It’s called Urbantakeover, and it’s all about, well, taking over your town. In this case Vienna.

That doesn’t mean only Viennese can play it, it’s just been developed by some Viennese, and most of the players are there right now. Basically, all you have to do is tag. Print out some stickers, get your handle on them and go claim some space. Once it’s yours, you can SMS the info and get some points. The website tracks your success, and lets you know if you have been crossing others who are playing the game.

Fans of Rand can go it alone, or you can join teams to increase your standings as a group.

I’m not too sure the whole idea of stickering up the landscape will play too well with local authorities if it ever catches on, but until that happens, or some other means of tagging is considered (geotagged flickr photos anyone?) it will just have to do.

Urbantakeover

Brings a new meaning to the phrase “ranking full stop”

Of course, many Viennese I know would say that’s just proof that we have been successfully integrated into local culture.

One of our favorite things to bitch about is the unspeakable rudeness of many people in customer service. If you have ever been to Cafe Westend, I’m sure you know what I am talking about. Waiters, shopkeepers and sales clerks who manage to give you the impression that they would be having a wonderful life, really, if it weren’t for the pesky intrusions of all these people who kept wanting to, you know, buy things.

There are exceptions of course, and it’s their rarity that makes them precious little jewels of memory.

Not that long ago I did some voice work for an audio-guide that was to be used for an exhibition at one of the Museums in Vienna. After an hour in the studio, I was absolutely sold on the project, and decided to visit it with my son as soon as possible. When I heard there would be a big opening event for it, I decided to try and get on the guest list. I’m a bit of a cheapskate.

When I got the call that everything was cool and I would be on the list for the opening, I ecstatically informed my son that we were going out to a big party where their would be lots of cool things to look at, and maybe even free food and cola. We were both rather excited.

When the big night came, I bundled my boy up into the car and headed out for the hour-long jaunt to the Museum. There were hordes of people streaming through the doors, some of them looking very well to do and influential indeed. We were both a little awed.

And then it happened.

The man at the desk asked my for my invitation. I told him I was on the list, and if he would just look it up, everything would be great.

He did.

I wasn’t.

Standing there, with my son looking up at me and feeling more than a little out of place, I had a moment of panic. I don’t like disappointing my kids.

Rather than getting all authoritarian on me, the man at the desk winked and said he was sure there was some mistake. He waved us in and told my son he hoped he would enjoy the exhibition.

I was stunned. Floored. Flabbergasted.

I wanted to cry. It was really the last thing I was expecting in the situation, especially at an invitation only event with so many important looking people. We were lucky enough to miss all of the hot-air and politicking that kicked off the event, snuck around the crowds by scooting up a side entry, and went on to have an absolutely lovely evening looking at all sorts of really cool things.

Inspired by the heavy metal on display, my son promised to buy me a Buggati when he was a famous rock-star. I bought him a poster of the car and told him I would hold him to his word.

If he ever comes through, I plan on hunting down the desk guy and taking him for a ride.

One of the first legends I was told upon arriving in Vienna was a pleasantly terrifying tale of Templars.

As a teenager fascinated by chaos magick, obsucre history, and anything vaguely reminiscent of something Robert Anton Wilson might like, it was the most perfect possible introduction to the city.

In the first district, just behind Stephansplatz there is a short street running between Singerstrasse and the Domgasse. Mozart once lived around the corner. The houses here are some of the oldest in Vienna, with some of the fundaments dating back to the 12th century. History isn’t some abstract concept, it’s a physical part of daily life.

The legend of Blutgasse goes back to the beginning of the 14th century. The Knights Templar, whose influence, wealth, and tax free status had become a thorn in the side of Royals indebted to them, were under attack. King Philip IV of France had been pressuring the church to take action against the Templars. On Friday the thirteenth of October, 1307, he finally made a move against the group, arresting and torturing Templars in France until they confessed to various blasphemies.

According to the Legend, the Knights had founded a secret Refugium in the Fähnrichshof in Vienna. When the Refugium was stormed in 1312, the street now known as Blutgasse was turned red with the blood of the Knights.

After the gimp mask, and his response to the ex-communication, it would just be one more feather in Mr. Lugners hat (if he were to wear one).

I’m a foreigner. I’ve been a foreigner for most of my life. If I end up staying in Austria, I will most likely remain a foreigner ’til I die. Regardless of what passport I have.

When I first went through the process of getting legal here, I was told I could stay, as long as I didn’t work. If I could survive with no income for 6 months, I would then be allowed to get a job.

Some other people said this was nonsense, and since I was married to an Austrian I should be able to start working immediately. The bureaucrats didn’t agree, and I ended up turning down several offers of employment because it wasn’t possible to get the paperwork done.

After 5 months of no-income living I was told I could work. Not only that, I was told I could have worked the entire time, and the 6 month waiting period didn’t apply to me.

The jobs were already gone though, along with 5 months worth of income that I could have used to help support my wife and child.

Oh well. I still had it better than most foreigners here. Since most people thought I was from eastern Europe, they were only assholes until they found out I was from the US. Then they were nice.

Since my preferred line of work was graphic and media design, I also had a certain advantage. Now that I had papers stating I could legally work here, no one ever asked me to work illegally.

Instead, I was offered a position based on a werkvertrag. It’s supposed to be something like a freelance contract. This form of employment was developed, or at least encouraged, in the nineties by the current government. As far as I know both the Socialists and the