Archive for December, 2011
The first part of the ritual is reconnaissance. That is, in his turn, each Galeone male comes by with a fabricated task meant to survey the cuisine and his competition.
“I’ve been sent here to get a bottle opener,” says one middle-aged male. He begins to scan the room in search of the culinary information he desires.
“You’re holding the bottle opener,” says one of the cooking Galeones.
After a few more moments he says “yes.” Then places it on the table and leaves the room.
Except, evidently, for Mabel.
“Mabel! Where are my cigarettes?”
Everyone now waits with an expectant ear to learn about the whereabouts of the man’s tobacco. A moment later, from the other side of the lounge, the answer comes in a loud, whining moan that plaints something about fanny packs and very personal medical creams.
Or…in Academic Terms
The overall quiddity (sic) or, thusly, goal, as it were, to be stated, clearly and indelibly, of this exploratory blog post (ad hoc, academic text) on the issue, thereof and henceforth, at present, of the quality, or lack of henceforth, of these texts, and a further (inquisitive) discussion upon whether or not, one relatively intelligent human being (aka: Homo sapiens and in some, although minimal cases, Neanderthal and more minimally, Erectus), can, without guided expertise, focus on that and in and of itself, the material per se that the imbibed is in hope of attaining the information here and of other sources that he, or she, if so be the case, can attain.
And why that sucks.
We are in one of Prague’s many Christmas markets and it’s something like a European Norman Rockwell painting. The markets are made up of several wooden huts offering various manufactured items, handmade wares and homemade food and drinks. In one place you can buy a bong, a homemade candle, a roasted pork knee and top it off with a svařak (hot spiced wine).
After stuffing our faces with hot wine and hotdogs, we step over to the entertainment center. This center consists of a kiddy swimming pool filled with carp and the entertainment consists of a large man lifting a carp from the pool, gingerly laying it on a table and beating it to death before filleting it.
I’m guessing that Norman Rockwell would have left out all the bludgeoning, decapitating and eviscerating.
In any case, Veselé Vánoce and Merry Christmas!
My stomach sends forth a rumble from its very pit and I smile like an evil genius. I seal the deal by opening the soy dip and crackers and filling up a bowl with chili.
After I eat and drink to absolute capacity, it is ready for action. I feel another angry lurch in my intestinal system and leave my flat. I hit the button to the lift.
See, it all started today at 7 a.m.
My nostrils have been hermetically sealed for six hours. I visit the bathroom on average three times every four minutes. And there are angry elves drilling holes into the side of my brain and poking swords into the back of my eyes. I get up and observe the living corpse in the mirror. Something climbs out of my nose and starts singing and my hair has revolted against the rest of my body.
It’s official, I am dying. Though there’s the off-chance it’s the flu.
Federico is a man with the head of a camel who is trying to become a liver salesman in Dubai. He is at the airport with his mother and a man named Smedley, who is pretending to drink gin, but is having a problem pretending it when he’s on his roller skates.
This is a big problem, especially for Federico, since he just sold his falafel stand to a group of hippies from Detroit. Smedley leaves the airport to become an auto mechanic and dies while eating liver in London.
Nobody is happy about this, so they board the airplane with a bag full of money and waffles.
If my Czech is correct, this perfectly describes the plot of the play I am watching.
I move through Prague’s Hlavní nádraží (main train station) towards the metro with the heads-down intent of a New York City commuter. Already at 5:30 p.m. the sun has set and the wet weather adds a “let’s put hemlock in our milk” mood into the quiet atmosphere. Making matters worse, I substituted a lesson today which introduced a few impolite students into my otherwise predictable day. I have been carrying around that anger all day. My goal, like everyone else, is to get from point A (work) to point B (kitchen).
However, when I hear a shouted grumble and glimpse a flurry of ragged clothing, I move out of the cattle line to get a perspective. There are three of them; two men and a woman. The woman is with one of the men; they have matching jackets and His & Hers gaps in their teeth. At the genesis of the argument I ask a woman what they are saying. She doesn’t know, but mentions with interest that there is something about chicken and underwear. The possibilities are endless, but one thing is very clear:
We are about to see a bum fight.