Rubber truncheons, rubber flip-flops – Issue 549

And then this e-scooter. Out of curiosity, I once tested one of these souped-up scooters. First I felt like Jack Nicholson in “Time of Tenderness” when he, standing on the seat of his convertible, yells “Wind in his hair and steel in his pants”, and then like Ben Hur when he farting behind in his chariot It’s not just the climate that kills horses. With their weightlessness, these scooters trigger a breakneck megalomania before they are thrown into the dirt or Neckar by their easy riders.

Nothing is as tasty as great communication

As I said, to name the column of a harmless walker “On the street” seems presumptuous to me in view of the many horror images of the asphalt. You walk on, go with yourself, and that is as intimate and quiet as it is unspectacular. Not good for monkey marketing selfies that are supposed to simulate progress. I haven’t even had an accident on the street, at least not with “outside influence”, as we from the foot troops say. It can happen that the lumbar vertebrae fail, but this is only partly due to the voodoo-like disruptive force of hostile road users. That is the decay.

When I chose the title “On the Road”, I thought of being out and about unsteadily, driven by a certain curiosity. In response to the mega cool habit of only opening up all the paths in this world via the Internet and “communicating” life exclusively via apps. In such a way that the simplest organizational things take up ten times as long as an ear-to-ear dialogue. “Communicating” sounds just as dull and slimy as “delicious”, “awesome” and “exciting”. The following applies to all of these words: if you don’t say anything, you say more. The other day the selfie in the style of a pop band, which the megastars of FDP & Greens launched to the cheers of the German hit media, was completely delicious, cool and exciting. Group image with lady. The lights of marketing policy have thus set the course for progress.

I go to the train station, which is in ruins in Stuttgart, and wait for a train on the platform. Because I seem to have been standing around for a long time, a young woman comes up to me and asks breathlessly: “Are you looking for help?” Damn shit, I think, do I really look so fucked up already that total strangers worry about me? Do I look like someone from the street? Then I see the message on the woman’s shirt: “Construction site buddy”. Cool. She is a hostess in the service of the Deutsche Bahn, who posted girl scouts because in the chaos of the Stuttgart 21 construction site no one can find his street. The obstacles and detours that you have to overcome to reach a train force you to improvise. For example, I strongly recommend passengers to Munich to take the first train leg to Ulm by foot. This is much faster than finding your track in the Stuttgart train station nirvana. Until you reach your train, you are a construction site body. A Stuttgart 21 corpse.

When I tell Mrs. BB that there is no one left to help at this goddamn train station, the nurse pushes a small plastic bag into the hand of the aging street dog, as if for consolation. Printed with the Deutsche Bahn logo and this message in bold letters: “New ways in the old Bonatz building”. Very small below: “We ask for your understanding.” As soon as I’ve dissected the bag with my Swiss knife, the smell of fruit gums rises up my nose. Läcker. I look: seven rubbers shaped like a shoe. Yes, fruit gum sneakers. Exciting.

At first I don’t understand the symbolism of these mountain pines for chewing. The only one I know who ate his shoes in misery is Charlie Chaplin, the tramp. To blame was the greed for gold, now known as the concrete frenzy among property sharks. Then a light dawns on me. Devastation, injuries, all the evil ways of getting us off our feet and knocking us off our boots. Aha, I say to myself, this is the end of my street: When people once protested against the destruction of the old Bonatz building and the machinations of the real estate sharks, an army of cops beat them with rubber truncheons. Now, eleven years after Black Thursday, they are killing us with their rubber flats offensive. Please convey this warning: these things are sugared and the whips are still intact.

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