LOVE / WASTED YOUTH / KOWLOON

The long weekend dissolved faster than it should have. I spent most of it ricocheting around the Berlin night—Mr. Neuer Hut and a handful of others I’ve accumulated over the years, hopping between venues, at one point physically attempting to engineer a romantic situation for Anne through what I’m calling assertive matchmaking and what she’s probably calling something else entirely.

I also cried because TRL died. I know.

But the real occasion was the Scala closing party. The Scala had been a gallery-venue-something in that particular Berlin mold where you’re never entirely sure what it is or why you keep going back, and now it was finished. We’d gotten onto the guest list through Frank, which always makes a night feel slightly more legitimate than you deserve. I drank too much Black Boss—a Polish strong beer that presents itself innocently as merely a beer and then quietly removes your judgment along with your next morning. Somewhere in the former gallery space I had a long conversation with a man who was either a prophet or performing one convincingly, about the essential truths of pop culture, which I believed completely at the time. Ollio was there with his effortlessly wonderful date, and together we made what I’m generously describing as great art. At some point we crammed into a portable toilet to get our photos taken, which is an activity that seems more reasonable after three Black Boss beers than it does writing about it now.

A good send-off for a place that deserved one. I woke up the next day in a pile of small black stickers—LOVE stamped in white, then WASTED YOUTH, then KOWLOON, which I have no explanation for. If you want some I have a stack of them. Stick WASTED YOUTH on your forehead and walk outside. It’s more honest than most things you could put there.