Archive for April, 2018

Smell Them Roses

The signs of spring are here. Bees or wasps the size of hummingbirds rev near my windows. The B Monster starts shedding hair like it’s her occupation, which, I suppose, it sort of is. And Prague life slows down.

I’ve written about Prague spring and summer many times in the past and for good reason – they are truly magnificent. I am not simply talking about going from a shitty winter to a nice summer. The whole demeanor of the city changes. Things become lighter, more relaxed, more fluid.

I find that each time of year carries its comfort images. Autumn is an October day, leaves in the yard, a walk through a dying colorful landscape. Winter is always pre-Christmas, the cheery atmosphere of approaching holidays and time with family and friends; there’s a good stew on the stove, a good glass of whiskey in hand, and I’m looking out at the snow and saying “Glad I’m in here!” I’m often wearing a rollneck sweater. Summer is a collage of long days at home, very few present concerns, reading on the porch in a rocking chair, eating cheesesteaks, hanging with family, baseball on TV, blissful days at the beach.

Spring is the morning. It’s bright, spring being the time of year I always think I’m waking late. Shit it’s 9 a.m. and I’m missing class! Nope. It’s 5 a.m. and I’m missing sleep. The air spilling through my window is comfortable cool; I come out into the flat, brightening it in increments by pulling open curtains. I write in my airy office, I have a coffee. In this fantasy the cat is not the constant meowing machine begging to get to the porch that she is in reality.

It’s the time of year that means less urgency, more daytime, slower afternoons, during which I am likely to find myself in a beer garden. For me, teaching is finished for the summer, we are testing people, which any teacher will tell you may bring its own flavor of hell, but is not the same as teaching.

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Walmart One

Image Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

It’s Sunday. I’m eating hummus. Things are good. And then I make the mistake of reading the news.

Two days ago an asteroid “the size of a Walmart” passed close by the Earth. What’s close? As regards asteroids and their physical approximation to Earth, “close” is anything closer than we are to the moon. This one was half our average distance to the moon. So, close.

Another alarming detail is that it was moving at 66,000 miles an hour. If it had not disintegrated in our atmosphere, a Walmart flying 66,000 miles an hour might have popped out of the sky and drilled (probably) Russia. I say Russia not with scientific proof, but partially because the two other asteroid strikes in the article both hit Russia, and partially out of better you than me wishful thinking. It’s the price you pay for covering more than an eighth of the planet.

According to the article, the asteroid, 2018 GE3, would have “caused regional, not global damage.” (Side note: call me old fashioned, but we should prioritize better naming things that almost killed us. We didn’t name the Black Widow ‘2901 SPIDHRGLS’ for a reason.) Anyway, I was slightly put at ease by the protection of our atmosphere and asteroids’ propensity to aim themselves at Russia.

But then I make the mistake of looking up more articles about asteroids. I read about their devastating effect on the environment and the fact that many scientists now recognize them as our number one threat for global disaster. Stephen Hawking (you’ve heard of him. pretty smart dude) says that any asteroid over 20 km in diameter that hits Earth will “bring an end to all complex life on Earth.” Any ease I have attained is now completely washed away.

I notice that I can’t stop looking at the sky now. It’s blue and perfect, Prague Castle is carved out in the distance against it. There is a little serenity in this, but then I imagine a Walmart hurting out of the sky at 66,000 miles an hour and hitting it, and serenity is gone. I hoist my binoculars and scan the horizon.

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Don’t be Big Brother

The most unlikable guy I’ve ever known used to frequent a dive bar I tended. From 5-7 pm the clientele was mostly blue collar guys, primarily consisting of roofers who had no idea that tip was a verb. After they cleared out, the place was up for grabs. My friends might stop in or young people grabbing cheap beers on their way out on the town. As the night wore on, however, the place became a No Man’s Land of boozers, street kids, crack heads, and homeless that had walked out of the pages of a Bukowski story. This bar has made me appreciate every job I’ve had since I walked through its doors on my last day.

The fact that one guy manages to be the most unlikable of all the characters I dealt with is almost dubiously impressive, like being told by Hunter Thompson that he can’t keep up with your drinking.

His most distinguishing feature was a cigarette burn in the middle of an already inadvisable mustache. He was pure asshole; and he played the part well. He would badger me (or others) for money to have another drink even though he never once tipped me, he went on racist rants against his sister’s boyfriend, who had more integrity in his little finger than this guy would ever possess. He was married and had four children to four other women, a fact which he explained scientifically by pointing out that he’d spent his youth “young, dumb, and full of come.” I’m guessing that most who knew him wished he’d remained the latter.

He came in three nights a week to rendezvous with his mistress. He’d stay until his money was gone, spending it on beer, Yukon Jack, and, as he still does in my darkest nightmares, the jukebox. When he’d saunter over and slip those coins in, I knew what was coming next: In the Ghetto by Elvis Presley.

And he sang. Like sang sang. Like drunk Elvis impersonator doing karaoke sang. He’d shut his eyes, stand in the corner, let out a breath as if tantalizing a stadium of people, and then he’d poke a finger into the air and start out about a child born on a cold and gray Chicago mornin’, and he wouldn’t stop until the song was done and I was climbing into the sink holding the radio. He’d then come back to his stool, breathing heavily and triumphant, to reap the spoils of his success in a heated make out session with his mistress.

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Strive to be a Do Nothing

It’s a slur against someone. You’re such a do nothing!  

And yet, I strive to do nothing. Oh, how I love me some irony.

I try to do nothing every morning for ten minutes; it never works out. I spend the time – usually capping out around four minutes – worrying about what I have to do. Blog. Work out. Plan lessons. Check messages and email. Meetings.

Doing nothing is hard work. When we do nothing, we tell the world that we aren’t playing by its rules for a little bit and we go against our instincts and our guilt. This morning, in an effort to do nothing, I made a list of ways to do nothing. Again, irony.

Go to a Café on a Weekday Morning  

One of my students told me that every morning he sits in a café downstairs from his flat. He gets a coffee, leisurely scrolls through his phone or reads. Sometimes, he said, he just sits there.

I was almost as impressed as I was incredulous. On a weekday morning!?

This seems the most defiant of Do Nothing activities. With a whole day of responsibilities ahead of me, my brain and fingers are on overdrive. I can’t stop moving or thinking. If you can enjoy a cup of coffee on a weekday morning without guilt or stress, then I will gladly suffix your first name with Lama.

Day Drink

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Nationalistic Schadenfreude

I was on the metro once when a German tourist realized he’d had his wallet lifted at the airport and shouted “Sheize!” before storming off the car. Every single person on that car cracked a smile. To this day it is the only time I have ever seen a group of Czechs smile on public transport.

The Czechs love a bit of Schadenfreude – deriving pleasure at someone else’s misfortune. And while I have certainly undertaken aspects of my adoptive country’s cultural habits, like enjoying apocalyptic silence on trams or embracing socks and sandals, this one came as a shock.

I have always prided myself on two things: First, I don’t wish bad things on people, and second, my unusually soft thumb hair. As for the former, I usually wish the best for people and genuinely want them to be happy and healthy. But I have come to understand that I sometimes enjoy seeing people sweat, and my motivations are nationalistic.

For example, there are few things more satisfying than seeing British people become socially uncomfortable. The British are very open about their social awkwardness, but witnessing the push of this particular envelope induces a mildly orgasmic reaction.

A couple of years ago, a British colleague walked into the office only to be confronted with the horror of a surprise birthday party. The agony of discomfort that overtook him as it dawned on him that the party was something like a horrible beauty. I thought he might throw himself out of the window. When they handed him a cake and a handsomely-wrapped present, he almost cried. I wished I’d had a beach chair and a tub of popcorn.

Nearly as satisfying is watching an American food order go wrong. Americans love nothing more than ordering a meal and modifying it until it no longer resembles the meal from which it originated. Anyone who has ever taken any part in a meal near any American knows exactly what I am talking about. Can I get the burger but with chicken instead of beef, with half sweet potato fries and half russets, with kosher sea salt on the russets only? Instead of barbecue sauce, can you do a frog demi-glace with sautéed mushrooms in eggplant oil, and instead of lettuce can I get onions fried in baby-tofu seal fat? Thaaaaanks!

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No Witnesses, Please

We all have guilty pleasures. A pleasure is only guilty when you don’t want other people to see you enjoying that pleasure. So the guy who says “My guilty pleasure is hanging out on the back of my truck drinking Jack Daniels and listening to Johnny Cash” is full of crap.

That guy’s guilty pleasure is dancing around in a towel lip-syncing to Taylor Swift’s Blank Space (this is said with absolutely no experience of having done this).

So let’s just be clear what we’re talking about. Things that you love to do that you don’t want anyone seeing or knowing you do.

Dropping Everything to Excrete

This is more about being 43 years old than a guilty pleasure, but it’s something I don’t want people to see me doing. It all boils down to a window of opportunity consideration. Something has to come out of your (mostly) exit only portals and you go somewhere and let your body do its own yoga.

Trust me. Embrace this. One day you will, nonetheless.

Emotional YouTube

I will not go into details. But with a few drinks under my belt, I am not watching intellectual conversations between Dick Cavett and Gore Vidal.

Singing Songs in French

…which is a language I do not speak. So I just sing gibberish in what I sort of gather is a French accent. Which, again, is not accurate in any way.

My Interview with Conan O’Brien

He was a big fan of my book. We had lattes.


At bedtime in movies and television, women wear a T-shirt and nothing else and guys wear pajama pants and maybe a T-shirt. It’s masculine and suggests that he’s ready for any emergencies that might occur during the night.

For years I wore pajama pants. And while I slept everything below my waist would become the temperature and humidity of the Amazon. Invariably I’d wake up in the middle of the night and chuck my pants across the room.

I finally came to terms with the fact that I’d rather be comfortable and look feminine than uncomfortable and look masculine. And so I simply wear a longish T-shirt and nothing else. And while you might suggest that is girly, I remind you that Ebenezer Scrooge navigated his way through three Christmas ghosts wearing a nightshirt, and my below-waist sleepy time climate is mild.

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Easter Anxiety

Though I was ready to buy almost any story I heard, I found Easter pretty unlikely when I was a kid. Jesus is sold out by his friends, denied by his legions of followers, killed in a horrible way, buried in a cave, and then after three days emerges, relatively unperturbed as to recent events.

Nah. Never bought it.

Part of my disbelief hinges on the pictures. In the hundreds of artist representations depicting Easter that I saw growing up, above my grandmom’s living room couch or in all of my grade schools, Jesus always seemed a bit wiser, calmer, inspired, a whole lot holier, and maybe a bit roughed up. He definitely appeared ready to move on up to the next place.

Of course now I look at those pictures with a different perspective. With more experience, I see a dude resurrected, climbing out of a pit after a long dark winter, both literal and figurative. Sticking with that metaphor, in the pictures it’s the beginning of spring, lighter, easier going. In almost all of these pictures, sunlight is dramatically present.

I always supposed that the whole scene was meant to convey Jesus’ transition from man to God. Coming out of the grave. Rebirth. In better condition. Transition from man to God. The sunlight. God, grace, optimism, divinity. The liberation from earth and the ascendance to Heaven. But now I think that’s all a crock.

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