Fine tunes, damn hot coffee, psychosexual moods - Adolph Pineland

A few minutes ago FUN CLUB's mailbox almost exploded when Professor Pineland's hail of words finally met their target. Still suffering from the collateral damage the elaborate and intense piece has brought to the Fun Club Burö, we're unable to decide if we should call it an essay, a review, a novel, a manifesto, a provocation of all senses that are still doing their job, a revelation perhaps or once again just a symptom of insanity incorporated in a poem that just got out of hand - won't meet the first and only criteria for poetry: its shortness. However, we are thrilled to publish Professor Pineland's discoveries:

"I would like to present a damn fine song that marked an era and had great influence on many great musicians and groups, such as The Wolfgang Press, Nick Cave, Smoker Jesus, Lydia Lunch, The Knife, ad nauseam. But I must profit from this casual suggestion to tackle some more pressing issues, however uncomfortable they may be. I must start by means of an anecdote steering as clear as possible from dithyrambic wanderings to whatever extent possible, lest this collective journey be made unpleasant. I also want to signal how cool one very particular and unique German artist actually became.

It all happened as I woke up to an unusually chilly morning of -30, somewhat shaken from a caustic dream. I urinated in the pot and it felt good and the sound of the stream hitting the water reminded me of my youth and of the girl with the flaxen hair. After shaking off the last drops that seemed to rid me of my dream I thought of coffee and walked over to the stove. I reflected on my life as I walked by means of manly, heavy steps (although I felt lighter after having relieved myself):

"it is hard to be cutting edge for a long time, yet my blade had not yet rusted or become blunt, yet blunt was my stride."

A little maxim for us revolutionaries of indifference. The coffee was ready. I sipped my damn hot and fine coffee and walked outside. It was summer. Not. It was only summer in my head as I imagined warm furs engulfing me. Summer by furs. So it went on this morning of minus thirty in all its psychosexual glory and it was these very small bursts of thought that brought my dream back to prominent consciousness.

My dream: I had dreamt of a fighter plane that after showering the land with fire collided into a mountain of hamburger meat and bone. The pilot was propelled out of his metallic husk of death-making and lay mangled and battered at a great distance from the once killing machine, near the base of the mountain. This all occurred in an exotic land somewhere between Russia and Germany even though it was most likely all in my head. The pilot was naked yet covered in fat, and as a moderately oversized, furry bunny attempted to sodomize the unconscious soldier, his body (the pilot) burst into many little boys at the moment the bunny's paws spread the ass cheeks hoping to facilitate penetration. It became clear to me as I sipped my damn hot coffee that the man of my dream was non other than Joseph Beuys (for those of you who may have trouble following my lightning fast and ultra sharp wit: boys = Beuys. That was quite obvious a giveaway; such are the workings of the unconscious. But there are other motifs that helped my epiphany).

I realized that I was going to tread dangerous grounds but with my caffeine high and the cold low and the stiff virility of my dream I decided to march along this line of reasoning. Joseph Beuys was a cute little Nazi in the Luftwaffe until he smacked into the ground and was wrapped in fat and fur by a Tartar (to avoid confusion with the popular sauce or some shitty college teams (pre 21st century) that have nothing to do with this anecdote, I will switch to the preferred spelling: Tatar). The Tatars, especially those of the Crimean Khanate (were Beuys smacked into the ground) were known for their prowess in gardening and good looks. If in any doubt, take a look at Charlie Bronson, albeit a Lipka or Polish variation of the fine Tatar clan, which does not affect looks but gardening, which may explain the inconspicuousness of Charlie Bronson's gardening skills. Anyway, the Crimean Tatars were a kind people, yet somewhat naïve, but they also enjoyed engagement in greasy activities such as playing with grease and cheesemaking. In all good will they decided to save this badly mangled pilot and also launch his artistic career, thus killing two birds with one stone. Two things are shown by this incident. Not all Nazis were necessarily rotten to the core and were often complex human beings (albeit all guilty but they have Jesus to answer to for that), and secondly, how could a former killing machine become an art machine? Just as my damn hot coffee scalded my tongue, the shock of the crash and the grease incubation that followed knocked some sense into the fine Joseph Beuys and he left dropping bombs on people for exploding onto the art scene.

After this politically correct and academically sound assessment of this dream and its connections to life, I can move on to presenting the song I had in mind to begin with. Ronald Regan is a character all too often left out of musical adventures, and we have Mr. Beuys to thank for not omitting him from a marvelous song that has inspired and proved most influential to many musicians, and still stands as a landmark of fine music, singability and just plain old killer groovin'."