Damien Galeone

8:02 a.m.: Upon checking my phone first thing in the morning to ensure that everyone I know is still alive, I see that I received a call from family at 00:24 a.m. This leads me to a panicked state and so, after turning on my coffee, feeding my cat, singing Octopus’s Garden, I turn on my computer to find the problem.

8:09 a.m.: The ‘problem’ is realized. I look playful in the photos, smiling, pointing at centuries-old monuments, gracing a 600-year-old bridge with my presence. My pants are around my ankles in every photo. They are on Facebook. I scan them in a ‘please don’t let this get out of hand’ panic over my morning coffee.

8:11 a.m.: Relief overtakes me. Boxer flap has done its job (despite overwhelming…oh forget it), and I am not documented breaking any serious laws. Thus, I still have a job, a visa, and my future as a senator is still a theoretical possibility. Also, happy about state of cuteness embodied by my tushy.

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My Sunday starts with a jolt: Napoleon Bonaparte was not short.

As a short guy, Napoleon is one those guys. And I don’t mean that he’s a role model like Prince, Tom Cruise or Gary Burghoff. Napoleon is the ‘Well if you think I’m short, take a look at this guy,’ of short guys.

He was 5’2 (157.5 cm), got exiled twice, has an entire psychological complex named after him, evidently had a one inch prick, got cheated on by wife Josephine (see previous mockery), and, and, as though that all wasn’t enough, he was French.

But now, because of the bloody Brits, Napoleon was my height.

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I would have married him! M types into Gmail IM.

You knew him for one month, I respond.  

I could have loved him! He was perfect!

My eyes begin rolling like a Magic 8-Ball.

My writing soul mate is having a crisis. She has been dumped. Not even dumped, but pre-dumped. Dumped in the pregame show to dating; as though someone ended the Kentucky Derby by shooting a horse in the gate. Only instead of a gun, there was a Smartphone text message. Also, no oats.

I begin typing my way to an IM escape route: My connection has be—.

However, before I can tunnel into the loving, rave-free confines of my flat, my computer rings. I grumble in annoyance for several selfish reasons. Just off the top of my head, I don’t want to hear the details of a failed relationship when I have so many of my own to keep me warm at night. Also, and as we all know, it’s impossible to talk sense to a recently dumped person. And, most importantly, I was just about to put on an Oreo cookie, M*A*S*H, and bourbon festival in my living room.

The computer stops ringing and I hold my breath. Then it rings again.

Skype. I hate Skype. To answer or not to answer, that is the question.

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The weather outside is, in fact, frightful. The temperature is six below zero Celsius, the snow is beating against the windows and blinding our view of the city and it has been pitch black since 4 p.m.

The only thing missing is a loaded .32 and a book of Sylvia Plath’s poetry.

But inside the mood is far more pleasant. We are in a warm room, comfortable, listening to mildly upbeat jazz and the cat is curled up on an armchair sleeping in content. We are sipping Jamesons Irish and a hearty venison stew is simmering on the stove.

There is a sense of familiarity to this scene, and at first I can’t put my finger on what that might be. I refill my glass of denial juice (tomorrow is not Monday) and let that feeling recede. But the euphoric calm peeks through as we toast baguettes and talk books and movies. I have enjoyed this before, but when?

I rack my brain until it’s time to eat, at which time I forget all thoughts that are not primal.

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From the Writing Desk of Chirps at Birds (Human Alias: Bela)

The fat one has returned and is evidently in a sour mood. His dealings on the outside must have been less than successful this day, for he has arrived in a huff and once again neglected to reciprocate the traditional end-of-day Egyptian Anus Greeting. Further, he brought with him packets of those brown edible dining circles that he submerges in the milk.

Three packets. Must have been a bad day.

I am slighted that he is in such a condition as I have been hoping to call attention to the overflowing state of my commode. In fact, I have lowered myself to let out a few of these asinine high-pitched meows that seem to be effective in gathering positive human attention. But it has been to no avail this evening.

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“So S, how long have you been studying English?”

We are studying the present perfect tense today, and to illustrate a present perfect continuous question, I have asked S the above in hopes that she will simply answer. However, S looks directly at me, yet makes absolutely no move.

I wait, knowing as both a teacher and student of language that one must have a short period of time to register the language.

So, I wait.

S has not made a move. A quick visual canvas of the room shows that the other students have also frozen in position. I feel like Medusa after a temper tantrum at the post office.

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My day starts with this instant message transaction.

That movie you recommended me was a piece of shit. 🙂

Oh, why do you say that?

Because only an Americans could enjoy this sort of dog shit! 🙂

The Czechs make some pretty bad movies, don’t they? I have seen Gympl.

F*ck you, you f*cking asshole! I never want to see you again! 🙂

Um…OK.

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It’s Friday at 5:30 p.m. I await a friend at a back table at The Troop (Krčma U parašutistů). The bar is full of people celebrating the end of a week by hiding from the early dark days of late November and pile-driving their livers with beer and spirits. The center table is filled with regulars; old men who have spent every day at that table for twenty years. It shows. All in all, it’s a normal Friday in Prague.

Oh yes, except for that the men at the middle table are the undead. To be fair, since reading World War Z, everybody is the living dead.

PJ arrives and we do a brief recap of the week: Lazy students, cleavage, good gulaš somewhere, we should go jogging, learned a new word in Czech, good book. World War Z turns the conversation. We chat about the plot and some of the more spectacularly disturbing scenes, then some of the extremely unsettling elements and notions. We have a shot.

“I am becoming a paranoid freak,” I admit.

“So did I.” PJ takes a drink. “So, what would you do if this happened?”

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It’s Saturday and I’m gleefully ignoring and putting off writing by fashioning tiny cat socks out of one large sock. Appreciative though I was hoping she’d be, the B Monster responds by standing on the sock(s) and circling until she finds a comfortable position in which to plop down. When I attempt to remove her, she emits the CATCON 3 warning sound: a short, low growl that states ‘go ahead and see what happens to those pudgy fingers.’ I leave her to her militant, yet comfortable mood and step away. (90)

This is not the first time she has thwarted my procrastinatory plans today. She has also lick-cleaned her poop-cannon on a game of solitaire I was playing and played a game of ‘toes look like mice’ during an early afternoon nap. (131)

Though these are pretty common feline torture tactics, I sense a disturbance in the kitty Force. She is not working alone. And I know exactly with whom she in cahoots. (161)

Stephen King. (163)

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Who doesn’t love a good adventure story? I don’t know what’s better than sitting in your favorite armchair reading about someone else risking life and limb to keep me entertained and make me feel as though I did the journey myself.

Here are five books about five real journeys that will entertain, excite and educate. They may even inspire you to take that off-the-beaten-path journey  you’ve always wanted to take, far from the screaming crowds and urine-soaked floors of Disney World and Bourbon Street.

Jaguars Ripped my Flesh (Tim Cahill)

There are titles people strive for in life: President, Sir, Doctor, Sex-Beast, just to name a few. I want Explorer in Residence and Editor at Large. Cahill is Editor at Large of Outside Magazine. Prick.

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