Dearly beloved, 

We are gathered here today to show our respect and love for without a doubt, one of the best music venues in the world. It’s a sad, sad day for the thousands and millions of bands who will now never get to grace that wonderful stage or perhaps, piss on people from the balcony, like Cole Alexander, of the Black Lips did.

But let’s take a second, mourn, and then put Festsaal Kreuzberg right there in the list of names of rock stars that died before their time, pour a little liquor on the sidewalk and show some love.

They say it’s better to burn out than to fade away, and if that’s true, well, God bless the Festsaal Kreuzberg, because it burned out, literally.

Could have gone out like CBGB’S, but no way, not you. You went out like a savage rock God.

Infamy.

Thank you Festsaal. It was on your stage that I got to play bass with Jeffrey Lewis AND Stanley Brinks, my two favorite song writers.

THAT’S RIGHT! JEFF LEWIS AND STANLY BRINKS!!! PRAISE JESUS!

I saw the Spits and King Khan and the Shrines, and Ty Segall jumped on my head, and the crowds were always so up for it.

As an American, it was a concert hall like I have never seen. Festsaal gone is just adding insult to the already painful injury Berlin is feeling in the rising asshole levels. In a weird way, I can’t blame you for going out now, it’s not getting any better. ANYWAY.

We’re here to clearly say,

Thank you.

It was also on your stage where I had one of my worst stand up sets ever, at Trashfest 3, which for me was so fun, maybe even one I’ll remember forever, but for people in the audience, maybe not so much.

I went out, told one joke, and realized I was dead in the water. Too many drunk people.

I went into “BOMBING KILL MODE” and proceeded to explain, in a funny way why comedians bomb.

People want music, shitty audience won’t shut up, bright lights, my jokes stink, I didn’t practice, high stage, not enough attention, Spanish people, “I MEAN IT’S CALLED TRASHFEST!” and so on and so on, and so on.

As I melted down into nothingness, and eventually just sat there smoking a cigarette while people kind of murmured, my friend heard a guy say,

“Who the fuck is this asshole, he’s HORRIBLE!”

That went on for a very uncomfortable ten minutes in which I did my best Andy Kaufman.

I said my version of thank you, which might have been,

“My name is David Deery, please never exist in my paradigm again. Better yet, kill yourselves, you’re horrible people, Goodnight.”

As I went to the side of the stage DM Bob was there. He smiled, shook my hand, and said,

“Hey man, that was fuckin genius. WOW. I loved it.”

Because THAT’S the kind of company you keep Festsaal Kreuzberg.

We will miss you. We will tell stories about you. We will remember you.

And hopefully,

WE WILL REBUILD YOU.

In the name of rock and roll,

AMEN.

THAT’S IT.

That’s the topic of discussion. PROFILING.

If I see one more Tea Party, God Loving, Tomas Jefferson quoting, red neck shit bag say,

“Hey man, Blacks are just as racist, I mean, come on, most black people are shot by other black people, I mean, he said Cracka, because black people are racist as fuck.”

Yes. True. Black people, white people, Jews, Arabs, Italians, and so on and so on CAN all be racist.

Way to spin it, shit bag. That’s not the meat of the stew, fuck face.

The reality is, that a black kid in a hoodie equals SCARY. FOLLOW HIM. Of course. I mean, there were some burglaries in the neighborhood, RIGHT?

No one finds that APPALLING, let alone ILLEGAL, and many, many people won’t even admit George Zimmerman profiled.

NOW, HERE COMES THE HARSH REALITY.

That NEVER happens to a white person. NEVER. Not once. You know what guys like Zimmerman, or people of power say when they see a white kid on the corner?

“Oh, look at that white kid. I bet his dad’s a lawyer. I bet his parents are together. I bet he gets A’s in school and will attend a great college. I’m sure if he’s out here breaking the law, WHICH I DOUBT HE IS, I mean, WHY WOULD HE, HE’S PROVIDED FOR, but if he is it’s probably just some weird rebellious thing that young white kids do. Harmless.”

Sure, you can show me lots and lots of black on black crime. Yes. You can show me malicious murdering African Americans shooting up innocent whities. Yes. But you can’t show me an innocent young white kid getting shot by the police or some fuckin hero ass idiot because he “reached for his wallet.”

By the way, imagine if an innocent white kid was shot by a wanna be cop who was black. LORD HAVE MERCY.

You can’t show me video of a nineteen year old white kid randomly stopped, pressed up against the wall and frisked, then taken to jail because he didn’t pay a parking ticket. Doesn’t happen, and if it did, ONE TIME, MAAAAAAAYBE, it was probably because the cop thought the kid was Puerto Rican and it would be buried under the insane amounts of times it has happened to black people in America.

White privilege.

Who knows this better than yours truly, who one time broke down in New Jersey with 60 pounds of pot in the trunk of my Saab 9000.

What happened?

What do you think happened? Police came. I smiled, told him AAA was on the way, he chuckled, helped me push my car off the road and into the Dunkin Donuts where I sat and drank a coffee, watching state troopers come and go and come and go, all the while possessing enough illegal substance to put a black man away for the rest of his life.

Was I scared? NO. Why should I be? It’s sad, but true. I knew, even if I got caught, I could just pay a lawyer, put on a suit, first offense,

WHITE.

PROBATION.

Tell me it would be the same for a black person, and I’ll laugh and let you know that THIS is the meat in the stew, and the reason why Americas stew is so fucking disgusting right now.

Sept 25^th, 2313

 I SEE THE FUTURE!

I just envision a guy in his late fifties named John, dressed in a postal uniform, wandering aimlessly in the front yard of the house, where the real bad guy has his wife hostage. John’s got a loaded magnum, dangling in his hand. Sirens everywhere. News reporters. Cameras rolling, as the sound of a helicopter pumps the silence like a wave machine, over and over.

The screams from the house have stopped, the shoot out. The fire. The snipers. The Swat team. The renegade heroes. The model citizens, with their pocket revolvers. Everything is still. Except John, wandering, like a zombie, deaf from the ringing of an AK-47 just inches above his head, bullet shells leaping into his lap like popcorn.

Chaos brings a certain perfume that will stain the Cop who sits behind the plexiglass riot shield, loading up his shotgun. He will reek of it. The whole damn scene will reek of it. The entire suburban American town will reek of it. The Smith family. the Banisters, The Butlers and the Jones.

They’re all watching.

While John, sick of it all, deaf and half dead, wanders out into the front yard, into the open, out from the bush he’s been hiding in. He’s with a purpose, and has a passion he hasn’t felt in years, yet he’s empty. Knowing that it’s over. Not his job, but society. It’s over. Game over.

It’s almost like John’s just begging them,

“Shoot me, please.”

And unaware that’s he’s not the kidnapper, they do.