’s still better than pornography, Nazi crap and monkeys peeing into their own mouths, and since Roseanne, little humans have been teased in every halfway decent sitcom — and so far that hasn’t harmed anyone.

Mom, Can I Fuck the Cat?

The human race penetrates pretty much everything that isn’t up a tree by the count of three — and sometimes even that. Whether cucumbers, bottles or goats, it just has to fit somehow, somewhere, and the well starts flowing in order to satisfy one’s own sexual pleasure. And afterward, you wistfully get to wipe away the whole mess.

The professional pigs over at Vice Magazine were inspired by this dreadful Milow song and are now pulling down each other’s pants to finally test what otherwise only happens in dark bedrooms or boozy farm parties. The toothbrush vibrates, the cucumber breaks, the cat purrs — and of course it’s all purely for scientific purposes. With extensive ratings, naturally. And that reminds me that “American Pie” was on somewhere again recently…

Marmaduke Duke – Rubber Lover

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Good morning, Berlin, Germany and the whole world! Now that’s a beautifully sunny day out there. Not! And that’s why we’re bringing a bit of pseudo-sunshine into your living room, office or bedroom in musical form, hoping it might prevent one or two people from carrying out their planned rampage.

Marmaduke Duke is the name of the band, “Rubber Lover” the song, and even though I always feel like a slightly slow radio host making announcements like this — and the video itself kind of sucks — at least the song is pretty awesome and puts you in a good mood. And that’s what really matters anyway.

Experience The Ting Tings Live in Berlin for Free!

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Dude, today we’re really on a roll with free, ultra-secret stuff. My current absolute favorite band The Ting Tings are playing on May 9 in the former women’s prison in Charlottenburg, Berlin, and T-Mobile Street Gigs (yes, the ones with the mega network outage who are now letting you text for free all Sunday long) are giving away loads of free tickets. Obviously you’ll have to register with their weird community first, but it’s totally worth it for me to finally see Katie and Jules live. So join in — but don’t you dare snatch all the tickets away from me!

The New NYLON Issue for Free!

The American NYLON is one of the freshest and most beautiful fashion magazines in the world, also convincing with great taste in music, and its editorial team likes to think outside the box as well. The current issue, titled “Almost Famous,” which among other things features the 45 hottest newcomers, can now be downloaded here for free and legally as a complete PDF. Simply click on PDF in the top right corner of the page and enjoy.

The Lookbook Look: Winifred Ng

We continue to recruit interesting people from the playground of international creativity, Lookbook, and today it’s 19-year-old Winifred Ng from Perth, Australia, who speaks openly with us about her own jewelry, the return of floral prints, and her pseudo-schizophrenia. Let’s have a listen…

You say about yourself that two characters live inside you. Is that true and how does it affect your environment?

Some people call me Wini and others call me Fred. Over time I’ve developed two different sides that constantly get in each other’s way. One part wants me to organize and plan everything properly, while the other just wants to party and constantly have fun. But I like to keep that to myself. To notice this inner conflict, you really have to get to know me better.

You live in sunny Australia. Are you a very fashion-conscious nation and do you like it there?

I really love living there and I’ve been very lucky. The sun seems to shine constantly in Perth, but winter is still my favorite season. And I think Australia is becoming more and more fashion-conscious, maybe more than ever before. Australians also love to express themselves freely and aren’t afraid to play around with fashion.

Where do you get your ideas for your outfits? Is there a specific source of inspiration and are there role models you look up to?

I get most of my inspiration from street style blogs and online magazines. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I have specific role models. Most of the time I just wear whatever I feel like. I like trying out new things and experimenting with my wardrobe, seeing what works and what definitely doesn’t.

You make your own jewelry but then find it hard to part with the pieces once you’re finished. How did you come up with the idea to produce something like that yourself, and do you do other exciting things as well?

I just get attached to my pieces and that’s a real problem. To make it easier to part with them, I tried making lots of jewelry, but that didn’t work either. I just can’t bring myself to sell it. I’ve given a few pieces away as gifts, but that’s about it.

I like spending hours looking at different materials; it allows my mind to drift off into another world. I really enjoy living out even the craziest ideas, and if it doesn’t look good in the end, at least I tried. I like transforming my old clothes into something new so I can reuse them, and I also enjoy designing plush toys and iPod socks.

Photography is something I truly love, and I wish I had the time to learn the craft and the art itself. Photos simply make me smile—they capture memories and allow us to look at things from a different perspective.

Do you like watching TV or films? What kind of music do you like and which magazines do you enjoy reading?

I can pretty much sit down and watch anything—from classic black-and-white films to cartoons, from romantic tearjerkers to action. Music has to make me want to move: I like indie, rock, pop, and RnB the most. Online magazines are a revelation at the moment. They’re free and so easy to read. N.E.E.T., Attitude, Prim, Lula, Pages, Mylookbook and Pockettozine are the top candidates on my list. But of course I also like reading classic print media such as Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, Yen and Frankie.

In your opinion, what are the coolest websites for fashion and lifestyle?

Lookbook.nu, Chictopia, Street Peeper and Fashionation are really great websites for fashion. You can browse them very easily and they show so many different styles from all over the world. Cool Hunter and NOTCOT are the best sites for lifestyle and also fashion. My favorite blogs are The Sartorialist, Face Hunter, Stil in Berlin, Jak & Jil, Stockholm Street Style, Altamira NYC, Copenhagen Street Style, Style Clicker and so on… I could spend hours on these sites.

What do you think will be the upcoming fashion trends for 2009, or do you not really care and just wear whatever you want anyway?

It’s always fun to see what designers present and to follow fashion trends, but I think it should always be a priority to wear clothes in which you feel most comfortable. I believe power dressing with slim-cut styles, cut-outs, and structured shoulders will be big this year. Lots of glitter, sparkle, and sheer sequins will flood this spring and summer. Old-fashioned roses and nature-inspired looks (textures, floral prints, and earthy accessories) will return.

What are your goals for the future?

A career in the jewelry and fashion design industry would be the greatest thing for me and is my main goal. Hopefully I can start selling my jewelry soon, but at the moment I’m simply happy with what I have. I think I’ll just take things slowly for now and then see where I end up.

Thank you very much for the great interview, and you can find more from Winifred on her blog.

Til Schweiger and I Are Now Total Besties

Today in Berlin was such an awesome, sunny day that I simply had no desire at all to go to the agency. Instead, together with GossipGirl and Stylewalker, I had been invited by Braun to attend the shoot for Til Schweiger’s new commercial for the "Forbidden to Look Good" campaign and to idly watch as he was dragged into a black delivery van and kidnapped by two hot models. I really did feel kind of sorry for the poor guy…

The set itself was totally fun. Nice crew members constantly supplied us with drinks, fruit, and sweets; the best job was held by a guy who had to spray everything down with a huge hose the entire time so that the van could slide smoothly across the Kreuzberg backyard. Til himself had brought along his cute little daughter Emma, who delighted everyone with stones she had collected herself. Also fantastic was a school class that happened to wander in by chance—at the mention of Til’s name they screamed throughout the entire shoot and immediately whipped out their digital cameras.

Big thanks to Christina, Nina, and Jens, who spent the day with us, went out for delicious food, and supplied us with red-hot information on the topics of outdoor pools, big mouths, and top stars. The commercial will be on TV starting mid-May, and we can gladly do this more often, because as you know: I’m cheap and willing. And that’s definitely not a hint with a fence post aimed at Nora Tschirner’s management… who would even think such a thing…

A ♥ for Blogs

Kai from StyleSpion is calling on us and the rest of the German blogging community to take better care of one another again and to introduce the German-language blogs that are close to our hearts. Sure, we’re in. And since everyone already knows the long-established blogs anyway, I’ll just throw out a few fresh and unspoiled ones that have recently flown under my radar. You can of course find all our other eternal favorites day and night in the link list on the right, which I warmly recommend to everyone.

Lalila - Lisa floats through the world of fashion. Les Pensées Bizarre D' Amelie - Caro’s Fucking Wonderland. xFuckerx - Hotzen’s uber-awesome design and photo blog. Budimon - Simon and Budi game like there’s no tomorrow. iHeartBerlin - Beautiful bilingual blog from the depths of Berlin. rckrz - Adrian rocks the blogosphere. Simmey - The emo pirate. C33 - Just discovered today: Hotzen’s big brother. Style and the Family Tunes - Sexy blog for the magazine. Rawwr.net - Fresh blog by Pasue. Pimpettes - Cheeky bunch of girls. Vice Blog - The Vice blog, obviously. Indigoidian - Lovely blog to read.

Loic Peoch

There are photos that are simply beautiful, extremely sexy and absolutely stylish. Loic Peoch from Paris creates exactly this kind of photography, often in an elegant black-and-white look, but also a complete delight in color. And the guy himself doesn’t look too bad either. No wonder he gets these super-gorgeous models in front of his lens + French accent = unbeatable. “Ish booms you on ze stone...” (via ♥ parti)

M.I.A. Glows In The Dark

Dude, how awesome is this please? M.I.A. has just successfully finished her pregnancy and is presenting herself in Indio, California, wearing totally awesome glowing clothes that — I don’t give a shit whether they’re actually glow-in-the-dark or EL wire — will hopefully HOPEFULLY become the trend for club nights in 2009. Just imagine where you could wear that stuff! Pants, glasses, shoes... Whoa, I’m already getting all tingly. Let it glow as much as it can!

Jon Hainstock – I Don’t Understand

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To round off Sunday and mentally prepare for the upcoming work-, school-, or pre-TV-sitting-and-watching-Oli-Geissen day, here’s a new song by Jon Hainstock, who is (perhaps rightly) so unknown that he doesn’t even have his own Wikipedia page, but who immediately grew on me the first time I listened to and watched him.

Firstly because he has the coolest hairstyle in the world (the same as mine, obviously) and because he keeps singing even when some horny guy runs him over with his junk car. What an amazing man. And if anyone asks me one more time when I’m finally going to the hairdresser again. That’s the trend for 2009: indie mullet, woohoo!

Fresh Meat from Old Plums

Dear readers. If you can see this sentence here, it obviously means that at some point you somehow ended up on this wonderful website. Via other blogs, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s secret favorites list, or through our old friend Mr. Google. And the fact that you found your way here via the latter is already unbelievably great, but HOW is much, much greater.

What you’re about to read is a particularly magnificent selection of the search terms that you used today, April 19, 2009, to land on AMY&PINK via Google. And all I can say is: Shame on you. You pigs! So let’s begin...

Gay sex in the woods draft examination. My ex the slut. Going for a smoke. Nonsensical rules in everyday life. Sexy pictures of Emma Watson. Free porn man’s fuckin dock’s. Red-haired girl sexy. Berlin transvestite streetwalk. Can you also wear a sweater with a miniskirt? Drunk Russians. Hot girl loves animal sex. Saggy tits Rapidshare. Fresh meat from old plums. Porno no.

A video where a woman and a man sign up and undress during sex. Lisa records herself. How big are dog penises? What was the name of the episode where the white Power Ranger appeared for the first time? By the power of Grayskull: I have the power! Anne hot bitch. Lindsay Lohan and her freckles. Shitty alarm clock musical. Media designer sex. Why is Aggro dead? Cute female student for sex in Munich. Sex games with girls in the disco where they undress down to their underwear. Nivea in pussy.

Les Pensées Bizarre D’ Amelie

Tada, the time has come once again and you get to be a significant part of this incredibly important event: A new blog is born! And nooo, it’s not just another 08/15 blog from the Nuremberg pet and breeders’ association, no no, much better: Hannah’s better, crazy half Caro has made it her mission to give all those dusty pseudo fashion and lifestyle blogs a solid kick in the ass and, with Les Pensées Bizarre D' Amelie, presents a dirty mix of fashion, naked bodies and intimate confessions of the highest caliber.

So give her a warm welcome into the hard-core mafia world of the noble blogosphere, shower her with sugar-sweet comments that would make even your grandmother happy and proud, and do everything you can to make sure our little mini-goblin doesn’t immediately lose her passion for blogging again – you know how hard it is to be the new kid in class. Besides, I can now fall asleep peacefully because I happen to be the lucky one who deflowered Amelie. In the comments, you pigs. And hihi, I think I’ve got a crush.

Flutschfinger

While Hannah Banana is currently cruising around Tokyo more or less cheerfully, Mr. “You-shouldn’t-always-call-me-spastic!” Basti and yours truly headed to Maike’s and her huge, hilarious shared apartment’s housewarming party in order to successfully carry out and check off the ever-popular three-point plan: Arrive, Take Off, and Crash.

On our journey through the culinary refinements of Kreuzberg’s alcohol-mixing artistry, which basically followed the principles of “Pour in whatever you can!” and “There’s still some left, finish it!”, we encountered blind cats, praying Italian girls and sexy-sounding pseudo-Swedish women, belted out DJ Bobo’s “Pray” until we were red with shame, and drove around in orange shopping carts. Or into a wall – I’m not entirely sure anymore.

Maike, I have to tell you that was an amazing party, please do this every weekend, and you can find photos from our fun, brutal evening nicely arranged in alphabetical order here. By the way, the evening ended for us after Svenja and I couldn’t hear the lousy word “make-out party” anymore and embarked on a romantic subway ride, soaking wet from the rain, while a guy behind us kept belching loudly as if he were about to puke at any second. But by then we didn’t give a damn anymore…

GameOne De Ee

I love "GameOne." Absolutely. Seriously, no joke. Whenever I see those two lunatics, Budi and Simon, in the measly fifteen minutes of airtime MTV has granted them, I feel like throwing myself out the window laughing. The ideas, the lines, the segments – I lose it.

Unfortunately, summer break has now begun for the best show on German television, and every informed fan knows that the fun continues on Budimon.de, buuut now comes the big BUT, because: “GameOne” now has its own, magnificent website called: GameOne.de! How imaginative, how poetic, how meaningful. And even though I’m no longer quite as connected to the gaming scene as I was as a little brat, I’m thrilled like Horst about their contributions there. I love those two. Really. And they’ve even got Twitter. Glorious.

Intimate Insights into the Fashion World: Modelfeed

What do models actually do in their free time? Are they even real, living beings who, like us mere mortals, eat, screw and tear off their toilet paper? Modelfeed aims to get to the bottom of these irrelevant questions. It’s a collaboration between international models who use the site to share experiences, photos and videos of themselves and the outside world.

Whether feeding horses, hunting for Easter eggs or taking care of photo shoots: the camera is always there, resulting in intimate glimpses into the world of the rich, beautiful and slim. Or something like that. In any case, it’s a cute idea, and that whole heart thing really seems to be spreading around the globe. Spread the love!

Sebastien Tellier – Kilometer

Sebastien Tellier is living out my secret life dream in this hyper-erotic music video. As a slimy messiah with heaps of pretty, half-naked girls who love playing NES and constantly keep their mouths open so as not to miss any of my movable sausages covered in mustard, residing in a 1960s villa.

So come on, just admit it: that’s how everyone would like to spend their retirement. But as we all know from certain films, this way of spending your days is only one step away from total collapse, so we’d rather watch his video “Kilometer” with a sense of schadenfreude and be glad that things aren’t that shitty for us. NES-playing girls. That can’t even be real..

Scary Girl

For all the long-term unemployed and slackers, or simply for people who don’t feel like moving more than a finger in this beautiful weather, let alone working hard, I’ve got the cutest flash game ever for you: Scary Girl. In its colorful scary world you have to help a girl find the mysterious guy who is behind her strange dreams. There’s also a weird honey bunny, an octopus with a nasty mug and a hairstyle like mine, and Dr. Maybe, who lives behind the big city deep in the ocean. Makes sense, right? So just give it a try, and if you like it you can immediately blow your savings on the merchandise as well. Welcome to the free market economy.

Wildfox Couture

The stylish girls from Les Mads found these awesome images of the fresh Californian fashion label Wildfox Couture by designers Emily Faulstich and Kimberley Gordon over at Knight Cat—whose domain seems to have one ‘T’ too many, or am I crazy? They feature sexy vampires, cuddling girls in a bathtub, and overly red lips on models wearing sexy shirts.

Their multifaceted client list also looks delicious, including names like Miley Cyrus and Fergie. Jessie criticizes the fact that the provocative promo shoots distract too much from the actual products, which she doesn’t find exactly mind-blowing, but as a small-brained boy I still have to admit that I could instantly fall in love with every single one of these pictures. Hehe, sexy vampires. It doesn’t get any better than that.

Bat For Lashes – Use Somebody

The band Bat For Lashes, fronted by the charismatic Natasha Khan, makes awesome, heartfelt indie electro-pop and, not least since their mega-hit track “Daniel,” has been one of the hottest acts of the coming year. And that’s a good thing. After the remix between her and The Cure, there are now also some brilliant cover versions by Natasha, including “Use Somebody” by Kings Of Leon and “I’m On Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. Listen to it and love it.

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Sorry Darling, You Smell Like Fish

Who doesn’t know this (all virgins please wait for the next entry). You meet a cute girl at a party, you get along great, maybe you’ve even developed a little crush on her. You make out, go to Starbucks and the movies together the next day, and then head straight to the nearest bed. The blue Disney birds are chirping, clothes are flying through the room, and you can barely contain your anticipation—until you suddenly grimace and only one word shoots into your head: fish market.

Todd Strauss-Schulson tackles this issue in the funny short film “Big Pussy,” in which a poor guy has to somehow tell his beloved that not everything about her smells like roses. He seeks advice from his friends, doesn’t want to hurt her under any circumstances—and then everything turns out differently than he thinks. Totally sweet.

The Lookbook Look: Rosey Jones

The Californian website Lookbook has developed into a huge pool of chic and creative people who all have a lot to say, follow the certain flow of art, and concern themselves with the beautiful things in life. And that’s exactly why, starting now, we are continuing down the path we began with the interview with Filippa Smeds, grabbing a few interesting people from there and grilling them about God, music, fashion, and love.

Today’s candidate on our quiz show is therefore 16-year-old Rosey Jones from the Netherlands, who not only has an incredibly awesome sense of style and is blessed with sexy tattoos and piercings, but also takes great professional photos that she presents to the world on her MySpace page.

You describe yourself as a model, photographer, writer, and geek. Which of these gives you the most satisfaction?

I like the photography part the most, probably because I’ve been doing it for over three years now. Don’t get me wrong, I love all of these things – but photography (and writing) gives me the greatest opportunity to express myself. Modeling was something I thought would just be fun, although it’s becoming more serious now. But photography is definitely my passion; it has my heart.

What inspires you, where do you get your ideas for your outfits or your art, and do you have any role models?

I don’t have a specific source of inspiration. My best friend has an incredibly great style that gives me new ideas about how I can dress myself. Most of the time I just grab random clothes, and if they don’t look good together, I don’t really care, because I can learn from those “mistakes.” My role model is probably Mary Kate Olsen (how cliché), but she just has a great style.

How do you feel about the Netherlands, what kind of environment do you live in, and is your home country particularly fashion-conscious?

To be honest, I don’t like the Netherlands at all. I live in a small village where the words “style” and “fashion” are unknown, so I love traveling to big cities like Amsterdam and Utrecht, where you can find fashion-conscious people – although you still really have to search for them. It rains a lot here and it seems like people don’t really care how they look because of that, which absolutely sucks. Walking in the rain and seeing all these kids in their black jackets, pants, and shoes depresses me, I think. That really sucks.

Are you in a relationship? What kind of people are your friends?

Nope, I’m single, but my ex-boyfriend is still on my mind, and even though he’s currently dating my best friend, I just can’t get him out of my head. After the breakup I dated a few guys (and one girl), but I just can’t manage to build a relationship with someone else while he’s still haunting me.

I have a few “best friends,” three of them are girls. One is my ex-girlfriend, another is currently messing around with my ex-boyfriend, and the third I’ve known for over two years, and a few weeks ago we spoke again for the first time after more than five months of silence. Neither of us has any idea why we had nothing to do with each other anymore – we were probably both just too busy.

Those three girls are the only ones I trust completely. Honestly, I don’t particularly like having girls as friends. Nowadays they turn everything into drama, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s pointless arguments. Get a grip. So 90% of my friends are guys – and I love it. Just hanging out, enjoying the sun and smoking a cigarette while we talk about girls – that’s how it should be.

You have piercings and tattoos. Where do you have them and what do they say about you as a person?

Yes, I do. I once had nine piercings in my face, but I had to take them out in January because of a modeling job. I’m often asked whether I got tired of people constantly staring at me, but honestly, I didn’t. The piercings were just another way of expressing myself. Since then I only have two piercings left, because my work as a model simply comes before the piercings, and I’m fine with that. But I still have a smiley that you can’t see, and one under my lip, which is just a small silver stud.

I also have two tattoos, and I love them more than anything. I have the words “Stay True” on my wrist, because I believe everyone should stay true to themselves, and I got it done at exactly the right time, because after years of torment I was finally able to leave behind a part of myself that only did what others expected of it.

I had that done in October 2008, and a few months later I wanted another one, this time something you couldn’t see right away. I had already decided to get the word “Proud” tattooed somewhere – so I decided to have it done inside my lip, because you somehow “speak” proud. Why did I choose that word? Because my ex-boyfriend once told me I had too much pride, and I thought that was something good instead of something bad. Just a different perspective, I guess.

Do you like watching TV? What kinds of films and music do you like and which magazines do you read?

I don’t really watch films very often; somehow I don’t have the time for that. The same goes for magazines – I only read books. You know, all those smart-ass books. About psychology and all that stuff. It makes me feel like a nerd, but I love it.

Let’s talk about music. I’m totally into acoustic music. City and Colour (with Dallas Green) is my favorite band so far. I wake up with them and fall asleep with them. Fantastic. I also go to a lot of metal and hardcore concerts, and even though I’ll probably go deaf from it at some point, most of the lyrics from those kinds of bands somehow amaze me. The energy they put into their shows just makes me feel alive.

What are the best websites for fashion and lifestyle in your opinion?

Honestly, I have no idea. I’m not really at home on those kinds of websites. I think style is something you just have to have. You can buy fashion, but you need the right style to make it look good.

What do you think will be the upcoming fashion trends this year, or do you not care and just wear whatever you want?

I don’t really care about upcoming trends. I wear whatever I feel like anyway. But I think skinny jeans won’t disappear, even though they’re trying to push flared pants as the next fashion trend, which also applies to the huge sunglasses that I love and small white dresses. But I’m not sure – that’s just what I think.

What are your goals for the future?

I want to shoot photos of lots of bands, and even though I’ve been photographing bands for years now, I would love to get bigger by taking promo pictures for more well-known bands and not just small, local live acts. And I will definitely achieve my goal. And I want to take more photos of models, maybe for clothing labels, and believe me – one day you’ll see my pictures on more websites and in magazines, and you’ll remember my name!

Thank you for this great interview. You can find more photos of Rosey Jones on her DeviantArt page.

Jonathan Leder

That women, alongside the African long-tailed swallow, count among the most beautiful creatures on this earth—we’ve known that for a long time. And although the prettiest models among them look even better on gigantic billboards and filtered and retouched with Photoshop, that’s true as well. But true beauty, a touch of realism and magic, only really comes into its own on the coolest analog photographic medium—Polaroids.

Jonathan Leder, a photographer born and raised in the Big Apple, creates really wonderful works of really wonderful women by capturing them on Polaroids, 6 x 6, and 35mm film, immersing them in super-beautiful color tones. I’d gladly show him my breasts voluntarily too—if I had any—and aside from that, Jonathan probably has the cutest self-portrait ever on his bio page.

Across The City #1

Berlin is sooooo damn huuuuge and we’re constantly taking all sorts of stupid photos that will never end up in their own post, so I’ve now decided to steal the Drive-By idea from LastNightsParty in order not to withhold these often unique pieces from you. And as Merlin Bronques so beautifully puts it: “The Drive-By Series is the random stuff that happens between the parties.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Of course I didn’t call the whole thing the same (otherwise I’d be totaaaally uncreative), and yesterday while watching GameOne (show not related), while devouring Grandma’s delicious Easter lamb and enjoying a cold Beck’s with it, a tremendously bad title occurred to me under which the remaining stock of our photos will now be collected and published irregularly: “Across The City.” Wow, I’m a genius. You can find the first part here, and Hannah and her friend Kristin are taking so many photos of themselves and the manga cuties in Tokyo that they’ll surely take over an episode or two as well. Awesome, right.

Gossip Girl

So, next Saturday afternoon the time has finally come. For the girls (and a few strange guys, myself included), after "The O.C." and the "Gilmore Girls," a new era of American soap operas begins. In addition to the spin-offs of "Beverly Hills 90210" and "Melrose Place," the series so adored by Americans, "Gossip Girl," will also celebrate its German premiere.

The Waffles Girls write about nothing else; the music, the clothes, and the story of an elite New York clique—whose rumors, party excesses, and love affairs are chronicled by an anonymous blogger—have swept America into a new fashion wave that will arrive in Germany on April 18 at 4:00 p.m. on ProSieben. We can be curious.

Hrystia Kaminska

Since I work in a fast-paced industry where standing out is everything, feelings are best hammered into people’s heads with a sledgehammer, and even AMY&PINK is anything but a wallflower when it comes to choice of words and appearance, I love all the more the quiet things in life that come along with a small melody, delicate colors, or a tiny barely recognizable story.

The 18-year-old Kosmodisk, aka Hrystia Kaminska from Ukraine, creates with her soft photographs exactly that feeling in me that is best compared to an unexpected summer rain. And before I drift even further into kitsch, you’d better take a look at her photos. Summer rain… the kitsch is really starting to get out of hand here, I think we need big tits and penises again. Hell yes.

My Personal Keira Knightley Memorial Evening

Since I spent the entire day today dealing with special films and didn’t feel like throwing myself into Berlin’s crazy nightlife, I made myself comfortable on the couch with Keira and watched two great film adaptations of novels by Joe Wright.

First up was the fantastic "Atonement," which is set during the Second World War in England and in which little Briony destroys the lives of her sister and her lover through a lie. And the ending is so surprising, overwhelming, and simply incredible that I really get teary-eyed every single time.

After that I was so Keira-crazy that I immediately watched the beautiful "Pride & Prejudice" by Jane Austen, which just happened to be on VOX afterward, in which Keira plays a headstrong girl at the end of the 18th century who wants nothing to do with her mother’s obsession with marriage and then falls for the unbelievably arrogant and proud Mr. Darcy (looks and is called something like me, haha).

And anyone who actually believes, in some absurd delusion, that I’m satisfied after all that is gravely mistaken. Because now my cute little Keira and I will move from the couch to the bed. Yes, you may be deeply jealous. Wish me luck! With whatever.

The AMY&PINK Song

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As you of course know, a few days ago we asked you to come up with something really amaaaazing in order to be among the three (or five) lucky ones who would receive a personal, handwritten postcard from the megametropolis of Tokyo, kissed to sleep by Hannah.

But what Anna from Svantespeak conjured up is truly incredible. She posted a song about us on YouTube, and it knocked our socks off so much that not only is a card from Crazy Japan guaranteed for you, but from now on the song is officially the AMY&PINK song. How awesome is that? Now we’re curious to see whether anyone dares to top it. And… is that even possible?!

The Best Japanese Films of All Time – Part 1

While Hannah Montana spent her first night in Tokyo, on this sunny day I tidied up my place a bit and at the same time sneezed my soul out of my body. Why? Because it’s fun—quite simply. In the process I came across my seemingly endless library of cinematic masterpieces ever made by the Japanese. And the fact that cinema in the Land of the Rising Sun offers far more than just anime, horror, and porn films is shown by my list, dripping from me, of the best Japanese films of all time. Although of course I won’t do without the porn—I’m not stupid!

And since we’re already in a summer-sunshine mood, I’ll begin my little journey through the art of Japanese film with "Kikujiro’s Summer," which I saw for the first time on Arte and which tells the story of the small journey of a lonely boy together with a good-for-nothing (Takeshi Kitano from "Takeshi’s Castle" and so on). Sweet, calm film that somehow simply makes you happy.

Next comes something a bit harder, again with Mr. Kitano (and I think he’ll show up again later, as long as I stick to the list in my head). "Battle Royale." A school class wakes up on an island sealed off by the military and has to kill each other with Uzi, hammer, and frying pan. I worshipped the film so much back then, for the simple reason that its psychological magnitude just wouldn’t fit into my head and to this day I still ask myself the one true question: What would you do?

And to quickly escape that ever-recurring question in life, now something funny. "Kamikaze Girls" is a film about the friendship of two girls who couldn’t be more different. One the embodiment of the fashion-doll Lolita world, the other the tough, unpredictable member of a motorcycle gang. Hilarious film.

In contrast, "Nobody Knows" is again a calm, almost sad film that revolves around four siblings in Tokyo who one day are abandoned by their mother, who herself never managed to grow up, and since then are left to fend for themselves in the big city. Quiet and thought-provoking.

A special prize in the category “Most Ridiculous Japanese Anti-Bush Sex Film” clearly goes to "The Glamorous Life Of Sachiko Hanai," whose lead actress is a porn performer who becomes omniscient after being shot in the head, finds George W. Bush’s finger, and sleeps with everyone who crosses her path. What more could you possibly need in a good film?

And tomorrow we’ll continue, among other things, with the “best non-Japanese Japanese film of all time.” I wonder which one that is… Stay tuned! And if you have your own suggestions and know famous or forgotten gems of Japanese cinema, bring them on.

Aggro Berlin Is Dead

Yes, it’s official, as Farbwolke also writes: The Atzen are out of the picture. After more than 9 years, the German hip-hop veterans Sido & Co. are saying goodbye, farewell, and see you again, and are leaving the show business with “Ansage 8.” The reasons aren’t entirely clear to me, because 1. I didn’t think the new record was that bad and 2. Fler’s exit from Südberlin-Maskulin surely didn’t leave that big a hole in the Aggro family.

With that, AMY&PINK bids farewell to probably the best and most controversial hip-hop club in the republic and wishes the Berliners continued success in the scene, after all one or another of them will probably carry on. Maybe this is all just a belated April Fool’s joke and we’ll now go watch the cutie in the Aggro Party Bus again. Or maybe not, because YouTube has no sympathy for the departing crew. Move your ass!

Hannah Live from Setagaya

At the moment, Japan isn’t exactly living up to its reputation as a highly technological and progressive country—at least not in Hannah’s eyes. On her first day in the Land of the Rising Sun, she’s already had to deal with all sorts of problems, has hacked into the open Wi-Fi of an unsuspecting fellow countryman, and is now sleeping on the floor, Japanese-style. With constant technical interruptions, she reported her misery to me in ticker form. Now it’s time: comfort Hannah and give her lots of encouragement!

"The internet barely works at all. I’m using some Japanese guy’s internet because he has an unsecured network. Everything here is just a matter of time. So I’ve been awake for 30 hours now, maybe slept two hours, and I’m pissed off beyond belief. We don’t have any beds in our apartment. Apparently—APPARENTLY—that’s Japanese. We’re sleeping on the floor. We bought bedding first thing and complained to Sakura because the bedding is so disgusting. I bought myself a blanket and a fresh sheet and I’m going to cover the ‘mattress,’ which actually isn’t even a real mattress.

It’s super cramped here, but the city is great. Everyone walks around wearing surgical masks and I’m the only blonde. I think it’s going to be five long weeks. If you ask someone on the street where something is, they just walk right past you. But if you ask in a store, they’re totally friendly and happy to help. You don’t need English here—hardly anyone can speak it anyway.

The scenery is beautiful, cherry blossoms are blooming, the flight was exhausting. I haven’t slept since the moment I left. I don’t even remember what sleeping feels like, and then on the floor… You arrive, just want to lie down, and first you have to walk all through Setagaya to find bedding because everything is so disgusting.

Then we spent another two hours looking for a store where you can buy a hairdryer. Man, I’m just completely done right now. Otherwise it’s actually pretty cool. But five weeks are probably going to feel long. And I can’t even upload photos here, which is probably because of the slow internet.

The apartment here is so tiny and from the outside it looks like a client could come up to us at any minute. Like in a horror movie. Or we’re the prostitutes. But Tokyo is really beautiful and cool. It looks like America, just the writing is Japanese. And at every traffic light that turns green or in the subway, there’s this little chirping bird melody playing.

The city feels cozy somehow. Only people in suits walk around here and a few flamboyant types, but even they wear muted colors. All the men here carry handbags, and when we arrived at the airport I saw Uri Geller. Uri Geller! I was almost standing right behind him at the immigration counter. Crazy, right?

And now I just want to sleep. I have to figure out how to arrange my mattress so I can sleep on it without dying, and after 30 hours without sleep I guess I’m allowed to sleep. Do you even know how shitty you feel? So I’m going to sleep now, it’s 8 p.m. here. Good night."

Sonny Moore – Mora

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If I listen to a song more than five times in a row and I find the video on Vimeo, then it gets posted. Sometimes life is that simple. And with some examples, everything is just right: the sound, the design and… well, the guy himself looks a bit like Antony from Antony and the Johnsons in his younger years—on crack.

Sonny Moore is the name of this squeaky-cheerful little party freak from Los Angeles, and I feel like a second-rate radio host introducing him like that. His track “Mora,” which can be found on his record “Gypsyhook” (the title track, which has the same name, is awesome as well, by the way), is already a strong contender for a spot on my iPod. But only if it doesn’t seriously get on my nerves after the tenth listen.

Poor and Embarrassing?

Anyone who features us so awesomely and with such a delightful point of view simply has to be mentioned here as well. Malte Christensen, a freelance designer from Berlin who has also worked at aperto, thinks we are, ahem – and I quote – “simply AWESOME,” even though we are unfortunately not the “budget brand of a supermarket chain.” We are “super authentic” and “take a stand on trashy or borderline topics.” Hehe, I love it when someone spreads honey around our mouths. Or was it around our bellies? Whatever.

In any case, we thank the colorful head for his hymn of praise about us, briefly send all our haters over to him to bash us a little in his comments for fun, and while reading the text two thoughts immediately came to mind. First, that I wanted to go play badminton with Malte, and second, that we’ve been neglecting sex a little around here. Where did the SuicideGirl of the week actually go? I’ll go look for her, and until then all that remains for me to say is: We love you too, Malte.

Summer, Sun, Sunshine

No matter how gay this may sound: over the past few days Berlin has repeatedly been bathed in a shimmering light of spring. The sun is simply awesome, refreshing, antidepressant. Leaving the window open at night, grilling in the garden with friends in the evening, strolling through the streets of Berlin with a cold bottle of Beck’s and watching thin girls in even thinner skirts licking ice cream. That’s just living.

And so now let’s just forget that today, at the Türkaliener, confused, wet drops fell from the sky and hope—no, pray—that it stays hot, hot, hot over the holidays. Because I really need this mini vacation. Seriously now. Hands in your lap, face down, and now we pray (or hum “You’re as hot as a volcano”)..

Mono – Follow The Map

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I’m a huge fan of Japanese soundtracks. Whether it’s Joe Hisaishi, who, among other things, pulled his orchestra out of the closet for the anime “Spirited Away” and “Princess Mononoke,” the divine Yoko Kanno, who is considered an instrumental superstar in the land of the rising sun and whose musical score for “Arjuna” together with Maaya Sakamoto I’ve been listening to again and again for years and which has a permanent place on my iPod, or the old master Yasunori Mitsuda, who was responsible, for example, for the “Chrono Trigger” soundtrack and who is still regarded by fans of the genre as a milestone of everything and anything. It’s simply the best music for switching off or quietly being creative.

Mono is a Japanese post-rock band from Tokyo who released their fifth album, “Hymn To The Immortal Wind,” last month, which is also doing pretty well in the US. When you listen to it, you can only sit there in silence and not even remotely be aware of what’s actually happening around you—it’s that grippingly beautiful.

Knaack Action

Honestly, I can’t remember too many details from Saturday night. Only dark shadows with hazy outlines climbed up my memories, and when I looked at the photos the next morning I really had to think for a moment about whether my long-lost twin brother had experienced all of that. Strange people on the tram, adventures in the middle of Berlin—I didn’t even know that I had actually made it to Knaack. Only a crumpled ticket confirmed it for me.

But in fact it’s simply true: the less I remember about an evening at all, the better it probably was. Although when I’m drunk I apparently become a constantly laughing pain in the ass, as the videos show, which I’ll spare you out of respect for a minimum level of decency here—and for your perception. There are still a couple of photos to see, right here, and now let’s all hope that on my next visit to Knaack I might actually remember a bit more than just that I rambled on to the bouncer. But he simply had to get used to that, after all I did it to everyone who crossed my path. Compared to that, the confused old man on the tram who kept mumbling to himself was a joke.

The Bloody Beetroots feat. Steve Aoki – Warp

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Okay, the holiday weekend is already over as quickly as it came, but you can at least start preparing mentally for the next tour. And since you all know that I’m a huge Steve Aoki fan, and for me he’s the only one far and wide who is allowed to bring club music to my delicate little ears in this disgusting swamp of cheap Kosmos doodling, I’ll quickly introduce you to his collaboration with the Bloody Beetroots.

“Warp” is the name of the song with, without a doubt, the coolest music video of the year so far, in which stylish people smash cool-looking alarm clocks (I wanted that one!), violate the anti-mask law, and train their leg muscles by jumping around like crazy. So what on earth are you waiting for? Turn it on and start jumping along!

A Little Trip Back in Time

Okay, if I have to write another relaunch text today, I’m going to shoot someone. But let’s review the past week. You have to know: I get bored of things pretty quickly. Whether it’s girls, music, or flavors of ice cream. No matter how great they are, after a certain amount of time I can’t stand the sight of them anymore. That’s how I felt about the old—and now once again new—style of AMY&PINK.

It became too impersonal for me, so the logical conclusion was: it needs more soul again. And how do you do that? Exactly: with more profound texts and a design that frames the whole thing nicely. That’s how the notepad layout came about. Some liked it, others didn’t, and someone even thought it was an April Fool’s joke. I liked it because I enjoy trying new things and it was simply something different, but after a few days I realized: it somehow doesn’t really suit us.

On a stormy night like tonight, I then designed a new layout that looked super good both in my head and in Photoshop, which might also have been due to my elevated blood alcohol level. I published it—and you hated it.

That means I managed to mess up two designs in one week, both of which diminished the charm and sustainability of AMY&PINK. If I were the head of the railway company, I would probably be announcing my resignation now. And that’s why you’re seeing the only right decision here and now: we’re traveling back in time—exactly one week.

As you can see, the old and beloved AMY&PINK is back online. A few features are still missing because I sometimes like to delete things without thinking much about it, but overall everything is as it was seven days ago. The left-hand column will also be packed full again. So let’s just say Lil’ Amy was in rehab and is now fully back on track after being released. Only one thing will still change here: we will once again be stuffing more personal content in here—of course in a good balance with all the style stuff. And to finally distract from this whole embarrassing story: Marten has stopped blogging! That should keep you busy for a while. I’ll just stroll off whistling.

Productive Under the Influence of Alcohol

After our last design, which—worth mentioning—wasn’t even online for a week, split the nation (opinions ranged from love to brand rape to a possible April Fool’s joke), I cobbled together a new layout for our Lil’ Amy last night after a trip to the Knaack, which I can only remember in fragments. Totally drunk, of course. It should now be worthy of her again.

What inspired me was half a pack of aspirin, a Turkish pizza that I had no idea where I got it from but carried with me the entire way home without ever once considering the absurd idea of actually eating it, and a divine page from Computer Arts that lay open in front of me on the floor, which was cluttered with clothes.

By the way, the photo has absolutely nothing to do with me; it’s from Cobrasnake and served as my visual template throughout the entire design process, which is why I didn’t want to withhold it from you. I don’t really want to say much about the layout itself because I can’t be bothered and instead have an even worse headache, and I’m not even finished yet. Among other things, I still have to adjust the subpages and the comments, but for now I’m hungry and going to make myself some delicious mini schnitzels with potato salad. Greasy food against a hangover.

Kerli – Walking On Air

I have the bitter impression that MTV only ever plays awesome music videos when I come home drunk at night and switch on the TV to unwind. Then I sit there under hyperactive influence and watch, for example, the song by Kerli, "Walking On Air," flicker across the screen.

And I immediately fell in love with the song, the album, and with Kerli as a whole, and wondered why she hasn’t become big here yet, even though she’s doing really well in the US and Australia and was even in the charts in Switzerland. Hello Germany, wake up and love the little Estonian girl!

Lisa Solberg

When it comes to other people, there is nothing I appreciate more than when they express their creativity and personality in some way that inspires me. Whether it’s in photography, the art of painting, shooting small cinematic masterpieces, writing texts, or in variations the world has never seen before.

Lisa Solberg is an artist from Los Angeles who is sponsored by Element Eden and featured in Cooler Mag, and she conjures up wonderful paintings on canvas detached from mainstream conventions or boundaries. She also has a really distinctive voice and lives in a huge loft that exists solely for the purpose of creating art. And I’ve never been able to resist huge, empty lofts with that special touch of magic anyway. So, who’s going to buy me this painting of hers? It’s painted, among other things, with champagne. Champagne!

Die Mensa

I never imagined student life to be particularly glamorous, but exciting, thrilling, and somehow left-wing. Constantly broke, hanging around the city, drinking away worries about the future at wild private parties, and always wearing the same clothes because you can’t afford your own washing machine and the walk to the nearest laundromat feels longer with every thought than it actually is.

Okay, somewhere in that vision I slipped into my own life, but yesterday I got to experience a touch of legendary student life firsthand—we went to eat at the cafeteria of the Charité. “Wow, how insanely exciting,” the Bennos among you might be thinking, but for me it was actually something special. Even though the food was damn expensive, the seating area hopelessly overcrowded, and Basti kept rambling the whole time about rotten, unshaven riffraff and whales falling from the sky.

At least I kept a grand souvenir from lunch: a cafeteria card with 17 cents on it. I’m happy. And maybe it was simply the spring-like weather and the beautiful lawn full of unshaven female students that made me find the place and everything bustling around on it quite exciting, and I would have liked to know the story behind some of the many faces. But they’re probably just constantly broke too, drinking at private parties and always running around in the same clothes. Amen.

Bedeutungslosigkeit der Sternstunden

Today I actually bought a book. Rocko Schamoni. Sternstunden der Bedeutungslosigkeit (Peak Moments of Meaninglessness). Against the quarter-life crisis—or for it, depending. Recommended by Pausmann, even though he’s still too young for it. That was shortly after I looked deeply into Gülcan’s eyes while a piece of metal was being driven through her ear, and after I almost stupidly ran into the arms of my ex-girlfriend as we were getting out of the elevator after handing in our intermediate media design exam. A brief smile at her best friend, then that moment of horror was over too. But it looks good. The piercing. It sparkles so nicely.

And as I flip through the first pages of the Schamoni novel on the subway and some Reinickendorf yob criticizes my Chucks, I do find some pleasure in the chaotic yet unremarkable life of Michael Sonntag and his friends, and yet for quite some time now I haven’t really been able to immerse myself in such stories, because while reading, a feeling of disappointment keeps spreading inside me—why do so many good authors have to hide behind pseudo-characters so close to their own identities?

Rocko writes neither as poetically light as Haruki Murakami, nor in that visionary, inspiring way like Mian Mian; he simply writes. In the now and honestly, just the way one speaks. And yet: Why does this Sonntag even exist? Why can’t Rocko Schamoni just write a book in which he admits that he has a crush on his neighbor? That he had a hard time getting over his lost love? And that he has terrible bad breath?

The same goes for all those Charlotte Roches and Rebecca Martins out there. Just admit that you’re into anal sex and Avril Lavigne. That you like jumping into bed with guys who won’t even look at you again afterward. Or vice versa. And that you pick your nose and occasionally like making out with girls. Come on, just admit it! Okay, I’ll gladly start if you don’t dare. My name is Marcel Winatschek. I’m into Avril Lavigne, I stick my finger in my nose, and I like making out with girls. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? And now you. As for the anal sex, though, we’ll have to talk about that again...

Seelenlos

I have to admit that lately I’ve personally lost the fun in Amy & Pink. Degenerated into a soulless list of links and commercialized by an unstoppable flood of finds from the web—completely without charm and personality. Unfortunately, the depth has fallen by the wayside—as some of you had predicted. And that’s why it was time to pull the emergency brake.

I don’t want to regret anything here; the path was the right one and it was quite fun trying out something new. Hannah and I learned a lot through the blogazine experiment, got to meet new people, and developed further in many ways. But now it’s time to breathe more soul back into this blog, and we have what it takes—you know that.

As of today, Amy & Pink is our shared digital notebook, into which we can write the things that move us, that we can take a lot from into our own lives, and that we would like to share with you. The design is meant to reflect this step back to the roots while at the same time looking toward a great future. We’re happy that you’re taking part in it and wish you continued enjoyment.

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La mort.

So what else? Must. There are times when I quite literally despair at life, at love, at the future of existence. In those moments I neither know how things will continue nor where they are heading. Weeks of uncertainty then drag me into a deep black hole I never wanted to be in and yet in which it feels so bittersweetly good. Then I can really deliciously write my suffering, my pain off my soul and watch, as I publish it, how it drifts away.

The other side of the coin is floating on cloud nine. Because of a girl, a career, or simply because it’s a sunny, fresh day. Then I love life with all its quirky creatures upon it and sing hymns to the sun, to love, and to freedom. What feelings—great they are, intense they are.

At the moment I’m standing on neither side. Neither are whistling blue Disney birds flying around me when I leave the house, nor do I feel like bursting into loud tears at any second. I’m just living along. Without particular highs or lows, without the feeling of a special tingling. I go about my job, laugh at parties, make out with girls, and listen to music. It’s like the thousandth rerun of a magnificent film that you once loved above all else. But now I just know it inside out.

No matter how great and exciting my life may be—the routine has spread out. The very thing I feared like nothing else as a child and against which I swore a blood oath with my friends has now become reality. And now it doesn’t even feel that bad. As if I had given up a long-fought battle and surrendered to the bittersweet defeat, laid down on the bow and stared into the sky until someone finally strikes. The living death has befallen me. I am a zombie.

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V V Brown – Crying Blood

Okay, shit, it’s official: I can’t get this song by V V Brown called "Crying Blood" out of my head anymore. It’s just… too… pounding… this 50s-on-The Ting Tings-style melody / voice / music. It’s inside me and won’t come out again and now I’m going to do the same to you. Come on, click on the video. Boom, boom boom… hehe. Now you’re infected too. Lock ’n’ Loll!

Joanna Kustra – Paintings

Once again you can see what people are able to tease out of the combination of photography and Photoshop. These images by Joanna Kustra look like art from the 18th century come true and immediately carry my thoughts off into enchanted worlds like “Pride & Prejudice” and “The Duchess.” That makes me think again of the beautiful language of that time. Maybe I’ll write a post in that style sometime. And heaven help you if you all run away then.

Vanity Teen Magazine – Issue 1

The first issue of the free PDF fashion magazine Vanity Teen has now been released and impresses with a modern, inspiring style and refreshing photos. The premiere issue features, among others, works by Marley Kate, Ryan Aylsworth, and Karl Rothenberger, and there’s also plenty to see in this mag for the women of creation. Have fun checking it out.

New Look

New Look is a fresh electro-soul band from Brooklyn that actually hails from Toronto and used to be called “Jungletalk” a few years ago—but who cares about that today. I got to know them through an interview in Cooler Mag and a story in Dazed & Confused Magazine, and Sarah and Adam make really beautifully chilled music that’s perfect for simply living into the day or working. Unfortunately the two still haven’t found shelter with a proper label (their collaboration with an indie record company fell through), but that has the advantage that they offer their songs for free download. And that’s a nice thing indeed.

Trippple Nippples

Arte really is such an awesome TV channel. First there was a film about the dark nightlife of Berlin and now on “Tracks” an absolutely amazing insight into the insider tips of Tokyo’s party and fashion metropolis, which featured, among others, the Trippple Nippples, ultra-secret fashion shops, and a drag queen who lives together with 17 tarantulas and 340 wigs. You can watch the episode for free on Arte+7 for one week starting now. The Tokyo segment comes somewhere in the middle, but the whole episode is worth seeing. Don’t miss it under any circumstances!

Kate Moss – God Save The Queen

You can say whatever you want about Kate Moss. That she’s a small, coke-fueled diva who likes to harass girls in the bathroom, that she has breasts like a grandma, or that her ex-boyfriend Pete Doherty, dissolving in lovesickness, makes her life a living hell. But if you (generously) look past this façade of drugs, excesses, and soap-opera drama, the 35-year-old is and remains one of the most exciting women of our time.

She proved that, for example, in 2002 during the Craig McDean shoot for i-D Magazine, which was entirely under the motto “God Save The Queen” and resulted in some truly amazing photographs. Or maybe I just have a thing for little troublemakers. Despite the sagging boobs.

War of the Cuddly Toys

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Okay, after the cult film “Battle Royale,” in which beloved classmates slaughter each other and schoolgirls pee on one another (link removed for the Pope), I’m already used to quite a lot from the Japanese with their perpetual grins. But this time they’ve really outdone themselves. In the truest sense of the word.

With “Cat Shit One,” a computer-animated film is set to hit theaters in the Land of the Rising Sun in early 2010, in which cute cuddly toys shoot each other in Iran (or Iraq, no idea), carry out terrorist attacks, and gun down little rabbits. It leaves you speechless. And don’t anyone start again with killer video games. Compared to this, they’re a joke.

ProSieben Redesign

As a small-time media designer, I’m of course really looking forward to the new on-air design of ProSieben, which is set to launch on Sunday at 8:13 p.m., just before the free-TV premiere of “Pirates of the Caribbean 2,” with a new image trailer supported by the Pussycat Dolls under the motto “E-Motion.” It’s supposed to be silver and, naturally, more modern, cleaner, and functional across platforms. Let’s see whether that works and whether they can really boast about being the “Apple among TV channels.” We’ll know the day after tomorrow.

Kanye West, Santigold and Lykke Li – Gifted

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Finally, there’s now a video for the awesome track “Gifted” by Kanye West, Santigold, and Lykke Li, which Jessie from Les Mads posted. An absolute killer track that unfortunately is now making the rounds with a rather meaningless comic-style video. I would have preferred a proper storyline with the three of them, but you can’t have everything. Watch it before YouTube deletes it again.

Caroline Winberg

For me personally, the Swedes are among the most beautiful people on this planet. Often blessed with straw-blonde hair, cute freckles, and natural charisma, they have not only turned the music world upside down for decades but also feel right at home in the international fashion world. Supermodel Caroline Winberg belongs to this category, and I’d love to immediately father lots of little Marcels with her so they’d all be born with that radiant smile. If you can’t quite follow my reproductive urge in this regard, you should check out these amazing photos—any doubts will vanish on their own.

FFFFOUND!

Our FFFFOUND! finds of the day, this time featuring enchanting girls from Magic Magic Magic, intimate glimpses into the private life of Swede Emma Arvida Elisabeth Byström, brilliant works by photographer Marcio Simnch, and sexy shots of top model Cintia Dicker. All that and more can be found in our little FFFFOUND! collection corner.

Vice Fashion Issue 2009

Once again this year, my love-hate Vice Magazine has released a Fashion Issue, featuring sexy photo spreads such as chicks in bikinis, fashion witches, the wonderful Amy Wesson, and a naked “Hugo” who looks like Lil’ Amy. And she’s the hottest anyway. They also compare fashion in Berlin and London. Fashion rulez.

Where The Wild Things Are – Trailer

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I have to admit that I’ve never read the book "Where the Wild Things Are" by Maurice Sendak (and by that I don’t mean the pseudo-homosexual soccer players from the woods), nor was it ever read to me (tough childhood and all ;), but the trailer looks really great and especially the head-people from the USA are totally thrilled and are already insanely excited about the movie. Me too.

So That Was the Intermediate Examination

The word that has been robbing us of sleep for days, if not weeks, is finally behind us now. At least the theoretical part. The two-part examination took place quite nicely at the Berlin Fashion Center under the supervision of constantly circling IHK employees who somehow reminded me of those Dementors from "Harry Potter," and it went surprisingly well. At any rate, I wrote something meaningful everywhere and didn’t have a blackout either – two things that are definitely something to show for. Now I’m going to eat some fries and recover, and then it’s straight on to the practical exam – creating a homepage for some kind of museum. I’m looking forward to it. Not.

Happy Birthday Keira Knightley

May she liiiive, may she liiiive, three tiiimes three cheers! So guess who has a birthday today – you’ll never guess. Okay, the headline and the photo didn’t exactly make it difficult, but still I hereby proclaim with profound admiration: my epic cutie Keira Knightley turns 24 today! Yes, that’s how fast it goes. And if you’re not already hopelessly in love with her (like I am), you can either fall for her right now at the cinema or be convinced of her super-hotness because of her upcoming short film. And woe betide anyone who says anorexia now.

Super Mario In The Big City

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What, are we degenerating into a cheap video blog? Nonsense, who would even say such a thing? Unfortunately this one here is also too awesome to leave unknown, and since I’m currently on a video game nostalgia trip anyway, today there’s a little journey of our favorite chubby plumber who suddenly finds himself in the big city after entering a warp zone and doesn’t handle it well at all. And what would such an appearance be without a huge boom at the end. Funny.

Superpowerless – Wasted My Time

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Okay, this video just aired in full length as a commercial clip on MTV and now we’re asking ourselves on Twitter how viral this Vodafone clip really is, because the band Superpowerless actually seems to exist. Or is it just a marketing gimmick that wouldn’t exist at all without the big network provider? I have no idea – if anyone knows anything, please say something. A little hint with a fence post to all former Mannesmann employees.

I’m Studying!

Well I’ll be damned, I’m sitting at the agency right now actually studying for the intermediate exam coming up on Thursday, the big mid-way hurdle to finally rise to the lofty rank of master media designer. Surrounded by masses of coffee, mock exams and this huge summary, I’m trying to cram tons of more or less interesting material into my little head, and Jenny and Angeli are no different. Good luck to all fellow sufferers, and maybe we’ll run into each other on Thursday. Wish me success!

Scott Matthew – White Horse

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The German language lacks words that go beyond love, adoration, and absolute worship. Scott Matthew is as unknown as he is brilliant and yeah yeah I know, posting two videos in a row is lame, but his new song "White Horse" is simply too bombastic to withhold from the world. And it’ll bring tears to your eyes, too. So turn everything off around you, crank the speakers up to full volume, and surrender to this beautiful moment. A masterpiece.

Lily Allen – Not Fair

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I have no idea why Lily Allen chose this song as her second single from the album "It's Not Me, It's You," after all, with "Everyone's At It" and "I Could Say" there are, in my opinion, much better candidates for that spot. But as usual Lily is good for surprises and presents herself in "Not Fair" in an old country style with awesome clothes and an even better hairstyle. I’m curious to see how well it will be received.

Studying in the Far East

Ha, how awesome — I’m proud as hell to present to you the latest online project from our agency aperto. Studying in the Far East is meant to introduce prospective students to the advantages of universities in East Germany. Doesn’t sound all that thrilling at first, but the execution, the ideas, and especially the lucrative film trailer with our showcase couple Gang & Dong are simply too good. Click it and like it!

Karate Kid

Man, I just love this movie. Daniel, Mr. Miyagi, small board, right hand... big board, left hand... “Karate Kid” was one of THE movies of our childhood — the story of the little boy who, with the help of his new sensei, fights his way through tough battles, love, and the wonderful art of painting fences. And yes, I even liked the fourth part with the girl. The only frightening thing is how current the fashion and music in the film still feel — and no wonder Natasha Khan dedicated her new single to this great movie. Mr. Miyagi forever!

Ryan McGinley by The New York Times Magazine

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Good morning, world. I hope you all had an eventful, stirring weekend that brought you a little closer to the meaning of life. Mine was none of those things; instead, at the party last night I drank vodka with dish soap (Sladdi, you owe me a bottle of Absolut), witnessed a man-eating girl gang at the end of the world who were kicking each other in the crotch, and poked my ex on Facebook. And because I’m now farting soap bubbles, here’s a wonderfully relaxing video by photographer Ryan McGinley for the New York Times Magazine that instantly brightens up this dreary Sunday morning. Chill out.

Lil’ Amy’s Big Adventures – A Story to Continue Writing

Lil’ Amy had finally had enough of standing around all day as the logo of a second-rate website, grabbing herself in the crotch. At night she still dreamed enthusiastically of Hannah’s distraction post. So she grabbed her two best buddies, the know-it-all magical dildo Waldo and the permanently depressed zombie bride Mort, and moved with them into a kebab shop to fight the evil Klabautermann, whose name was not to be spoken, from there on out.

One day Waldo’s former owner Hermione Granger knocked on the door of our superheroes. “You have to help me!” she cried pleadingly. Lil’ Amy and her homies put aside the kebab sauces and listened. “The evil Klabautermann, whose name must not be spoken, has kidnapped my enchanted cat, and I can’t fall asleep without it. Please bring her back to me!” Lil’ Amy nodded. Together with Waldo and Mort she threw herself into their kebab time machine. It hummed, it hissed, time flew past them. When they came to, they opened their eyes and saw a talking mailbox. It said: “Greetings, strangers. You have arrived just in time to…”

Renata Raksha

Renata Raksha takes beautiful photos of beautiful people for beautiful clients like MTV, Disney, and Nylon Mag. That sounds more boring than it actually is, because her work bursts with creativity and imagination. Guys covered in gold glitter, girls wearing pig masks, and private glimpses into her circle of friends. That’s fun. And whoever finds a boob gets to keep it.

Shut Up!

There are moments when you just need some peace and quiet. To switch off, to relax — maybe you just want to sit back comfortably and watch a music video by your favorite band on YouTube. But YouTube is annoying: blinking banners everywhere, comments from antisocial petty criminals, and glittering call-to-action buttons to rate, embed, and click onward… who wouldn’t lose it?

Now there’s a small bookmark called Quietube to fix that. Just choose a video, click it, and all those attention-seeking distractions disappear for good. What remains is the pure video. So lean back, enjoy a cold Beck’s, and watch “We Walk” by The Ting Tings here — the way it’s supposed to be. Free and undisturbed.

The Tokyo Diaries

David Schumann experienced Japan firsthand. Flown in from Germany, the student suddenly found himself dealing with the local modeling business, the parties, the girls, and the subtly intense everyday life — and it left such a mark on him that he even wrote a book about it. “The Tokyo Diaries” is the name of his little work, which I’ll probably pick up next to read. In it, the tattooed punk rocker describes autobiographically how he is approached on the street by a Japanese photographer and soon rises to become a supermodel in the land of the rising sun — with all the highs and lows that come with it. Sounds exciting, and you can find a current interview in Jetzt.

Tourette Syndrome

Fuck seriousness — the Brazilian web design agency Gringo mixes its services with swear words from all over the world, is still looking for new flash designers, and gives its partners the chance to really let loose. Ass grenade, big pussy, grandpa stuck it in me. I didn’t quite grasp the deeper meaning after five minutes of dumb clicking around and Brazilian translations of cock and tits, but still, funny idea. We just have to make sure the Knights of Standards and Practices don’t suddenly show up…

Green Hill Zone