Monthly Archives: December 2006

Hey! He was in…

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People sometimes ask me what my favorite movies are. It’s not the kind of question I’m good at answering. There are movies I like a lot, there are movies I appreciate for some particular point, and there are movies I enjoy just for the fun of them. I would do much better with a list of movies I really hated.

One movie that is without question one of my all-time favorites is… I’ll tell you later. For now we’ll call the film Get Crazy. It is not an intellectual flick. But once again, a couple of decades later, I’m watching a movie and one of the big stars shows up and my first thought is, “Hey! That guy was in Get Crazy!”

The cast of this forgotten epic includes Daniel Stern, Malcom Macdowell, Lou frickin’ Reed, for crying out loud, Fabian, Bobby Goldsboro, John Densmore (the drummer for the Doors), Howard Calin (the Turtles), and a ton of other actors who went on to make minor names for themselves. The theme of the movie: Rock and roll is supposed to be fun. Yeah, they took some risks, there, but even back then we were wishing Mick Jagger drank whatever was in the water cooler at the Saturn that night. Reggie Wanker did, and rediscovered rock ‘n’ roll. It was the Wanker I saw tonight on TV. Then he played an aging rock star, now he is an evil european bad guy of some sort. He’s doing all right, but it’s nothing like his perrformance in Get Crazy.

That film, for all its throwaway one-liner genius, was above all a triumph of casting, and of giving the creative people the chance to create. There’s a constant barrage of little oddities, the kind of things you think of on the spur of the moment, and the folks making this movie listened to one of the characters: “Yeah, why not?” Even in post-production, there came the odd sound effects, and subtitles stating the obvious just for the pleasure of stating the obvious (“The Bad Guys” reads one, as the helicopter for Serpent Industries lands, and later “Boy Meets Girl”).

“Rock ‘n’ Roll is gonna be fun again,” we hear near the end of the film, from a surprise character. (I could tell you, but that would spoil everything.) “Good…?” Toad replies. The idea that Rock ‘n’ Roll might not be fun has never occurred to him. Let me back up and give you the dialog. Reggie Wanker is Malcom McDowell being Mick Jagger. Toad is John Densmore being John Densmore. I have not see this movie in several years, so the dialog might be a little off.

Reggie: Toad, meet our new manager.
Toad: Aaaug! Ugh!
New Manger: ‘ello, Toad.
Toad: Wha?
New Manager: I’ve got us booked into every bleedin’ dive in Liverpool.
Reggie: Rock ‘n’ Roll is gonna be fun again.
Toad: Good…?
Reggie: Go on, give the lad a drink.
Toad (pouring from his bottle): I ain’t gonna touch him.

The reason I bring this up, other than the fact I saw (but didn’t understand) a movie with Malcom McDowell tonight, is that lately I’ve been Reggie, when I really should be Toad. Tonight I am both.

Jerry: Writing is gonna be fun again.
Jerry: Good…?

And the actual name of the movie was… Get Crazy!

Thanks!

Saxkova Palačinkarna

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I’m going to start with a nitpick. Either my chair is just a bit too low or my table is just a little too high. So far, that is my only complaint, and it does force me to sit up straight as I type.

As I intimated in my previous post, I was in search of a place to hang and write tonight. I poked my head into a number of crowded bars, but even ones with a table available just didn’t do it for me. I tromped around the neighborhood, looking for a place with the right atmosphere. (Note: the typical neighborhood bar in the Czech Republic has three things: A tap, tables, and a TV. There is little further attempt to create any sort of atmosphere, as it is assumed the smoke will obscure the far wall anyway.) Tonight every place with any sort of atmosphere had a private party in it, except the place with a big hole in the floor where the restrooms used to be.

I’ve walked past this place many times, usually on the weekends. It is close to Vinarna Jana, which I wrote about recently, and like that place has restrictive hours that mean when I can’t find one of my regular places to go, I can’t come here, either. This place isn’t much to look at on the outside, so it’s never been a high priority for me. That, my friends, is about to change. This is a very comfortable place.

(I’ve noticed in my writings that ‘comfortable’ is a word I use quite a lot, and not just to describe places. I consciously go back and change it when editing, although for me there’s really not much better than ‘comfortable’. It is, for me, a superlative.)

Somewhat larger than the Little Café Near Home, it is still one of the smaller places I’ve partonized in this country. The section I’m in has five tables, a couple of them pretty large, and there are three more through the arched-brick opening to the bar. The light is low; the textured paint gives a terra cotta feel. One wall is dominated by a mural depicting a lovely Old Europe boulevard, impressionistic and executed in earth tones. Dark wood floors, solid wooden furniture, and wood ceiling beams complete the effect.

Palačinkarna is Czech for creperie, which is French for place with lots of yummy crepes on the menu. I can’t wait to be hungry here. I haven’t seen the product, but the prices look quite reasonable. It is quiet in here, and well-ventilated. Of course, the fact that there are more female patrons here than male has nothing at all to do with my judgement, except that the distaff like smoky beer barns even less than I do.

I could go on, but as I type, I’m watching my battery dwindle to nothing. There has to be an outlet around here somewhere.

Edited to add: There is, in fact, an outlet right by my table. The mornings I wake up with something to write but know if I even glance at the Internet it’ll be noon before I get anything done, you can find me right here.

Thanks!

Suddenly the Internet is hard to come by

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Since the flood my Internet connection has been flaky on the good days. Today was not a good day. I’m not sure the problem is flood-releated; there was a bad period a month ago as well. Still, the flood couldn’t have helped. (One confirmed casualty was the splitter to allow the phone and the modem to share the line. Perhaps that is related to the current troubles.) Happily the Little Café Near Home recently added WiFi (pronounced in this neck of the woods as wee-fee). I gathered up my gear and headed out through a light rain.

Before I even got there I knew that I was heading for a disappointment. As I approached up the sidewalk the first thing I noticed was that the security grill was closed over the big window. The next thing I noticed was the sound of a jackhammer coming from inside. Renovations are under way. That’s cool, but not really convenient for me tonight. The bowling alley’s out – they are hosting a private party tonight. Their network has been sporadic lately as well; I think one guy is playing with the security settings but isn’t telling anyone else what he’s up to. On top of all that, I had pizza to go from the bowling alley last night, and as much as I like those guys, there is a limit.

I’m at U Kormidla right now, where I just had a very nice chicken dish that was not at all what I expected. Upstairs there’s a party of some sort going on; things are festive and they just relocated the plasma TV. Looks like there’s going to be a show. The downstairs is packed, and I’m feeling a little of that American guilt over sitting at the table sipping another tea while people are turned away because there’s no space.

On a marginally related note, on Saturday I’ve been invited to join a family for a meal. It’s the mother of one of the regulars at Little Café Near Home (for a while I though he was setting me up with her, but fortunately that doesn’t appear to be the case). The only catch is that I have no way to contact them. I hadn’t worried about it, I knew that even if I didn’t run into Martin that there were plenty of other Little Café regulars who would have his number. That was on my to-do list for today. That leaves the question, where does a Little Café regular go, when there’s no Little Café? That will be my quest for the rest of the night.

Thanks!

Coming Soon to a Paris Runway Near You

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There’s something that’s been percolating through my grey matter for a few days, and it’s finally reached the surface. A while back I read a blurb about a guy who was looking ever-so-stylish in a custom-tailored four-button coat.

Four buttons! Wow! Can you believe it? That guy has some brass!

Four buttons.

One time, many years ago, I went into a suit store (lacking the funds to pay someone thousands of dollars to make a jacket for me with one more button) and asked for the suit that would be the farthest thing from the Standard Male Uniform without offending people who expected to see me in the SMU. (Nobody I knew was in the ‘expecting to see’ category, but there was a funeral or a job interview or a wedding or some tragedy like that that required me to look ‘respectable’.) I ended up with a fairly nice suit in a borderline scandalous dark dark green that utterly failed to bring out my eyes. It looked, to my eye, like just about every other suit I’d ever seen.

If someone from a non-suit-wearing culture were to visit me in a suit-required situation and apologize for mixing up our names by saying ‘you all look the same to me’, I would nod my head in agreement. Women have fashion, men have the SMU. Men are reduced to the necktie to express who they are through clothing. Unfortunately, the necktie has turned into the business equivalent of gang colors. It’s not an expression of individuality; it’s your membership badge for whatever pathetically irrelevant subset of suit wearers you imagine yourself to be. There is the Power Tie (ha!), the School Tie, the Invisible Tie, and (the only one backed by a shred of honesty) the Family tie. I like the Family tie. It changes with the holidays, is sometimes horrible but carried as a badge of honor. “I’m wearing this polyester disaster because it will make my family happy.” There’s a good chance it will deflect bullets as well. The Family tie is cynically wielded by gray-haired salesmen.

Back to the buttons. You read it here first, kids… the TRUE FASHION REBEL will have no buttons at all. Velcro, baby. Imagine the clean lines of your suit jacket that is in every other respect just like what everyone else is wearing. No buttons! The Scandal!

Velcro. It’s the new black.

Thanks!

Monday Night at the Budvar Bar.

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I wasn’t paying attention to the calendar when I happened in here tonight. I’m at the Budvar Bar (actually the name is U Kmotra, not to be confused with some big tourist trap that is actually called Budvar Bar), the bar closest to home and also a place to get a plateful of cheap, if not inspired, food. The tea costs more here than at Little Café Near Home, but the food swayed me.

Incidentally, word on the street is that the Little Café Near Home is going to get larger. What’s cool is that the plan is to grow vertically downward. Beverages are always tastier when consumed subterranealy. This probably means tripling the size of the Little Café — there would be no point in spending so much on construction just to increase the capacity from twenty (when packed to the gills) to forty. If the Little Café has fifteen tables, rather than the current six, will it still be the Little Café?

Tonight I’m at the Budvar Bar, however, and I”m feeling bloated and slow-witted after a filling meal. It is crowded tonight. I am at the table directly under the television, as there is a game on and I don’t want to take up a seat that someone interested in the game might want. The place began to fill up quickly soon after I arrived, the tables filling first on the sides facing the television. Tonight’s match is Prague Sparta (rhymes with New York Yankees) vs. Kladno (rhyme pending) in a grass-kick-hockey (rhymes with soccer or football, depending where you live) match. This game has had relatively few cases of grown men lying on the grass pretending to be hurt (apparently an integral part of this sport), so it hasn’t been too painful to have it flashing in my peripheral vision, demanding my attention.

Directly behind me is the table where the guys play cards. The man with no nose is among them, and after this much time I must assume that he is not getting a new nose, and that he is content to wear a rectangle of gauze affixed to his face with a big X of tape forever. The guy with no larynx was here earlier, sitting at the table I prefer when things aren’t crowded. Also departed are the men who like to do shots with the matronly waitress, who may or may not be related to the owner.

(One of the Spartans just had made contact with a defender, and had the sense to make a crisp pass upfield before the agony of the violence done to him was too much and he collapsed to the turf in agony.)

All these things are going on around me, and that’s just the normal vibe for this place. No distraction at all. What is distracting me is the tattoo of the leaping tiger that the waitress who recently came on is sporting. Could it be that she’s a fan of the Liberec Bily Tigri, my favorite ice hockey (rhymes with real sport) team? She’s very pretty, so the idea is enticing.

There’s also the matter of where the tattoo is. It is a large piece, right between her shoulder blades and extending down her slender back. At times it is partially concealed by her long, blonde hair. Her nose crinkles when she smiles; I think she is secretly laughing at my resolute determination to look at her eyes rather than her breasts. She has very pretty eyes.

Thanks!

Breaking the Curse

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I’m heading out in a few minutes to watch the Charger game. This week, I just feel like the curse will be broken. I’m not sure why after three years that this will be the week, but there you go.

Edited to add: Just for the record, I ended up not watching the game after all. I did listen to it, however.

Thanks!

A Hundred Little Things

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I was supposed to go down to Moravia this weekend for a birthday party, but as the time approached to leave I was getting progressively more stressed out. The big pile of things I had put off in November was looming over me, and the flood added a new list of its own. Even just taking a shower was a hassle; there were sodden floor mats piled in the shower, and I had no towels even remotely clean.

I had no dry shoes that didn’t tear up my feet, rent was due, I had no telephone or Internet access, the list goes on and on. On top of everything else I had been eagerly awaiting the chance come December to get back to work on my “real” writing projects. Thanks to the flood that hadn’t happened yet.

MaK really wanted me to come, and I fell into the trap of listing some of the reasons I was bailing. Any individual reason sounds pretty weak, it’s only when you can see the avalanche that you stop saying, “those are just snowflakes.”

It did not promise to be a relaxing trip, either. It was for a birthday celebration, and there were events planned that stretched from the moment we arrived until we left, and I knew that more things would be added. And, like MaK trying to convince me I should go, there would be no saying “no”. If I boarded that train, there would be no getting off, and there would be no getting any work done. (I suspect my in-laws don’t consider what I do to be work. I have heard them say (in czech, assuming I don’t understand) that my language skills are weak because I go to cafés but I don’t talk to anyone, I just sit and write. Well, that’s my job. It’s a good job, but it’s not one that involves talking.) It became a lot easier to say no when MaK said they were ready to go and they she thought they should pick me up. I was so laughably far from being ready to walk out the door (see shower and shoes above, add clean clothes and painfully stiff legs from bailing out the kitchen), that at that point I wouldn’t have been able to join them even if I wanted to. So I just said, “I have to work. I can’t work right now and I’ll be crazy until I can.”

I could go on talking about all the things I need to do, but I think I’d better get back to doing them.

Thanks!