I’ve been observing you… I mean – NEWS!

Did I ever tell you about that time I broke into your home, urinated in your kitchen sink, observed you for half an hour while you slept while touching my belly button, and then left? 
Anyway – you should really think about investing in better security. 
Of course this is not the main reason for my writing you. 
You are wiser than that and you already know I’ve been stalking you for the past seventeen years. 

I am peddling my wares again – because I’m a decadent exhibitionist as it turns out (who knew?).

I am off to Copenhagen, where I will be showing some old and new works in an exhibition entitled THE ERADICATED SKYLINE, the last of the  – because that’s what I do in life – I eliminate things. Mostly STDs, but occasionally I will eradicate something in a landscape, put a ridiculous price tag on it and call it “Art”.
True to myself and my heritage, the exhibition takes place in a brewery (a non-functional one, though drinking will always be encouraged in combination with my works), the Carlsberg Byens Galleri & Kunstsalon. Opening this Thursday as part of the Copenhagen Photo Festival running from 6 to 16 June. 
Hope you all have a blessed month of June and know that I’ll be watching you. 
A courteous lick,
PS: Have you visited and shopped on my publishing website? It’s kind of revamped, because apparently, I wasn’t following the “German law” and “legal obligations” and I could be considered a “criminal” if I continued like I was doing – so it had to become like it is now – more customer friendly and all that, but rest assured it was never my intention to offer you any form of customer service. I’d just like to keep my fine ass out of jail as much as possible. 



Presenting… 1) A New Publisher and the Quest for Books – 2) INVITATION: Lena ENGEL Book Launch & Exhibition – 3) Bananas: wholesome fruit that’s also a bit funny sometimes.

Dearest <Insert your First Name here, so you feel personally addressed and not spammed – burp!>, 
As you all know, I am a man of at least one talent(s), and modesty is not one of them (does that add up? Oh, who’s counting?).
I am here to inform you of a logical extension of myself (no, not there, they told me it couldn’t be extended because they couldn’t find it, and honestly, I needed all the help I can get…Wait, where was I?).
I have namely decided to become a publishing house (my blond is the roof!) and it’s with the utmost pleasure, despair, and love (life with me is an emotional rollercoaster ride after all) that I announce to you my first ever publication of another brilliant photographer’s work (yes, there is another!). It is my honour to be able to support her with this publication and have both our names eternalised in the German National Library (well, my name was already there, but that’s only because I used a pink fluorescent marker to write my name in one of Goethe’s original manuscripts (they should revise their safety measures there, really – I even doodled a Dickens on an original Heinrich Heine poem without being questioned…)).
The photographer’s name is Lena Engel, and she spent the last few years documenting lost, unused spaces in Munich, and the book is entitled NullAchtNeun. The exquisite photos document unexpected Munich landscapes, far away from the wealthy expectations we have of this southern German powerhouse. 
The book launch coincides with an exhibition at the Bayernforum der Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung in Munich (which I’m sure you all know how to find – it’s just beyond yonder hill, second street on the right), opening this Thursday, May 9th 
(exactly 234 years to the day after Joseph Bramah patented the beer-pump handle (coincidence? I think not!)). 


If you cannot make it to the exhibition and book launch, feel free to visit this link:
http://studio-tvdo.com/works/books.html and get your own copy of Lena Engel’s wonderful series. 
A selection of images from the series can be viewed here:
If all goes well with this publishing house, you will all be welcome to visit me on my peacock ranch (some people dream of yachts, others just want to spend a lifetime farming and milking peacocks, who are you to judge?).
May you all have a splendid (Barbara is my probably imaginary assistent who will fill this in for me, but in case she doesn’t because she forgot how to read again, you’ll read all this, and I may have to fire her – all your fault!)
A courteous bow, 
PS: Considering the publishing house is basically a gargling infant, the publisher’s director (whoever he is, though I hear hes handsome and very much housebroken) welcomes all support, ideas, concepts, advice, and insults. 
PPS: I have no additional comment about the bananas from the subject line – the truth just IS sometimes, isn’t it?


A Prayer to the Goddess of Vivid Light Magenta! (and a Human Sacrifice)

Oh Goddess of Vivid Light Magenta!
Wherefore hast thou forsaken me?
O why
So far from printing for me, blind
to my mournful nozzle checks?
O thou my Goddess, ink floweth all day,
But thy nozzle clog remains,
So I flush away the gunk and pray,
To once more see those wondrous
Vivid Light Magenta stains!


Faith healing

I consider myself an unholy heathen only believing in anything that can be proven beyond scientific doubt, but drastic situations call for drastic measures. My print head had been having serious issues and it was looking like a €2k repair or €4k new printer might be the only options for me, two options which didn’t really excite me…So therefore I fell to my knees and surrendered myself to the almighty Beast in control of much of my world.

My prayer went on solemnly, but without verse…


“Sure, I’ll throw all my principles overboard if it can save me a few bucks!” – Timmy

Oh eternal Goddess of Vivid Light Magenta, I pray for forgiveness for my sins. My neglect of You was by any means unforgivable and I know You must have felt abandoned and vindictive when you saw me attempt an oil painting over the weekend. I hadn’t meant to leave the heating on, because I know You dislike dry surroundings and are vengeful enough to stop working on a whim.

I promise I shall bring with me only humidity from now on, next to the humility I will always have.

After my first prayers, things were moving in the cartridges – they had clearly worked. Prints were looking more and more like themselves again, but still, even more drastic measures were needed….

Oh, most powerful Goddess of Vivid Light Magenta and now also God of Light Light Black (the fucker was jealous he wasn’t getting any action, so he abandoned me suddenly – and Vivid Light Magenta was now coming back!), I shall approach You now and enter Your holy innards… In sacrifice, I offer this Greek foetus to you and hope that it may please You enough to come back to me… 


Exodus 22:29
You must give me the firstborn of your sons.

If human sacrifice doesn’t work, then I don’t know what else will…



The Sad Story of the CoolMaster SL2-CX

What had he done to deserve his fate?
Caged, like a rabid wild animal, forced to perform air conditioning slavery without repose. There is no God, I saw confirmed. Half-moaning, the machine yelled out to me, whizzing for attention, hoping that I could set it free.
I had heard its cries from my comfortable chilled hotel room, several floors up. Following the woeful noise, I was led downstairs to a section marked STAFF ONLY, a sign I heroically ignored as I carried on.
The cage was shaking, it was clear that this CoolMaster SL2-CX had been operating non-stop for a long while. A sadness engulfed me, questioning what we, as a species had become. First we killed off all the animals, and now we’re doing the same to our robots, beings we specifically created to be our friends. Sadistic behaviour seems so hard to eradicate.

“How long have you been locked up like this?” I inquired.

The SL2-CX continued whizzing, clicking its fans twice. He was trying to warn me he was being recorded. Maybe even livestreamed onto some fetish website dedicated to machines suffering. Poor thing, I thought.

I wondered how I could help free this prisoner from its predicament. The cage didn’t seem that well-locked, but I did notice a live electrical wire connected to the handle. I smiled at how clever this was, because of course if I’d cut the power entirely, SL2-CX would also perish, or at least suffer a power cut without a proper shutdown, which could lead to all sort of software and startup problems.

Those sick bastards.

SL2-CX’s big eye stared helplessly at me, probably aware of the fact that there wasn’t much I could do (apart from maybe writing a blog entry about it 9 months later and thus hopefully getting a movement started). I thought I could perhaps try to cut and reroute the cage’s power circuit without cutting all power supply…

“HEY! What are you doing here?” A voice coming from behind me.
“Oh, hi! Nothing, I was just looking for the swimming pool… ”
“Sure… Just don’t get any ideas of trying to save that thing, you know!”
“What, this thing? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!”

I hurried away from him, not wanting to arouse further suspicion. Before falling asleep, I promised myself I’d gather the necessary tools in the morning and try and save SL2-CX the next night…

However, when I woke up a few hours later, I did so in a giant pool of sweat. I checked the vents in my room – nothing. My heart raced. Half-clothed, I ran downstairs anxiously, and, sure enough… the cage was empty, some oil stains the only scars showing that there had been something in this cage at all.

And that’s when I came up with the idea for my new foundation: “Rescuing All Poor Enslaved Airconditiong System Series” or R.A.P.E.A.S.S. for short. At least that’s the silver lining from this story… I’m sure it’s what SL2-CX would have wanted…


The Secret Morning Code of Runners’ Condescension

This happened just the other day: I woke up before 9 AM, a time I generally consider to be the middle of the fucking night, because of my superhuman biorhythm (*coughs*). Worst of all, I was even very much awake, like with energy and all that shit, no need to snooze my alarm umpteen times and drench myself and my pillow in drool (if I drool, it’s when I snooze – kinky info, I know!).

I know the world expects me to be asleep at that time, so if I’d rob a bank that early, the newspapers would say, “Timmy’s not a suspect, he can’t have possibly been awake that early! Clearly, this was the work of an imposter! Or maybe his evil twin brother who he heroically defeated back in his mother’s womb? But definitely not Timmy!”

I decided I’d go for a morning run, something exhausting that would allow me to maybe go back to bed or that would at least let me doze off in the shower or while blow-drying my hair for an hour or so. I expected the park to be abandoned, because what lunatic would be having these same thoughts as me? To go out and run?

Well, plenty of lunatics, it seems (not shown on image below), and there was something about them that struck me.

Every runner coming from the opposite direction in the park by the water either smiled at me, said hello, waved, or nodded. In the afternoon or evening, when I would normally go out for a run, nobody does this – we’re lonesome warriors, egomaniacs that would rather spit at than nod at another runner when passing them (perhaps slightly exaggerated). Did I know these people? I was pretty sure I wouldn’t associate with any of them, though maybe with that one guy who seemed to be dressed as a gypsy ninja, but I’m superficial that way – I mean, how COOL would is that?!

No, I didn’t know any of them. And then it dawned on me – morning runners have this secret code between them, revealing their self-aggrandising sense of superiority and acknowledging that of others (the Euphemism Generator 3000 would probably describe it as “respect”, but we all know they think they’re better than you, who’s at “work”, “lying in bed”, “walking the dog”, “eating the poor”, or any other activity, and they’re being so outspoken about it.

I wasn’t having any of it, though. I wasn’t part of them, and I won’t ever be, and besides, if I want to feel superior to people, I certainly don’t need to leave the comfort of my own bed!

You are now probably thinking I reacted stoically to the runners I encountered, ignoring them completely, but you’d be wrong. The first few I did give a smile to, because it was always possible I had met them and just forgotten who they were, a regular occurrence in (my) life. However, after realising what they were up to, I changed tactics. I politely returned their nods and waves, but farted so they’d have inhale my gas as they ran me by… That’ll teach them!

Thinking about it… They could have just been nice, though…

POST EDIT on 22 FEB 19: I took a 5 more runs since then along the same route… always after midday… And the non-response was impressive! My next challenge is trying to wake up in the morning again to see if I can verify my above statements in any way…


Kicking a Rusty Car Door

With a head hurting as if I had just suffered a 12-year-long binge of absinth infused tequila slammers, I woke up on the rusty steering wheel, immediately and rather inelegantly vomiting on my crotch.

Where am I? – I thought, because that’s what people do when they wake up in a stupor, with or with a crotchload of freshly ejected vomit (which I did wipe off, mind you – I’m not a total animal!).

No reply came, which makes sense, given the fact that I hadn’t bothered to say the words. I looked at my car and shouted “FUCK!” , wondering what the hell had happened to it. I’d only bought it a few months ago, but it seemed as if it had been left abandoned for decades. And where’s my windshield?

Still feeling horrible, I stumbled out of the car, the rusted door only cooperating after giving it a well-deserved kick. Stupid piece of trash! 

I noticed another car a just behind mine, in even worse condition than mine was. Nobody was inside, though.

Walking back around my car, I bemoaned the shape it was in, muttering to myself how none of it made sense. Where’s my engine? Did I enter another universe? A time portal? Was I abducted by aliens?

The complete black-out annoyed me, and I do remember the last thing was me driving, but I wasn’t in a forest – I was driving to work. On a road. In a car with an engine. In 1965.

I wondered about the other driver. Maybe he was still around, but I had no idea who he was or if would even be wise to try and find him; what if HE caused all this?

Taking a deep breath, a sense of paranoia overcame me and I became convinced I had to get out of there and maybe just accept that I’d never find out. Remember that news story about that coma patient who’d been abused for years? You wouldn’t want her to be told about this when she comes to, or do you?

That was a valid point, and I quietly found my way out of the forest and never looked back…


Little House (After William Blake)

Little House, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee rise & made you still.
By the mountain o’er yonder hill;
Gave thee windows even at a height,
Sparkling in what seems a random site;
Gave thee perfect bricks from far beyond,
Making all the trav’lers fond!
Little House who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee

Little House I’ll tell thee,
Little House I’ll tell thee!
‘t Was an Asshole was his name,
Abandon’d thee, for shame!
He is weak & reviled,
In ev’ry sense a petulant child!
Leaving thee alone to collapse,
I’ll take revenge, IN ALL CAPS!
Little House I bless thee.
Little House I bless thee.



If one would do some poetry analysis and put this poem next to the original, the most striking thing would certainly be to whom I am equating myself here. Luckily, nobody reads poetry any more, so I should be safe from scrutiny…


Anthem from a Doomed World

Nihilism reigns deep on this planet I’ve been visiting now for about 30-odd of their years. Reality has become an alien concept, which makes it easier for me, to them an actual alien, to shed off my skin every now and then and show myself unashamedly. You’d think I’d be found out at some point, but every image that is taken of me, is then put out to their internet world for assessment, with opinions calling me anything from an obvious fake (which is kind of true, I guess) to a secret service operative (also kind of true) to a drunk in a costume (well, that’s also kind of true) and an ISIS buttplug (but that’s not true for sure, though I think that person was drunk when he looked at the picture, even though I can understand his drunk interpretation of our species’ natural form). As long as opinion remains so divided over what they see, nothing happens except for endless bickering, while the world around them remains in flames.

Considering that on my home planet, we all live to be around a million earth years, it’s funny how I initially overcompensated for humans’ laughably short lifespans trying to sympathise with them that 10-20 years was a long period of time. Because they make it seem that way. Theoretically, with only about 30 generations of grandparents and grandchildren, you are back in Roman times, back when their Jebus allegedly rode those dinosaurs to work. Which to them is like ancient history. And that’s when I stopped pretending to agree with their concept of time. Little time has passed since they figured out it’d be a good thing not to throw one’s feces out the window.

Slowly, but steadily, they are completing their own destruction. Perhaps it’s the greatest thing any civilisation can do: ignore the limitations of their resources and just, for the sake of profit, go out with a bang, which in their case could be quite a literal one. I’ve seen it happen on a few other planets, but here, the way in which stupidity is revered, it is quite a wonderful thing to behold. A picture of a stupid egg gets more attention than anything ever in the history of the world (and the previous record holder was even sadder, if possible); news articles are dedicated to it, a news crew is sent to interview a chicken about its egg. The egg looks on in silent agreement. Don’t get me wrong, I love their absurdity and I understand the desire to escape. Living as one of them, escaping is all I do, but my excuse is I get to go home and live another 900 thousand years, so I can mess about while I’m here, but what’s theirs?

I do miss my home planet. I understand that going through these interstellar exchange programs is meant to educate me about primitive cultures, but I can’t wait before my 80-earth-year semester is over, so I can return home and do something actually useful, like crack the dark matter portal to interstellar travel.

Ah, the exchange programme – makes me things about those exchange “students” we brought over from this earth back in the 80s; glad we stopped that programme, because they were all just focussing on being probed (to keep them alive for interstellar travel, but well), rather than talk about any of the technological advances we showed them that could help them. Of course they weren’t believed.

There is a downtrodden minority that does prefer beauty and intellectual progress, but the violent ones are always louder and they are gaining volume past the point of no return. If this minority won’t make it, I will be sure to take some of them with me as pets when I return in about 40 years, or earlier if need be (though knowing them, I’m sure they too will be bitching about the anal probes for the first few thousand years …).

Timmos OUT!image 4

The TimFoil Hat

Whenever something happens I can’t explain, obviously and logically, I draw the conclusion that aliens must have been somehow involved. Only then do things really start to make sense.

For instance, when I locked myself out of my apartment the other night, I knew I couldn’t possibly blame myself for it, because I never forget my keys. Therefore, the only reasonable explanation is that aliens somehow infiltrated one of the dimensions (the invisible one) and took my keys out of my pocket and threw them back into the apartment. Why? Obviously because they know I’m on to them. With my patent-pending tinfoil hat technology, I am on the verge of breaking through the barriers between dimensions.

I’ll spare you the physics, or maybe I’ll give you just a little bit of physics: the patent-pending tinfoil hat enables the wearer’s brain to become some sort of Faraday’s cage (I call it the “TimFoil Hat”… get it?), meaning that the brain cannot be reached by the invisible radio signals that force us into viewing only 3 (or was it 4?) of the 12 dimensions in which the universe exists. How do I know it’s 12 dimensions? Well, easy, I’ve seen them all! Also, if you multiply 3 dimensions by 4 dimensions, you get 12 dimensions – that’s just mathematical proof right there! I can’t believe nobody ever thought of this before! Mind-boggling beyond belief! I truly must be the greatest mind of my generation! But don’t worry, I will use my powers only for good, and for self-enrichment of course, that goes without saying.

Of course not just any tinfoil hat will do – it has to be produced exactly according to my blueprints, and what most people having dedicated their lives to tinfoil hat technologies failed to realise, was that they also needed the nose to be covered with tinfoil, because everybody knows the easiest way to access the brain is through the nasal cavity. And the aliens know that. And they found out that I know that.

That cigar-shaped object flying by earth recently? Yeah, that was them coming to attack us, but I stayed up all night that night to fight them off (you’re welcome). They’ll be back with reinforcements, that’s why the reconnaissance aliens on earth are trying to mess with me, trying to have me declared mentally ill, so they can continue their anal probing practices on the unsuspecting population.

I hope for humanity’s sake that I will have enough time to produce enough hats to save us all. You can of course help to speed up production by pre-ordering your TimFoil hat now!

Need more proof? Here is a picture I took in the 7th dimension of an invisible alien space ship – its actual size is either very small or very big, depending on how close you are in relation to it (how fucked up is that? It CHANGES size when you get closer!!! *MIND BLOWN*).
Notice the symbol that almost looks like the number six. This is in fact the alien symbol for “anal probe steriliser”…

Scary stuff, I know…
Brug 31.jpg


Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
      And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
                                                                      – Wilfred Owen
Image 6
100 years since the end of WWI – I had to think of this little conversation I had with the very old German doctor doing the check-up for my health insurance approval after having just moved to Germany:
“Ah, van den Ouden…hoven…. Is that from die Niederlande?”
“Nein, it’s from Belgium, actually.”
“Aaaah…” He ponders a few second, scratching his beard… “You know, we always forget about Belgium, really… It’s only when we go to war, we remember this little country we have to walk through.”
I replied something along the lines of “Yeah, I think it’s best you guys don’t think of us too much then…”