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I wish I had more to say, but one of the drawbacks to being reclusive is that nothing much happens. I spend my days typing on this laptop and watching TV. Occasionally, I look through the sunroom windows and am greeted by the sight of Maggie, the neighborhood beagle, crouched indelicately on the edge of someone's lawn, legs aspraddle and face fixed in an expression of fierce concentration. Since no one is clamoring for an account of watching an elderly beagle take a dump against a backdrop of purple mountains' majesty, I have deigned to remain silent.
The Rammstein fandom has been moribund of late. Affenknecht is a graveyard, and Rosenrot is scarcely better. I can only surmise that the silence stems from the fact that U.S. fans are growing more impatient and disillusioned by the day, and the European fans have been basking in the afterglow of repeated exposure. There has been precious little news of any stripe from the Rammstein camp, and one can only squee for so long about the concert they attended or the vicarious thrill of seeing another fan's backstage photos. There was a brief tempest in a teapot over whether Christoph was a philandering pervert with a predilection for groping young women, but it petered out quickly when no proof could be offered to back up such wild accusations. And even if he were groping young vixens, where, exactly, would the surprise part come in? He's a good-looking rock star; it's no stretch to imagine that he has his pick of nubile young ladies with which to satisfy his needs. And for all anyone knows, he and his wife have an agreement about what might or might not happen on the road. It's no one's concern but theirs. If the fans are so affronted at the thought of being groped by a married man, then here's a thought: Stop trying so damn hard to meet the band or get backstage, or, if you do, avoid the groper.
At least it was a bit of fat on which to chew for a few idle moments.
The Rammstein fandom has been moribund of late. Affenknecht is a graveyard, and Rosenrot is scarcely better. I can only surmise that the silence stems from the fact that U.S. fans are growing more impatient and disillusioned by the day, and the European fans have been basking in the afterglow of repeated exposure. There has been precious little news of any stripe from the Rammstein camp, and one can only squee for so long about the concert they attended or the vicarious thrill of seeing another fan's backstage photos. There was a brief tempest in a teapot over whether Christoph was a philandering pervert with a predilection for groping young women, but it petered out quickly when no proof could be offered to back up such wild accusations. And even if he were groping young vixens, where, exactly, would the surprise part come in? He's a good-looking rock star; it's no stretch to imagine that he has his pick of nubile young ladies with which to satisfy his needs. And for all anyone knows, he and his wife have an agreement about what might or might not happen on the road. It's no one's concern but theirs. If the fans are so affronted at the thought of being groped by a married man, then here's a thought: Stop trying so damn hard to meet the band or get backstage, or, if you do, avoid the groper.
At least it was a bit of fat on which to chew for a few idle moments.
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