The dog we’re looking for doesn’t play jazz standards. No, he never learnt the piano. Laurie Anderson’s dog was much more talented. So you will never listen to his version of „Over the Rainbow“. Otherwise, old compadre Henning Bolte would have shot some game-changing photographs. A sweating dog and his blue notes. In an old jazz club, rive gauche, me, oh my.
Last week I’ve been in the hospital. Now I’m returning to the every day routines of my private-eye office. Writing a lecture, diving into the early short films of Buster Keaton, preparing journeys to the sea. Last week was special. I experienced wonderful human beings. With the exception of one day, I was feeling fine.
Before I went unconscious, I talked to a medicine student who was preparing my narcotics. Or something a bit more simple. I asked the blonde about her favourite TV-Show, she said: „Sex and the City“. She added: „That’s me“. She meant: high hopes and some real bad outcomes.
After I found out that her musical taste was rather middle-of-the-road, I gave her a musical remedy. Only idiots think that the mainstream has per se no healing power. Bullshit. So I told her to trust me blindly (easy, I tell you!) and listen extensively to Michael Kiwanuka’s new album. It would send her places. At that moment, 30 mg of Tranxilium, had sent me places.
But now, another job. For good hunters. A dog is missing. I know that area very well. We are five people, and we will find the „Hirtenhund“. He is very shy cause he had been in the killing station too long. Found a new home. But with a certain degree of post-traumatic stress symptoms, he lost his mind (sense of place) in a moment of fragility, and startet to run. We will bring him back. At least we will give our best.
