Damien Galeone

The twelfth one comes in. She looks like the eleventh. And the tenth. They are all young and attractive; their eyes shine, their smiles are radiant and they are a whole voter younger than me

There are two of us doing the interviews for the study abroad program. One of us is the interviewer, the other is the assessor. I am the interviewer; I begin my rigmarole

“Good morning, I’m Mr. Galeone and this is Professor ———ova. Welcome to the oral test for the Unmentionable Study Abroad Program.” A vine of hives spreads up the candidate’s chest onto her neck as her pre-interview jitters get the better of her. I smile. “Just relax, could you tell us a little about yourself?

As this is the 300^th interview I’ve been a part of in the last three weeks, this is where things start to blend together. Therefore, I slip into a kind of dreamy trance during the interview. Do I need bread? Would it freak this kid out if I just started vomiting right now? Look up on Wiki: Nipple Cancer.  

Read the rest of this entry »

A fact of life for any unknown writer is trying to get a book review from someone other than their grandmom. My grandmom thinks my novel is a masterpiece, much better than “that Southern fella who writes about all the lawyers,” but that doesn’t help sway the New York Times Book Review into taking a look.

Getting a review in Kirkus Reviews, which is a highly regarded literary review, costs a lot of money. A lot. And since I am an educator in the Czech Republic, selling my soul has become a necessary evil.

Below is a list of ten services I am offering to raise the money for a review in Kirkus. I based it on my strengths, people’s needs, and of course, porn.

Read the rest of this entry »

This follows the timeline of a schmuck writing a paper on ‘The Prophet’s Hair’ by Salman Rushdie. Please do not replicate.

8:15 a.m. I decide to start writing. I make a huge breakfast that takes over an hour to prepare and forty-five minutes to eat. After three cups of black, strip-your-stomach-lining coffee and singing along to the entire album Highway 61 Revisited, I sit down at the desk.

Computer Screen Status: Blank

Read the rest of this entry »

It’s Saturday morning and the fridge is calling to me again.

My fridge calls to me all the time, but this time it’s not the normal lilting, sensual voice that bespeaks of Camembert and pudding. It’s not the dreamy song of sausages and fresh eggs and tomatoes. And it’s not the lute melody fairy songs of cold pizza, leftover fried chicken or ham off the bone.

Today, this weekend, the music is different; more like a satanic, death-metal bagpipe-fest played by angry Gary Coleman lookalikes. Despite this, I climb off the couch and shuffle up to the fridge.

I open the door and regard my enemy: a pound and a half of spicy chili. I let out a miniature war cry and remove the chili from the fridge. Then I grab the crackers. I have a job to do. I have one and a half pounds of chili to eat in one weekend.

Read the rest of this entry »

Richard Harris is running across a meadow naked. Then Richard Harris, the first Albus Dumbledore for those of you who have never seen Camelot, courts a Native American girl by giving her a shoe. Then, the scene flashes to a mountain lion bringing down a white-tailed doe. This, I assume, is symbolic of Richard Harris’ incredibly poor acting performance bringing down this already painful film.

Finally, Richard Harris is hung from a ceiling by his nipples. This is clearly punishment for his poor acting skills. During his ensuing vision, we learn that he was also an extra on Bonanza and that his spirit animal is a white buffalo.

I let out a groan and press pause. I step to the liquor cabinet and concoct a remedy whose dual purposes are to improve Richard Harris’ acting and somehow clothe him.

Read the rest of this entry »

The devil pants make it to mid-thigh before they get stuck like a spoon in day old oatmeal. I sigh and cast a glance at my old pants, which are in a heap on the bench. I long for the comfort of their worn elastic waistband and well-earned, homemade ass-pouch. I strip the devil pants off my thigh and throw them on the ground. Two other pairs of pants wait in the corner, zippers grinning in wide, mocking sneers.

“?!@#.”

If there is an activity that elicits my wrath more being in a dressing room, then it is being in a dressing room trying on pants. I am a card-carrying member of the Chubby People’s Club, having scored high marks in the areas of donut consumption and midnight snacks. Furthermore, my thesis, Butter, it’s not just for bread anymore,’ was very well-received in fat circles.

Read the rest of this entry »

So, I’m moving down the street towards my flat after an exam on Developing African States. It’s more of a shuffle, actually. Since the exam has gone well I have decided a treat is in order and I am toting a bag of reward goodies. As I come to a crossroads near my flat, a man a few yards ahead of me is trying to start his car. The engine clicks, struggling to turn over without any luck.

At this sound, I halt, turn and shoot down the other street, away from the car. The sky gets darker and my will to get home for an afternoon of celebratory gluttony strengthens. I hook a support finger through the plastic loops of my grocery bag and push into a turtle-ish third gear. As I “speed up” the car’s engine finally catches and starts. There is no moment of realization and I am not surprised. I know exactly why I didn’t pass by the car; I fully expected it to explode.

Read the rest of this entry »

Part of the everyday fun of being neurotic and obsessive is the comfort that comes with doing a wallet check. This is typically a two-second pat on the wallet that confirms its presence and ensures that someone has not relieved you of its burdensome weight.

As I sit on the metro on the second leg of my daily commute (walk to metro, metro to tram, tram to work), I perform the first of ten to twelve daily wallet checks. When its absence is confirmed, my sweat glands signal a Code Red

The Code Red is downgraded to Code Black for one reason – I realize that it has not been stolen. I recall leaving it in my other pants, along with all my cash and my transport card. I use Code Black for when I must ride public transport without a ticket or transport card. To be caught without a ticket means a 1000Kč fine, which is about fifty dollars. The ticket inspectors, who we shall identify collectively as Honza, are a notoriously malevolent and mean-spirited group of subhuman. Honza sits on the bottom rung of the public servant hierarchy and he is ruthless and ornery, like an old man who’s just accidentally gotten a hysterectomy.

Read the rest of this entry »

I won’t lie to you, I don’t look good. As I write this my physical and mental conditions have deteriorated past what is considered acceptable of a bipedal mammal. Well, one that doesn’t groom a friend and then dine on the grub worm, anyway.

I am losing moments. I have ingested nothing green in the last two days, but I have green stains on my shirt. There’s a layer of coffee on my tongue that has sent the U.S. biological weapons department to DEFCON 3. I woke myself this morning by muttering sociolinguistics theories in my sleep. Evidently, Asleep Me knows more on the subject that Awake Me.

I am bad-tempered and I have enjoyed a sort of solitary confinement on trams by asking random people about U.S. foreign policy. Level of frantic misery – Robin Williams 1986 + Morrissey 1985.

For you see, it is finals week.

Read the rest of this entry »

The next item on my list reads Forrest Gump Runs. I enter it into YouTube and, dissatisfied with the results, enter a few variations—Forrest runs, run Forrest run, and Forrest and Bubba, Forrest Bubba run jungle Vietnam. The last variation produces the clip that I desire. I click it, sit back and sip on my water-glass full of Gambrinus. When Forrest storms through that jungle with Bubba in his arms, well there isn’t a dry eye in the room.

Thankfully I am alone, the cat having already left in disgust.

We have now entered the Sadness stage of our viewing selection.

Read the rest of this entry »