The 60's are over, fellas. Maybe y'all weren't paying attention when the comet struck, but that doesn't make the surface-mounted, hand-cranked pencil sharpener any less extinct. You might as well sharpen a pencil with a meatgrinder for all the finèsse you can squeeze out of a Berol Giant or a cough Boston Ranger. The Ranger looks impressive, and will put fear into your enemies, but those old dinosaurs jam like an M16 Mk.1 on the Mekong. Just try and explain to the examiner that you couldn't complete your SAT because you're No.2 Faber was twisted like a hexagonal pretzel.

It's the twenty-first century, boys. Get with the program. Today, it's all about reliability, performance, and mobility. That's why YouBitch officially endorses the Staedtler 5123 "Triplus" MPSS.

The lines of the Staedtler are modern, and functional. The triangular design provides the kind of stability and ease of use expected in a modern MPSS.

But ease of use doesn't have to come at the expense of flexibility:

The Staedtler 5123 "Triplus" provides two (2) sharpening access points for simultaneous sharpening of multiple subjects.

But beauty isn't always only skin deep:

Inside the 5123 you'll find two (2) stainless steel shaving elements, handcrafted in Solingen, Germany. You'll also find the 5123's generous shavings reservoir suited to the most demanding sharpening tasks.

In conclusion, the Triplus is the Nissan Skyline of modern sharpening systems. The advanced design and extensive use of space-age materials offer high performance with a degree of mobility only dreamed of in older, traditional sharpeners like those from Boston and Berol.

The Triplus, and other fine products from Staedtler Germany, can be found at McPaper for about €1.50.

It's Christmas time again. The Christkindlsmarkt is open, the Glühwein is flowing copiously, and I'll be damned if the concession stands outside aren't selling reindeer-burgers. Reindeer? At Christmas? You have to hand it to the Germans; despite their abysmal statist politics, they offer absolutely no quarter to the PETA crowd.

Here are some horribly grainy photos, taken with my phone, of the Augsburg town square, where this year's Christmas Market is in full swing

City Hall and Town Square, Augsburg

Augsburg's Christmas Tree

Lots of people chugging Glühwein (hot mulled wine). It'll warm your cockles.

Maybe I'll take a real camera out some time and get some pics for you folks. Christmas time is really beautiful over here, and this year it looks like we'll get some snow, too.

Well, peeps, it's been a hard week. Just got through cleaning out my apartment, and bribing my landlady with a large, just to get the hag off my back. Plus, I'm trying everything in my power not to have to paint the place. It's 92 square meters of cold bareness, with 3 meter walls. I'm not exactly sure what that is in real measurement units, but it ain't small.

Moving house in Germany is a major pain in the ass. You take absolutely everything in the apartment with you. The lights, the kitchen sink, the shower-head, even the kitchen counter and cabinets. You'll need them, too, because whatever shit-hole apartment you wind up moving in to next will have been stripped like a Benz in Five Points. It's a pathetic sight, an unoccupied apartment. They don't even have closets over here, for some reason. You have to have a shift-or-robe in your possession, or you'll be stacking your unmentionables in the living room in front of God and everyone. I sold my shift-or-robe for smokes over a month ago, so in case anybody wants to see real-life boxers with red hearts and little glow-in-the-dark x's and o's, just come on over; they're sitting over there next to the playstation.

There are advantages to moving, though. My Zippo fell out of an old jacket as I unpacked it. That thing's been missing now for 2 years, and I'd sworn I'd never buy another one since I can't keep up with them. Score!

Now playing in iTunes:

The Sex Fiends from the album "Poems And Insults" by Charles Bukowski

Tonight, the waitress at a bar actually said to me:

We're not bringing any more beer to the tables. It's too stressful.(!) If you want another beer, go to the bar and pick it up yourself.

Just in case anyone was worrying that the work-for-tips model was maybe inferior to the European work-for-salary-or-don't one.

I work sometimes out of an office in the back of an old movie theater.  This theater was converted some years ago into an upscale restaurant, but the old silver screen is still the dominant interior feature.  It's an old-style european movie house, with an upstairs gallery that circles the dining area, allowing the guests to look down on the large parquet surface that would have been the theater seating.  A few weeks ago, the owner decided to showcase a local artist.  She brought in about a dozen paintings, and they were hung next to the tables with little nameplates and price stickers in case anyone would be interested in shelling out 3000 bucks for a no-name close-up abstract of a persimmon painted with acrylics.  And I mean, hey, who wouldn't?

But I'm no art critic.  When I was a young man, I fancied myself an artist.  I drew constantly, toyed with painting, even made a few statues here and there in clay.  I intellectualized and agonized over the lack of acceptance that experimental art forms were seeing.  I argued endlessly over the role of art in society, and how dangerous it was to let conservative old men make the final decision on the age-old question What is Art?

I believe my first real artistic crisis came with that sophomoric Piss-Christ thing.  My first reaction to this photo was, well, that's art, but it's trash art.  The once-heated discussions turned into defensive tirades about fundamentalist Christians running away with American culture; because, you know, it's not like they're part of American culture or anything. But still, there was something about the photo that just didn't fit into my world-view.  It was supposed to be good, it was said, that so many people were talking about art and culture again.  That's Art; it moves you, and makes you think, right?  I changed my mind back then.  I decided that nobody really knew what art was, and the important thing was to keep an open mind to other people's view of What is Art?

With age comes more than just creaky knees and ass-pimples.  As I was sitting around the other day in the restaurant, discussing with some colleagues the new persimmon-paintings, we touched again upon that age-old dilemma.  Sure, some of the brushwork and composition of the pictures was pleasing, but was this art?  My colleague, who's a computer artist, decided it was not.  This is illustration, not art, he pronounced.  This does not speak to the soul, nor does it challenge the mind. I disagreed.  Here we come to the entry-eponymous Unified Theory.  "Art" is absolutely, positively, and irrevocably in the eye of the creator.  You say that cheese-sculpture you did of Jesus wearing a bikini and high heels and blowing George W. Bush is Art? Okay, buddy, it's Art. But here's a little something extra for you to think about:  What is Art? was never actually the question.  The question was always, and will always be, Who's Going to Pay for It?

It's kind of sad that this nugget of wisdom wasn't there for me in the eighties, during which I found myself wasting valuable drinking hours actually arguing whether or not interpretive dance qualifies as a valid art form.