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6 entries from August 2009

Gag me

CSD ladies 2A dykely PDA at Munich Pride, 2009.

In the eighties, Melbourne actors Nick Giannopolous and Simon Palomares were fed up. 

Australian soap operas like Neighbours had taken off in the UK.   Gloomy Thatcherated Brits loved all the bright, shining, optimistic faces.   Such shows gave bread-and-butter work to many Australian actors—to some, even fame

Those bright, shining, optimistic faces were bright, shiny and very, very white.   A Sydney casting agent once described the so-called Classic Australian look to me; tall, lean, and dark-blonde, with the hint of a tan.  Think Paul Hogan, but younger.

Critics complain, even to this day.   Neighbours is set in Melbourne, the third largest Greek city  in the world.  Yet it has taken over twenty years for the first regular Greek character to appear.

Rebuffed by the establishment media, Giannopolous and Palomares made their own luck. In 1987, the pair teamed with fellow actors George Kapinaris and Mary Coustas to produce a stage show.  They called it Wogs out of Work.

The show, from a comic standpoint, shone brilliant.  The characters were fresh, outrageous, and larger-than-life. The jokes pulled no punches and respected no boundaries. 

I still recall the final sketch, in which Kapinaris and Giannopolous played immigrant women at work in a cannery.  The characters chatted as they performed their mindless tasks, speaking mostly of their children.  In the course of the conversation, it became clear that they understood almost nothing about the lives which the second generation led in the New World. 

The comics milked the material for laughs, yes, but amongst the laughter they affirmed a touching faith in the immigrant dream.  That no matter how tough your circumstance, how mindless your factory job, it's worth it if your children can live better than you do.

Stop Laughing.  It's Not Nice.

Australia's multicultural establishment was outraged.  Many harped on the fact that the show contained ethnic stereotypes. Some acknowledged that the characters "validated the experience" of immigrants, but soundly deplored those who made similar jokes without the pedigree for it.  

The multiculturalists saved their worst scorn for a very, very white comedian named Mark Mitchell*.  A little after the Wogs, he created a character known as Con the Fruiterer, a Greek greengrocer who milked laughs from malapropisms and a cheerful disregard for the rules of business. 

Critics in mainstream academia argued that such characters are "...made harmless by stupidity, which renders harmless the threat to Anglo-Australian hegemony represented by non-Anglo migrant cultures." (my emphasis)

Amid barbs from the chattering classes, a curious thing happened. 

Over a million people saw Wogs out of Work on stage. It spawned two sitcom spin-offs: an ensemble piece called Acropolis Now, and a star vehicle for Mary Coustas, called Effie.  Real Greek greengrocers named Constantine stuck pin-ups of Con the Fruiterer in their shop windows, for a laugh.  Acropolis_pic

Actors like Alex Dimitriades began to score roles in mainstream cop dramas.  A certain swarthy Croatian standup named Eric Banadinovich (better known as Eric Bana) got his own TV show. 

Notwithstanding the recalcitrant Neighbours, so-called "wogs" began to appear all over the Australian media. 

Did it weaken some of the glass ceilings which NESB Australians faced in other walks of life?  This recent article from Jason Di Russo reminds us that it still has a long way to go.  But the ability to laugh at one's differences, and one's self, earns you a great deal of moral authority. 

Di Russo quotes Italian-Australian journalist James Painichi on the Wogs out of Work phenomenon: 

"They started off as buffoons when buffoons were exactly what was needed. You needed that kind of a figure to take the piss out of people while not taking yourself too seriously. [When] you're laughing at yourself, you get a chance to throw a few arrows in the right direction."

Why am I telling you this story?  Because I recently saw Sacha Baron Cohen's movie, Brüno.

Wogs Out of Work, Fags Out of Drag.

Homocrats have made polite, but predictable noises.  Rashad Robinson, senior director of media programs for the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation, said to the Hollywood Reporter.

"We do feel the intentions of the filmmakers are in the right place—satire of this form can unmask homophobia—but at the same time it can heighten people's discomfort with our community," 

Robinson was particularly skeptical of the way Brüno's adopted African baby worked itself into the plot.

"That wasn't really unmasking homophobia... especially in a country [the USA] where same-sex couples can still be denied the ability to adopt children that they've raised since birth. Trivializing gay families isn't a joke."

You don't need to be gay to sneer.  Brits seem to be OK, but the elite media in the USA viewed Brüno as debris to scrape from the bottom of the nation's cultural shoe.

The Pumps Race at Munich Christopher Street Day, July 2009

Honey, should we be laughing at this?

Take the New Yorker.

Brüno is not a New Yorker cartoon.  You don't see it and have a quiet chuckle to yourself, while nodding  "How true, how true..."  Brüno is a belly-laugh.

What, exactly, makes this concept so difficult to understand?  

Anthony Lane, the New Yorker film critic, writes:

"In his relentless, unmistakably Anglo-Freudian insistence on the genital and the anal, Baron Cohen takes the double entendre and strips it to a single one, placing in full view what used to be a smirking aside."

I'm not sure wat he means by this, but I think he means that Brüno makes dick jokes.  And dick jokes couldn't possibly be funny, right?

"To be fair, the two young women beside me howled at the talking penis (not a bad emblem of the average male, they would say)....Even so, there was something forced in the women’s laughter, as if they wanted to banish any suspicion of prudery, and to prove themselves far too cool for disgust."

It's not the young women who are trying to be cool, I fear.

Frankly, dick jokes are useful.  Nothing disarms a homophobe so much as reaching into your pants and flopping out the old fella..

That's pretty much what Brüno does when he interviews an ex-gay pastor—a target whom Lane regards as too easy.   

Now, one could lure one's victim into a cunning rhetorical trap, fault his theology, and expose him with one's rapier-sharp arguments.

Or you could just point out that the guy is obviously still a flaming nancy.  Too easy, yes.  But really the only sensible answer to such blatant stupidity.

The New Yorker headlined Lane's review with the words Mein Camp.   Must New Yorker types always see the world through a lens of camp, irony, and multiple entendre?  Maybe someone should tell them that Brüno is a big, fat, fucking joke.

Oh, I get it now. Should we take lessons in irony from a magazine that put the Obamas on its cover, dressed as terrorists doing a fist bump, and who thought it was funny? 

Now there's a joke. Everybody knows that.

Having seen Brüno, I can assure you the scenes of gay life are obvious parody.  As intended, they mock the haters who paint such a picture, rather than mocking gay life itself.

Outrageousness redeems Brüno.   If you take it seriously, you look like the fool, not the clown onscreen.

Not 100% funny.

Of course, there are parts of the film which are very poorly judged, and offensive.

I cringed at Brüno's swing through the Middle East.  The character can successfully expose hypocrisy about subjects where a gay fashion reporter is relevant—homophobia, or the shallowness of celebrity.  But the scenes in which he provokes people of goodwill from both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian debate is not satire, it is mockery.  It fails. 

The less said about his interview with Ayman Abu Aita, the better.  There were no belly laughs lurking there, let me tell you.

The Middle East is a hotbed of homophobia.  Such prejudice deserves enormous scorn, whether through comedy or other means.  But here, Brüno falls flat. 

Laugh, and the world laughs with you

In the early part of the twentieth century, a short, scrawny Jewish kid named Melvin Kaminsky got beat up every day in his Brooklyn schoolyard.  He worked out that a few jokes would disarm even the meanest bullies. 

If they laugh with you, they can't hate you.  Hatred doesn't crack a smile. 

Today, we know this kid as Mel Brooks.  And one of his favourite comic subjects is his own Jewishness.

Jewish humour teaches us about the role of a good laugh in overcoming hatred. Its gentle self-deprecation robs the anti-semite of his power.  Should someone start to mock you, mock yourself first.  It leaves the other guy nowhere to land a punch. 

Just as important, the Jews I know seem very gracious about such ethnic humour.  One of my Jewish friends remarked that he didn't mind if gentiles cracked Jewish jokes.  "Many of them are quite funny," he said to me, once. "But remember, we Jews always have better Jewish jokes.  That is to say, worse ones."

I'm a bald guy.  If someone can crack a better bald joke than me, or even a bald joke at my expense, more power to him.  But beware.  I know some of the meanest bald jokes around.

I've tried to make subculture jokes about groups to which I don't belong.  You know what?  I failed. 

Both Sasha Baron Cohen and  Mel Brooks have made their share of gay jokes.   That's OK, as long as gay guys crack better fag gags than they do.  That is, worse ones. 

I can hear the outcry already.  These stereotypes demean gay men.  They trivialise us.  They make us harmless.

Please think me silly, funny and harmless.  It beats being a wicked perverter of the impressionable, and destroyer of traditional marriage.  Just maybe, a guffaw works better for my rights than enforced PC.

Enjoying the fun at Munich's Christopher Street Day, June 2009.Taking strides toward equality, one go-go boot at a time. 

I understand how spokespersons for GLBT organisations can fault many aspects of Brüno.  But I disagree with their fundamental stance.

Brüno follows the arc of a classic romance.  Our hero abandons his shallow quest for glamour in the name of true love.  He settles down with Lutz, his faithful assistant, and lives happily ever after.  Swedish actor Gustaf Hammarsten deliberately plays Lutz without gay affectations, and the perfomance tells us that stereotypes don't always apply.   Look closely, and you'll find Brüno becomes quite a traditional morality tale.

Earnestness has its place.  But so does fun.

Have the nay-sayers forgotten the drag queens of the Stonewall Tavern, forty years ago, who made more progress for gay rights in one night than their assimilationist counterparts did in a decade?  

Have they forgotten how much good PR comes from the sheer, outrageous joy of a Pride parade?

Have they forgotten that people love clowns?

Or do they look on "gayface"—which millions of gay men wear, in earnest, every day—with embarassment and contempt?

I ask you, who are the real homophobes?

*     *     *     *     *     *

* Full disclosure: in my non-blog, non-anonymous life, I have worked with Mark Mitchell. Before he was famous, of course.

By the way, how come Mel Brooks gets off with only a mild rebuke over the homophobia of The Producers

So Taunt Me, Part Two

Morton Gould was a soul in anguish.  He couldn't work out if he wanted to be Charles Ives or Nelson Riddle. 

Like most American composers of his day, Gould paid the bills through  pop music—he was the first musical director for Radio City Music Hall—but  also conducted every major American orchestra, often in his own compositions.

It was his mainstream musicianship that made Master Right swoon, as you can read in Part One. Gould's version of Cole Porter's So in Love signed off the Sunday Night Western Movie Theater across Japan for much of the Showa emperor's reign.  My husband, and many like him, grew to treasure this musical piece, many thinking that it was penned by, say, a Russian impressionist.

It caused such a fog of nostalgia to settle on Master Right's head, we had to track it down. We managed to find some downloadable copies, but most of the sources smelled a bit shifty.  And even now, when everything is e-biquitous, it was harder to find in hard-copy than you'd think. 

Morton Ghoul

A man of prolific brilliance, Gould was a bit of an oddball among mid-century American composers.  George Gershwin, Aaron Copeland and Leonard Bernstein put the energy and innocent optimism of a young nation into melody.   Gould..well, good vibes weren't his strong suit.

 As I type this, an album plays in the background.  It contains Gould's Fall River Legend.   

In Fall River Legend, Gould composed a ballet around Lizzie Borden, who put the term axe murderer into the vernacular.   Other well-known pieces are Ghost Walzes and the Jekyll and Hyde Variations.  The centrepiece of his most successful broadway musical, Billion Dollar Baby, is a funeral procession. 

So when this album arrived in the post, it didn't surprise me to discover Gould dressed a little like an undertaker.

Ah...words like Living Stereo and High Fidelity take me back to a childhood soundtracked by my mother's collection of Dean Martin, Henry Mancini and the lightest of classics, etched into those lazy new LPs which took almost two full seconds to make a complete turn.  (Of course, all the really interesting music of that era, like Elvis and the Beatles, spun much faster on the turntable, mostly in Lo-Fi mono).  

Astro-Sonic 3 Our family coughed for a 1968 Magnavox Astro Sonic specifically to play such albums.  Fresh from elementary school science class, I joked about the badge which read Solid State.  "What?  Do other stereos play with gas?"

I didn't know how misinformed that joke was.  Record players had, unitil then, used an absence of gas, in the form of a vacuum tube.  The handsome cabinets you see to the left were largely empty, save for a small chip full of pills on prongs.  I looked.

Few of us realised the radical change it meant for sound quality. 

Gould experimented with the many different forms of sound that a record could now reproduce, mainly through pizzacato that bordered on  violin torture. In his version of  I Get A Kick Out Of You, Gould uses that pointless technique where you bounce the bow off the strings.  Glorious Hi-Fi makes it sound like a choir of castanets.

Missing the obvious.

Now, you'd think that anyone who is putting together a greatest hits album for Cole Porter would include his masterpiece, So in Love.  Wouldn't you?

Bozo here forgot to check the track list.  WTF?  A Cole Porter tribute that doesn't cover So in Love? 

So we were back to square one.

We googled until our cache was sore, but we couldn't find a copy of Morton Gould's arrangement of So in Love from Curtain Time. Neither on CD nor vinyl.  But one source held hope.

To be Frank.

Frank Bristow holds a vast knowledge  of music in his head.  I'm not sure how he accumulated his collection of Music from the Past, but it's a treasure-trove of mid-century song.  His father was a Captain in the entertainment section of the Australian army, and the teenaged Frank got plenty of scarce vinyl on the sly during the War.  After his own discharge from the RAAF, Frank continued to collect.

As the century progressed, he grew frustrated by record companies who refused to re-release these gems of popular culture, and began to do it himself.  He netwoked extensively with music lovers at home and abroad, and became an authority of some standing.   For many years, he consulted for both Ivan Hutchinson and Bill Collins, two Australian celebrities who held much the same role as movie-critic/national treasure which Yodogawa filled in Japan.

(An aside: Collins is such a film authority that other Australian Bill Collinses have had to take great steps to disambiguate their web presence).

The disc art included a suitably gloomy caricature of the distinguished composer.  We couldn't wait to play it.

The Husbands were trite and as gay as a daisy in May as we set ol' Mort aspin on the digital whirligig.  But it didn't take long for Master Right's smile to go south.

"That's not it," he said.

"What do you mean that's not it?" I sputtered, aghast.  "Frank Bristow, Melbourne's Mr. Mid-Century Music, assures us that this is, undisputably, the one-and-only Morton Gould and his fucking orchestra, fiddling a lushly-stringed So in Love, just for us!" 

"If this disc were any more genuine, it would be lighting a Lucky from a Verdura cigarettte case as it watched Monty Woolley blow a sailor in Central Park."

"Sorry," he repeated, "that's not it."

OK, Morton Gould recorded more than one version.  We were back to square one.

The Vinyl Route

Square one felt quite familiar, by now.  What to do?

The internet proper didn'r seem much help.  Odd, since I thought the internet knew everything.   But like most people with full heads, the internet forgets.  Or at least it has things shoved into a corner and forgotten.

Cached copies seem to sink to the bottom of a million-strong list of hits, and we ignore them.  Sometimes, Google doesn't keep up with pages that appear and disappear in a short time.  (Well that's my theory).  So you can hit gold if you go straight to the source. 

Like eBay.

We found this curiosity for sale.  Odd, since it was clearly labelled not for sale.

It seems that poor old Curtain Time was chained up in syndication hell.  Why?  Here's my theory.

As lush strings made way for mellow rock on stereos across the planet, Gould's back catalogue would have tanked.  This calls for sales psychology. 

 If something costs a buck and it doesn't sell, what do you do?  Drop the price to fifty cents, or sell three for $2.00?  Perversely, the latter works better.

Who was the Unforgettable Glenn Miller?So the sixties and seventies gave rise to direct marketing schemes and record clubs that promised vast amounts of music, offered personally and exclusively to astute collectors.   You would get the offer because you were a member of a elite group of who appreciated such things—like, say, subscribers to the Reader's Digest.

My parents were two such highbrows. Here are two of the boxed sets that our home music library wouldn't be complete without.

Who was the Unforgettable Glenn Miller?
Curtain Time had been reduced to a gift-with-purchase. Columbia also renamed it, and I'm not surprised.

That's neither here nor there.  While googling the track titles individually didn't yield much, googling track list did.  We found many of the tracks on Curtain Time scattered across a number of syndicated collections, skipping from record vault to record vault, reissued in a number of guises.

And it lurked here.  On a used CD, available online.

Master Right now owns a copy of  Morton Gould's version of So In Love. He's put it away someplace safe, to thrill his Japanese baby-boomer pals later. 

Why am I telling you all this?  Because the other day, we found the damn thing on YouTube.  Life's like that, I guess.


Interview 2009. In Which the Author Almost Answers a Meme.


The famous mirror scene from Duck Soup

In homage to Neil Kramer at Citizen of the Month, A Free Man began his own Interview Experiment back in February of this year.   

The gracious lady who compiled a list of questions for me has been very patient.  She is the Strange, Dark Gypsy Girl, whose blog you should visit and admire.  I've taken a while to answer her questions, but I'm sure she appreciates how lazy thoughtful I've been. 

The Gypsy-question I have chosen for today is one that sounds suspiciously like a meme.  Until today, the Deutschland über Elvis has pursued a strict no-meme policy, out of general grumpiness and irascibility.  So officially, this is not a meme; it is a personal question. (OK, Ian in Hamburg?)  And a deceptively challenging one, at that.

Recommend three books, movies or periodicals.

What, only three? 

Books?  I give up from the start.  There are just too many; favourites for different reasons, at different times. 


Look to the sidebar for a good selection, or click on my LibraryThing profile for the high rating books. 

(By the way, I recommend LT for anyone who has a personal library; it is incredibly cool.  Check out their “I See Dead People’s Books” page.)

However, in the spirit of this almost-meme, let me share the last three books I read.  

  • The Leopard, by Guiseppi de Lampedusa.  A melodrama of love tinged with cynicism.   The author gives an historical account of the last Prince of Salina, his grandfather, as Sicily fell under the rule of a unified Italy.   The prince's description of the character of his fellow Sicilians is breathtakingly cruel. A gift from my pal Cash McBuck.  Many, many thanks.

  • And Then There's This, by Bill Wasik.   Boy, have I had it with Tipping Points, Flat Worlds, and anything 2.0.  But, y'know, I gotta read that shit for work. So imagine my delight when one of these so-called business books turns out to be a gem.  Wasik is a gentleman adventurer in the world of new media.  An amateur pundit with a day job as a rock journalist, he dips a toe in the water of viral culture every so often, and manages to beat the pros.  He was, after all, the man who invented the flash-mob.  Name one other writer on cyberculture who starts his book by quoting John Stuart Mill.  That's class.

  • Pre-Code Hollywood, by Thomas Doherty. It was six years between the birth of the talkies and the enactment of the draconian MPAA Production Code in 1934.   But in those few short years, Hollywood relased some of the most subversive, racy and cynical movies it would ever make.  Precode HollywoodThe parallels with our own time, as the forces of censorship stir again, are frightening.

    To the right we see the cover, depicting ten items which the Production Code would never allow.  Among them, an inner thigh, wickedness unpunished, drug use, consumption of alcohol that is not essential to the plot and the mockery of religion.

Which brings us to the subject of Movies.  Again, too many.  But I do have some faves.

  • Heathers.  Mean, bitchy, cruel, and cynical.  Now that’s my kinda movie.
  • Beetlejuice.  Gloriously Kafkaesque.  BTW, can somebody explain the joke about Miss Argentina slitting her wrists?  I tried googling it, to no avail.
  • Brazil.  Quite simply, a masterpiece.  Michael Palin and Katherine Helmond as supporting actors do some of their best work.  Tom Stoppard wrote the screenplay.  Terry Gilliam directs. Plus, it has Jim Broadbent in it, always a hallmark of quality cinema.


Jim Broadbent makes over Katherine Helmond in
  • Mon Oncle. Jacques Tati was a one-gag comic.  Mon Oncle is the gag.  But it’s a brilliant gag.

    The set design for Mon Oncle was supposed to send up the pretentousness of so-called mid-century modern.  Over the years, though, it became an icon of the style.   So much so, that a recent Paris exhibition re-created the set indoors. 
    The joke's on Jacques, I guess. 



Bette Davis, Marilyn Monroe and George Sanders in
All About Eve.

"Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night."

Periodicals?  In this age, more online ‘zines than 3D. 

  • CurrentCover160-1The Economist teaches the rest of the publishing world the true meaning of fairness and balance.  When the Economist takes an editorial stance, it says so.  The writing glistens with clarity and insight.  Quaintly still calls itself a newspaper. 
  • Vanity Fair and Esquire.  Both champion long-form feature journalism.  Prefer British Esquire and US Vanity Fair.  
  • Queerty.  An online ‘zine that bills itself as “free from an agenda, except that gay one.”   Queerty maintains a new, fresh and smart outlook on all matters gay.  But it should really be Qweerty to get the joke, no?
  • Mother Jones.  A nonprofit magazine devoted to investigative journalism, but also raises issues that have surfaced in the mainstream and deserve more attention.  Pulls no punches. Superb.Autobild5seriescover
  • Oh, and I check out The New York Times online every day.  A lot of people bag the Gray Lady, but there is simply no alternative.   The Guardian runs a distant second. 

That just about does it, Gypsy.  Remember, though, we still have one question to go.

(I can hear AFM now: "HH, are you still dragging this out...")


Pimp meinen Fahrt


Mercedes Benz Museum Thanks for nothing

His shirt reads Thanks for Nothing.

The English language continues to spill its seed across the continent, whelping curious word-creatures and bastard ideas, abandoning them to grow up as orphans in another culture. 

MTV Deutschland just might be the best place in Europe to watch my native tongue have unsafe sex, and to watch its progeny frolic.

The network is one of the few free-to-air channels which subtitles programs, rather than dubbing them.  A godsend for people like me, who speak Bozo German

Let's look at Pimp My Ride.   The American edition, of course, hosted by dem behrühmte Rapper, Xzibit

Miles ahead of the British PMR.  Last time I watched, they pimped out a Fiesta.  Unpimptacular, I'm afraid. 

Word on the street says there will never be a German version.  The dreaded TÜV, the German Technical Inspectorate of Every Damn Thing, would insist that the stereo not cause noise pollution, the skull-and-crossbones decal reflect the light of approaching cars, and the mobile pool table be upholstered in organic felt.  If they can't find anything wrong with your car, they'll improvise.

Not Very Volky Wagens

Not surprisingly, Germans are the world's consummate car snobs.   It shows in the approach to Pimp My Ride auf Deutsch. 

Rather than translate ride literally, MTV subtitlers often use the word Karre.   Thus, the show might back-translate as Pimp My Jalopy, Pimp My Heap, or Pimp my Piece of Crap.   They avoid such vocab when Xzibit pimps out a Volkswagen, I notice.

Further, locals fail to grasp the difference between tuning a car (as AMG, HSV or Tickford might) and pimping it out.

Contrary to the spirit of pimpmanship, most German customisers prefer to start at the top.  The result is always exquisite, and often achieved simply with intelligent use of standard RPOs.  Munich firm Semco gave these two Rollers a tasteful workover, and parked them in the chic Maximillianstrasse to attract attention from cashed-up summer visitors. 

Pimped Rollers

Semco suggests only subtle alterations to the standard models; perhaps a "Starlight" roof lining, exotic upholstery, or bodywork discreetly armoured.   ("Armoured" in German, by the way, is gepanzert.)


EDIT: My heart skipped a beat when I noticed this mirrored Porsche in the Bayerstrasse. (No doubt the owner had mirrored the inside, too, since owners of expensive cars are like that, right?).  Had a German motorist finally given in to the vanity of a flashy custom paint job?  Not quite.  If you embiggen the picture, you'll notice a Bahraini license plate.

The introduction of the smart, and the revival of the Mini, advanced the cause of populist pimping.  The ease with which body panels can be painted or replaced gives many the chance to make a modest personal statement.

Pimp mini front
Close, but no cigar.   This ain't a pimping.  This is a pimple.

The photo below shows the closest thing to an officially pimped-out car I've seen  in Germany.  It's Ringo Starr's 190E, at the Mercedes-Benz Museum in Stuttgart. 

Mercedes Benz Museum 092_2

(The Beatles were big fans of German cars.  John Lennon had eyesight too poor to drive very well, so he invested in extravagant limousines.   The most famous is the 1965 "Psychedelic Rolls", which to my eye looks a little more like French porcelain than Op-Art.     But his favourite remained a custom 1970 Pullmann limo, replete with turntable and one of the world's first car cassette players.)

So, it turns out that recent ads for Volkswagen in the USA, showing a German engineer sneering at custom cars, are not so far from the truth. 

MTV has a tough time finding a German word for pimping.  So they borrow the English word, and screw on German verb endings.

 For example, your car is totally pimped out! becomes Ihres Auto wird völlig ausgepimpt!

Danke dass

Thanks, MTV, that you have pimped my car.

Pimp pimp

You have been officially pimped. Pimp, pimp.

What pimping means

Well then, Mike.  I'll show you what goes by pimping. 


From time to time, they lay off  pimpen and use the verb aufmotzen, which means fluffed up.  A little too accurate, in a Freudian sense, for my taste. 

Sometimes, alas, words fail them.

Big-ass TV

That's an ogre-like far-seer.

WTF Teufel

What is that, to the devil?

So, we see a good deal of English pop up in the titles.   Is PMR auf Deutsch just a little too to eager to pounce on an English word, when a German one will do?

Maybe.  Stay tuned for Teil Zwei.

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