Hitler’s Home Town

Someone is videotaping me as I write this and another guy is taking my photo with ona dem ubiquitous eine kleine silver digital cameras. The keyboard is in german, which you wouldn’t think would matter…

but it does right around Y and Z.

Fell into a press pass for ars electronica and am sipping from their big pipe in the electrolobbz… see, electrolobby. The seats in front of the 20 or so g4-pentium huminah bank are little circles on casters holding bright zellow balls, a little too small for trendy health club use. You sit on the ball and hope zour fat american ass doesn’t pop it, then start working. Everz ten or fifteen minutes, zou hear another media whore fall off of one. Zou keep working.

Inbetween the ice cave and the mammoth cave (no mammoths there, but a mammoth could fit there if it wanted), Z (not Y) wanted to visit the museum. It’s a log cabin, I say. The kind outside of Barstow that tells zou all about Trigger. Don’t you want to see things? he axes. I saw an indian family coming down the hill, the first people of color in six dazs. The oldest daughter had an open bag of potato chips. If she had been on my ice cave tour with those crinkly things I would have gone insane. Z looks at me for a little too long.

Pirate radio from 3 stations 24-7. We’re tuning in tenths to get the fm frequency (odd according to the FCC,any number whatsoever for the rest of the planet). We hear a very musical train outside and open the windows to hear it again. It’s not a train, it’s a very good sound system from the apartments across the courtyard: downtempo, sephardic tinge, ambient. I sit in the window and try to find it with binoculars. I see a woman playing dice at her kitchen table, no opponent. TV on and strobing blue. Air ready to wet. Temperature identical to that of my skin.

Z says: I think sightseeing is the cable car ride up to the top, zou think sightseeing is watching the women in the bakery prepare all those delicacies while surrounded by wasps.

Well.

That is a sight, no?

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