B.Brecht.

We went to B.Bs, meaning Bertolt Brecht’s grave today, since it was just across the street. I have never been there before and I was surprised that he has just this little stone and a grave that looks like Prada designed it. Really simple, protestant, NOT flashy, whereas everybody else here has a castle with gold letters, bombastic buildings, that remind you of Evita Peron’s grave in Buenos Aires. (Lots of lazy cats around there, that roast in the sun.) Only the composer Eisler did the Brecht thing and got himself a cement quarter with his name in it. Not really fancy either. BUT: Brecht was way more sophisticated, than you would think, right? My favourite story, maybe only a rumour, is, that he had a little machine to put dirt deep under his fingernails, so that everyone thought he is really “Working Class”. (Similar to the rumour that Michelle Houellebecq has got TWO apartments in Paris. One is dirty and cheap, this is where he meets journalists to show them he is a lost soul.  The other one, where he really lives, is a full on luxury apartment with a whirlpool and Veuve Clicquot in the fridge.) But Brecht had another side, he LOVED Los Angeles and Hollywood. He had a whole collection of books about gossip and glamour and cheap movie stars. I once went into the bookstore in Ackerstrasse and asked the lady, where on earth she got that  book on Elsa Maxwell from. Elsa was a hardcore gossip columnist from the 40s Hollywood. The book lady said, that one of Brecht’s daughters (she did not say which one) sold all her dad’s Hollywood books to her and of course I bought the Elsa Maxwell book in a split second. I was in idiot to sell it again, when I moved. Today I looked close at Brecht’s grave and there was a cigarette, a cigar and a strange mini cigar leaning against the stone. From afar, they look like pencils, and isn’t that what Brecht is about? If you look at him from afar, he comes across as this intellectual writing dude, fighting for the underdog. But if you look close, you see he was into partying! Into letting himself go and enjoying Hollywood from his house on the hill, I am sure the dirt under the nails was gone at that time. I start to like him now and I am glad I never have to read anything of Brecht from school again. I hated it.