After birth, the man has to leave a warming, protective lap just twice in his life. That’s when he clears his nursery. The second time he leaves his cuddly-bawdy bachelor flat to live with a woman. For many men, this step is the true birth trauma. Because the men’s shared apartment is a peaceful, idyllic place, an Arcadian landscape of scattered tennis socks, Bundesliga Stecktabellen, dried room palms and Sophie Marceau posters. The shock is great when we are driven out of this paradise.
When men rent an apartment and found a shared flat, the whole thing quickly gets its own dynamic. Perhaps the best way to explain the men’s -WG is by their spiritual center. It’s the beer box . Or, more correctly: the box of beer. No matter if it is drunk or not – it is always about “having a box of beer in the house”. This box of beer is the obvious proof of a thoroughly honest, almost down-to-earth work ethic, which we have saved despite our lame Schlipsträger jobs. A man needs a beer box to express his affection to another man: “Come on over, we also have a box of beer in the house.”
The box also serves as a legitimation of all sorts of activities that would seem aimless, even silly, without it: “Then we drum up a few people, grab a ball, go to the park, and we take a box of beer.” To the box beer belongs in the men’s flat many rituals, such as not to have a bottle opener to open the bottle without a word by means of lighter, pipe wrench, edge of table or on the box itself – the last variant is certainly the most beautiful, the box of beer as perfect closed system. No wonder, by the way, that men who have long lived in men’s shared apartments are often recognized by a crown-shaped scar under the sole of their feet.
With the case of beer, whose importance is not to be overestimated, another phenomenon common to men is common. What the Protestants their Kirchentag, the Ravern their Love Parade, the telecom shareholders their general meeting, these are the organized in WGs men the international football tournaments EM and WM: a great meaningful community experience. Just the awareness that at the same time millions of others have made themselves comfortable with peanut flips and a box of beer in front of the TV, creates that quasi-erotic sense of togetherness, which otherwise can only be achieved by taking ecstasy or paying a nice dividend.
Almost as important as the box of beer is the blue garbage bag. He not only reduces the passage to the container to one per month, he also guarantees that the contact with the parents is not completely demolished: About every six to eight weeks towed WG men their dirty clothes in the humid from blue misted blue garbage bag to Mama. Because the men’s flat has no washing machine or does not use it. This has nothing to do with laziness, as well as the various layers of sediment dirt. Rather, there is a physical anomaly of cosmic proportions in male WGs: the law that energy can not be lost is refuted every day in every single WG, day in and day out. Energy is sucked away without a trace until even the greatest ambition restricts its activities to to sit in the TV couch and from time to time “mum tomorrow” and “just no stress” to mumble. If anything, because after years of living together, the verbal communication in the men’s flat is mostly limited to different intonations of the idol “age”. “Age” without emphasis means: “Hello, how are you, how was your day?” “Aalter “, stretched: expression of great enthusiasm and recognition, such as when a member of the WG has brought pizza.” Old! “, Emphatically: You are in the picture.
One notices already, prevail in the men’s WG vorzivilisatorische states. Many behaviors practiced there can only be explained as a deeply rooted superstition: Never fold down the toilet lid, that brings bad luck! The rear regions of the refrigerator are protected habitat for mutant foods and taboo for humans!
Comic reading makes bowel movements easier! The tricky topic of reading a toilet has special proof in this context: We men want to make us as comfortable as possible everywhere. We are driven by a nest drive, as it does not occur in the animal world a second time. We invented the allotment garden, the corner bar and the business class so that we can have it all at home: in the “Colony Little Refuge”, in ” Lothi’s Präpelstübchen “, in the “Executive Lounge”. And just in the men’s apartment.
From this biotope we are suddenly torn out when we contract with a woman for the first time in our lives. When our men’s flat share was shattered by the fist of heterosexual attraction, all my friends shared the same fate: women who brought in previously unknown components into living together. Above all cold, cutting reason: “Why a whole box, we never drink that!” We used to buy groceries piecemeal in the shop at the gas station, now we get shopping lists in the hand, which are arranged in the order of the shelves in the supermarket. Gone is it with the downright Biolek harmony addiction, which we were used to from the men’s flat share. For the first time, we realize that you can solve problems differently, as they sit in front of the TV or on the toilet. We learn that there is not enough reconciliation outside the men’s flat to fry the other a bloody steak.
But most serious is the end of the coziness. In the men’s shared flat came pals (“Do you have a box of beer there?”), Today we have guests. We are suddenly forced to think about table cloths, menu sequences and conversation material, where once the pizza from the box solved all three problems at once (“Man, is the pizza today greasy again.” – “Can you say aloud.” – ” MAN, IS THE PIZZA … “, etc.).
While the microcosm of men’s flat is self-sufficient, we are now constantly in contact with the outside world: theaters, museums, furniture stores, and dumpsters at the back of the yard. Only when we live together with a woman do we slowly become functional members of the social community. But this evolution from caveman to homosexual life is a painful process that demands a lot of sacrifice: for example, Kurt’s shirt-trick that spares you ironing: put an un-ironed shirt under a sweater for a day, so it will not be the next day It looks like it was ironed out, but it was as if it had been ironed and crumpled on the body. Now you can wear the shirt for two days without a sweater! We admired him for it, Beate has advised him to take an ironing course. Frank used to push his chair in front of the TV so that he could easily put his foot on the TV table to change the programs with his bare toe and adjust the volume. A beautiful, physical form of interactivity, a symbiotic unity of man and medium, which gave long television nights an almost metaphysical quality. Karla just bought new batteries for the remote after they pulled together.
Gone are the days when we poured a time- and energy-saving bag tea with the hot egg water. But it is even more difficult for us to cook noodles suddenly without the help of the kitchen ceiling. In our men’s flat share, we had developed a brilliant trick that you can wait for a long time in Christiane Herzog’s cooking studio: To determine when spaghetti is ready, take a few out of the pot and throw it to the ceiling. If they fall down again, they are still too hard. If they stick, they are just right.