A Historic Scientific Break-Through

Press Release
Breaking News…

New York, April 1st, 2009

In what observers call “a historic scientific break-through,” the well-known New York artist Rudy Ernst was recently able to isolate the long suspected Dada-Gene, known to be responsible for the creativity in the human body. During a New York press conference last Friday Ernst presented his scientific findings to the broader public for the first time.
Ernst is no newcomer to the field of genetic engineering. Back in 2004 he attracted the attention of the scientific community with his film “The North American Lobster Pine.” The documentary demonstrates how Maine lobsters have recently been fully-grown on maritime pine trees and can be seen on U-Tube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am4-sD66sU0
The US republican Senator from Maine, Karen M. Cruster, praised Ernst’s entrepreneurial achievements in Washington as “a significant contribution to the economic development of our State.”
Dr. Ueli Siracher of the IBM research laboratory in Rubikon / Switzerland was somehow less enthusiastic about Ernst’s recent isolation of the Dada-Gene. Dr. Michael Greenberg of the New England Medical Journal also cautioned that more scientific studies might be necessary to affirm the existence of the Dada-Gene. A preliminary evaluation proved to be encouraging enough, though, to warrant an article soon to be published on the subject. Professor Alain Didier of the French Louis Pastor Institute in Paris refused to take a definitive position. “It is premature,” he said, “to make a final scientific assessment at this point in time.” However, Didier seemed to agree that, if confirmed, the discovery of the Dada-Gene could prove to be an important scientific break-through in the field of genetic engineering.
Ernst is currently writing a book on “The Dada-Gene,” for which the well-known international ‘Kreatus Publishing House’ is rumored to have offered a down payment of four million dollars. According to reliable sources, Ernst is currently evaluating the offer.

Style Before Substance!

Style before Substance! Isn’t that what life is all about? Who would ever bother about facts when you can have beautiful talk? How blessed are we as a nation to have all those great lawyers in Washington who represent us with their eloquent speeches! I find it so saddening that their approval rate is a mere nine percent, when they use the very best of Shakespeare’s vocabulary in such random ways that the sheer delight of listening to what they appear to be saying between the lines of their magnificent vocalizations is so often misrepresented, since it is the empty space after all that fills the world around us, just as the probability of a proton being shot through the center of our planet all the way to Australia and hitting any nuclear particle on its eight thousand mile journey is infinitely small. Yes, I tell you: it is the nothingness that counts, the space in between the lines, the emptiness of the words! Any affirmation to the contrary is pure propaganda! Even though propaganda can be very smooth and charming and elevate us to this wonderful sense of beauty, comfort and security, which we just lost during the past nineteen sessions of the US stock market, when eight point three trillion dollars were lost in this country. But who cares about zillions when you can admire the beauty of a loss, which points to that Zen Buddhist notion of emptiness with its infinite calm that suddenly overcomes you when you look at it from that very different angle, even though angles have something sharp and unpleasant about them, which we have to gracefully overlook; but overlooking is the thing to do, since it points our sight far out towards the horizon, the sunset, the stars and the serene notion of eternity, which we always have a tendency to overlook when we follow the false priorities of putting substance before style and beauty…

October 10, 2008

Tree Frogs

From My Dada Tales (Translated from German)

The question arises whether the questioning party is really up to the level of the question he or she is asking, or even whether the questioned person realizes the profoundness of that certain question before coming to answer the particular theme raised by that specific question, just as any human being is not just stepping forward while he or she is walking in his or her shoes (or for that reason in any other footwear he or she might be wearing), but to be able to step forward in that very same -almost unaltered- manner through life, and specifically through a myriad of intellectual problems like walking through the thorny path of a rose garden, while those intellectual levels should strictly be separated from their physical appearance, in the very same manner as one cannot simply confuse a tree-frog with a ghastly brown toad, (although they both catch flies for a living) since that very tree-frog is not equipped with those wicked poisonous glands that leave you with some nasty nettle-rashes as a legacy, though this legacy is unlike the other legacies by which any last will executor may be faced, since those executors are not always entirely honest (as we would all like them to be), while –on the other hand- one cannot entirely dismiss the fact that most executors are usually lawyers of whom we all know that they have not all been spoon-fed with matters of the law, but -while scooping up their soup with that same spoon- often realize that the soup tastes too salty, while it is common knowledge that salt is not doctor recommended for people with high blood pressure, since their heart could easily be adversely affected and thus endanger all those wonderful books that were written across the ages about matters of the heart and love, whereupon a big misfortune may never be able to be reversed, and since such matters of the heart may well be every bit as good as a spoon full of bee honey in an environment where bees become even further extinct by the pollution of our precious planet, where so many pseudo-scientists are so intimately tied to it that one would start right at the beginning where the question arises whether… (continue to read at the beginning).

Your Dada Lama

I am your Dada Lama,
The Lama of your Kama;
I am the Guru of your Guts
That teach you how the world is nuts.

A Self-Reminder (From My Diaries)

I am so sick and tired of being sick and tired that I have to bring onto paper my fathomless feelings of disgust with my lousy body and all the negative thoughts that have increasingly overcome me during the past four weeks, since I first got that merciless flue. The pus slowly filled my eight or ten sinus cavities before descending into my lungs and starting a generalized downspin of ungodly proportions.
I took anti-inflammatory medicine, then doubled it up with Benadryl to dry up the running mucus flows, and finally (when that still didn’t help) I put myself on generic penicillin for a week. That did the trick for a few days … until I got infected again. From that point on, it all went downhill.
Today, finally, I went to see an ear and nose specialist. The good doctor punished me with a very severe look from behind his thick glasses when he discovered all that yellow-greenish stuff in my throat.
*
Anyway, the only reason for me to write down these details of my miserable (and almost suicidal) condition is not to complain, but rather to remind me sometime in the future of my terrible misery during these sick days.
So, if I ever get my hand on this paper again, it will serve as a reminder of how grateful I should be in good times when nothing aches and the outlook on life is all positive again. Pain has such a short memory! I want to enjoy every minute of those happy moments to come, rather than taking good health for granted and losing myself in meaningless daily routines with all those petty sideshow problems that usually mask the reality of how nice life could really be.

Existence

Dada Tale of Monday, October 6, 2008 from 12:22 to 12:41 p.m.
(Translated from German)
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Existence

As the shadow of my thumb joins the sunlight under my shoe, and as the falling oak leaves in front of me on the street are but a shadow of their glorious past, which (as we well know) always points into the future, and particularly on a day when the stock markets all around the world play as crazy as the two dogs just in front of me, just here at the entrance to the Strawberry Fields, where the autumn sun is reflecting itself throughout my brain and flowing through my complex nervous system into my writer’s pen, which ultimately is also held in the hands of a much higher authority, without which the history of the world would be badly in the tank, and since it is clear that tanks are not only meant to contain water or gasoline, but also rime on “banks”, which is what this stock market debacle today is all about, and since it elevates my story to a much higher level of being born to a higher cause, even though the fact of being born to a higher cause barely carries any weight in connection with the pursued finish line towards which we are all rushing, and which has nothing to do with death or eternal life, but rather with the whole shebang of our earthly existence, although the lady right next to me is babbling such an unbelievable nonsense into her cell phone that even the dog right in front of her is raising his long ears out of frustration. Oh yes, and said dame is now involved in a new “Oh Jesus Christ” conversation with her broker, so that I can literally see that man’s stomach mucus dry up in a hurry, while apparently even the thermostat in her apartment quit on her last night in the greater environment of this generalized chaos of incoherent stupidities; although the dumb people can easier go to Heaven than the smart ones, let alone the rich who are all bad by definition, while all the dumb ones are always good, as it is also written in the Bible (I mean in the Gospel). And in this particular sense the electric bulb of our life continues to glow in the same way as my warn-out shoes, which might have to be replaced soon, just as the shirts and pence we are wearing, even though it is highly questionable how much longer we shall still be wearing any of them…

Stiff - From My Dada Tales

Stiff

…and as I am waiting in my car under a partial sun, with the air condition blowing mercilessly at the scars of my broken knee, and as the noise of my running motor gets overpowered by a pneumatic hammer of a nearby street worker, I think of the little birdies in the woods, how they sing and play with their offspring babies, just as the babies in the strollers here all around me are proliferating ever more, and the women are beginning to wear skirts again all over New York, and like the Irish back pipers who also don’t carry underwear under their skirts, while the fact remains that I don’t like back pipe playing quite as much as lemon ice cream, even though I refrain from eating any of it, so my fingers don’t get stiff from the cold and I can continue to write about stiff body parts, which get the stiffest once we are dead, although (hopefully) there is still a long way until that happens, a road every bit as long as the Russian tanks that have been driving all the way from Moscow to Georgia, while here in Central Park the trees are getting greener by the day, even though the Park Conservancy is begging for money again, so the famous elm trees won’t get eaten up by those bark-beetles who will survive our Last Judgment Day by millions of years, since they can eat all the interior of our Planet Earth, which is filled and governed by hydro-carbons, just as Marie-Antoinette also governed those French cake-eaters before the 1789 Revolution and as the streets of New York are governed by a lot of police cars who slapped me with a ticket just yesterday for a full one hundred and sixty-five dollars, whereupon I pronounced a biblical curse upon them, which will harm them a lot more than the benefit of those few dollars.

Pedicure

Pedicure

And as I write this in my mother’s tongue, and the sky above me is wiggling the toe of my sweet and tender wife in the wind that carries the airplane and the automobiles upon the setting sun in Japanese culture, far away from the upcoming Olympic Games, a fly is sitting on my knee, just below where they cut the skin to make the graft to my arm 43 years ago, upon which I am writing here with a point five millimeter pen that covers this white page, slowly, line after line, just above the underlying art book that rests on my tummy, which is covered by my blue tee shirt, and below my bathing suit that is patiently waiting for the swimming pool to become empty of those elderly ladies who betray the tranquility of the blue water in the sun, which is by now almost ready to set, while the wind is picking up to the point that I have to hold my book and pen firmly in my hands, so they are not being carried away into the noise of yet another airplane above me, while the clouds in their sheep-like appearance definitely show all the signs that the wind is blowing from the south, while –to the contrary- it whirls around in circles here on the 44th floor of this Manhattan building, with Angelika’s neatly pedicured red toe nails swinging slightly in the wind, and the sirens of a by-passing ambulance car down at the Lincoln Center reminding the untouched mind that all is not as well in the world as my 67 trillion cell strong cell colony that enjoys being still alive, even though it is not easy to hold the darn thing together … just imagine! Just imagine how cool it would be if all the living things in the Universe were singing the song of IMAGINE, and all the Quebec buses were not to crowd the entrance to the Strawberry Fields to the point that the yellow and the white flowers there are praying every night to the moon that the next day at sunrise the tourist nightmare would end and all the losers of the world would stay home. But wait, where would all the money come from if all the losers of the world would suddenly stay home? And would all the losers of the world stay in bed and produce new losers? Is that the explanation why we are soon going to be seven billion people on this planet?

Safe Sex.

Even though any reference to sex is taboo, forbidden, or even condemned by most contemporary religions, the fact remains that sex still is the most popular and favorite activity among human beings, more so in most instances than drinking and eating. And while the Virgin Mary is off limits, I might just remind you that even the Pope’s parents couldn’t refrain from it.

No wonder. Have you been at a nude beach lately? If so, did it not remind you that the anatomy of a naked human being is more sexually explicit than that of any living creature you can think of, including even a cow? (After all: a cow has only one breast.)

At least since Adam and Eve we know that sex is dangerous and detrimental to your health, today even more so than ever before: just by surfing the Internet you can catch a virus.

The only safe sex is a visit to the museums. There, you can indulge in the undisturbed pleasure of comparing sex organs throughout human history. And what’s even better: while admiring and comparing the artistic creations of African culture and of such highly considered porno artists as Pablo Picasso, you will publicly display your aura as an enormously cultured person and indeed be recognized as a real patron of the arts.

08/04/08