Ten Commandments for a Righteous Weekend
Berlin Fashion Week was happening somewhere across town—elegant people and soulless hipsters working the circuit in a building I’d never be invited to—and we were upstairs with cheap wine, a fat pizza, Ghostbusters and Misfits queued up, and the weather forecast on in the background because no one could find the remote. Then a man with a beard and no trousers kicked the door open, holding two stone tablets in his bleeding hands, and announced at full volume that he had our weekend commandments and he’d better get some of that pizza right now. Fine. Sure. Who are we to argue.
The first commandment: acquire the domain nerdcore.de on eBay and convert it into a specialist retailer for organic South African fruit. Second: board the next subway in shorts, sandals, and a vanilla ice cream cone—extra credit if your phone is playing reggae—and redistribute summer to strangers who clearly need it. Third, and this one takes actual discipline: don’t touch yourself for the entire weekend. Not once. The prophet promised a transcendent orgasm on Monday morning as compensation. He seemed genuinely certain about the math on this. Fourth: find some Furbies at the flea market and burn them in the street. This requires no further justification.
Fifth: look at Indira’s tits while the opportunity still exists. A theological point more than a commandment—an acknowledgment that all good things are finite. Sixth: lick your own armpit. Apparently a trend in Sweden. I have no idea which part of Sweden, but I’ve chosen to believe it. Seventh: acquire a plot of land well outside the city, build a proper nuclear fallout shelter, and wait for the third world war—using it for epic weekend parties in the meantime. Eighth: kidnap Lykke Li and keep her performing in the basement until the police arrive. Ninth: fuck a close friend and whisper afterward, lips still near their ear, that their mouth tasted of kebab and was as soft as warm flatbread. The specific tenderness of that image is doing something real. And tenth—plant a tree. Just the one. Surely.
The prophet took his pizza and left the way he came. We watched the rest of the weather forecast. Minus eight, no sun, all weekend. We opened another bottle.