Hostalized in Cork

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As we sat in fuego’s apartment wrapping up supper and getting ready to leave on our trip, fuego said, “dang, we’ve still got a lot to do today.” With the plane leaving well after dark, it felt like we had an extra day’s worth of stuff to do, even after running around all day getting ready to travel. Soon we were on our way, however, lugging luggage through the metro system, spending an extra buck-fifty for the express airport bus (we weren’t quite sure the other bus was running that late on christmas eve), and losing a few toiletries to the new “no fluids” rule (MaK maintained that they were not fluid, so the security people produced illustrated cards prepared for just such an occasion, which of course did nothing to placate MaK, resulting in the entire check-in process grinding to a halt. This would have been a problem, but there were only thirteen passengers going through the security for that gate.), we were ready to fly.

I was a bit surprised to see the plane getting the de-ice treatment before takeoff, but I agreed with the pilot that it’s better safe than sorry. The only drawback was that if the plane was late reaching Cork we might not be able to score our rental car, which would complicate things greatly. The flight was uneventful, as flights usually are these days, and we made up for the lost time, went quickly through customs, and found the guy waiting for us at the car rental place. Thus armed with a four-door instrument of death with the steering wheel on the wring side, we made our way into Cork town proper. I was navigating, fuego was steering, and MaK was cowering in the back seat. Things went pretty smoothly, but as navigator I was a little dismayed that we didn’t have driving instructions to the hostel where we would be staying. What we had were walking instructions from the bus station.

Fortunately there are lots of arrows on the roads telling drivers which direction each lane is heading. fuego piloted well, although the windshield wipers got a good workout — the lever for the turn signals is on the other side of the steering wheel. Suddenly we discovered ourselves to be right next to the bus station. Bickety-bam, up and around on some narrow streets and there we were. We unpacked the car and as we were hauling all our crap into the hotel a kid loitering outside wished us a Merry Christmas. Loudly. We replied in kind (only more quietly), and I wondered if that was going to the last we were going to hear from him.

We checked in, and were informed that although the reservation was for three, it was actually for a double room and another bed in a dorm. Naturally married couple got the double room and I got pot luck. It didn’t bother me much; I could leave my stuff in the more secure room and just crash in the dorm. After a supper of bread and cheese (there was nothing open at that time on Christmas Eve, however MaK brought a variety of cheeses and breads so we were in no danger of starving) and the traditional Czech Slivovice Christmas toast, I made my way to my room. I figured I’d either be the jerk who comes in last and wakes everyone else up, or I’d be the first one there and all the other jerks would wake me up.

It turns out I was somewhere in the middle. I came in as quietly as I could, and there was enough light to see by so I found my bunk and settled in. As I lay in the darkness I heard a faint beeping from somewhere nearby, then heard someone listening to their voice mail. More beeping, and then the room fell silent once more, until a few minutes later when the same phone announced the arrival of a text message. Not long later another arrived, at which point at least the phone’s owner turned off the sound. There was then a short whispered conversation between the phone’s owner and her friend, and the two girls said goodnight. Across the room a male voice grunted a good night as well. The room fell silent. Outside I heard a nearby church chime the quarter hour and realized it was now officially Christmas.

“Faith,” whispered one of my roommates some time later, pronouncing the name as two syllables: Fae-aeth, “don’t forget the candle.” After a pause one of the girls that had whispered previously climbed off her bunk, which squeaked loudly, and blew out a candle on the windowsill. She returned to her bunk, was inspired to type out another message, and the room was quiet once more. It felt final.

Meanwhile, outside the window, Loud Merry Christmas Kid had been joined by several friends, and they continued laughing and bickering into the night.

I lay in the darkness, wondering if my roommates would be getting up as early as I did. I wondered what they looked like and I imagined the possibility of even talking to them. I imagined that this might be a good way for me to travel, to put myself into situations where conversation is nearly automatic. I thought about the breakfast room in the morning, and about how I might meet some of my fellow guests there.

I was relieved when the loud people outside finally fell silent. The pleasure was short-lived, however, when at least some of them came into my room. They tried to be quiet, but (presumably) drunk young folks still have things to whisper and giggle about, and it was a long time before things settled down once more. My fantasy about traveling from hostel to hostel, staying in the dorms, and writing about it was quickly eroding. Instead, I decided to let my alarm go off just a little longer than necessary in the morning. So much for conviviality.

The last person to arrive was the one sleeping in the bunk directly over mine. As with the others, he tried to be quiet, but the climb was difficult for him. Eventually he made it up and he settled in and quickly fell asleep. I know he was asleep because he was snoring. Twice I’ve been in a Hostel dorm, and both times it was my job to roll over and disturb the Snoring Guy whenever things got too loud.

Overall, the first night in Ireland was not a restful one; really just a layover between air and car travel, and not the true start of the adventure. Christmas morning came far too soon, and in the darkness I put myself together and went down for breakfast. By that point I had no illusions that any of my roommates would be showing themselves before we were long gone. Even had they been there I would not have been able to recognize them, except perhaps by voice. I will never meet Faith and her Irish friend, never speak with any of the others about adventures past and future. They are whispered voices in the night, formless, faceless, and fleeting. Not to mention annoying.

Thanks!

A Load of Carp

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I’m heading to distant shores later today, and in my classic fashion I managed to completely squander yesterday. I plead extenuating circumstances — I was out with Soup Boy, Izzy, and Little John Friday night and while the night wasn’t excessive (at least for me it wasn’t), it did run late. After walking most of the way home I realized the day trams were running. So, yesterday I was pretty tired.

Rather than photograph sidewalk carp vendors and track down an electrical adapter so I can keep my array of battery-powered items running in the Islands of Misfit Electricity, or even do simple tasks like catch up with email, I watched cartoons. (For those keeping score at home, I watched Chobits, an anime that fails to have the weight of a serious show or the charm of a silly one. It does involve a robot with special powers, which of course looks like a teenage girl (rhymes with Japanese). The story is pretty much the same as Pinoccio, but instead of a marionette the main character is a robot who wants to become a Little Girl Superweapon.)

In the late afternoon I took a nap that lasted until this morning. Now I feel pretty good, but there’s a lot to do between now and departure.

Speaking of carp, my landlord knocked on my door yesterday and gave me a big chunk of the stuff. “Kapr,” he said, as I hefted the plastic bag. “Ryba,” he expanded in my moment of confusion. Then the light turned on and I realized he had just handed me several pounds of frozen, not-very-tasty fish. Still, it was a nice gesture. I thanked him with enthusiasm that lasted for about fifteen seconds. What the hell am I going to do with this? I asked myself as opened up the fridge, and then made things more complicated by breaking the handle to the freezer compartment. There’s a lot of carp in there now. It’s frozen, but they might be working on the wiring while I’m gone, which leads to nightmare scenario #48, freezer filled with rotting animal when returning from Christmas travels. That hasn’t happened to me since I was in college, but the memory of that incident has left me scarred for life.

So, anyone want some carp?

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Thanks!

Hitting the Road

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Several people have asked me what my plans are for the holidays, which in itself is mildly humorous (plan?), and in response I would hedge and say something like, “I’ll probably just hole up and get some work done, or maybe I’ll go somewhere warm.”

Of course, when someone else does the planning, I’m happy to ride along. Thus when fuego asked if I was interested in Venice for New Year’s Eve, I was all over it. Later, when the plan changed to Ireland, I rolled right along with it. So it seems that I will be spending a couple of weeks on the Emerald Isle, and much of the time I will be in the corner of the island that the recent tech boom managed to avoid. It is also, from what I can make out, the stormiest part of Ireland, and me without a raincoat. (No major worries on that count, one of my favorite memories of that country is being caught in a downpour several miles from home while bicycling around with Jesse, hollering out blues riffs. That was the day we learned just what it means to be a “soggy bunny”. (Although, that was summer; it would be less of a good memory in winter, I suspect.) )

I’m Ireland bound, where the only point of etiquette is that you converse with the people around you. A culture like that is certainly worthy of admiration. It’s fortunate that some of them speak a language similar to mine.

I have no idea how often I’ll be able to get online, so posts here may be infrequent, or come in bursts. Any disruption of routine is likely to lead to new things to write about, so if history is any guide there will be pauses of several days followed by several long posts that prove to be too much to read, with the best one way at the bottom where everyone will miss it. It’s a system I’ve honed with care over the years.

Following my trip to reacquaint myself with top-fermented beers I will be invading the western hemisphere. After getting car, insurance, and renewed driver’s license sorted out I will be puttering around the western US for a week or three. I strongly suspect this three weeks will be much closer to actually being three weeks, since I will have a return ticket. (For those new to these pages, the last time I drove around for “about three weeks” it took 7 1/2 months, and established “Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas” as a way of life, and not just a writing style. What a great time that was…)

Thanks!

Café Mania

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I am back in my corner at the Little Café Near Home, my steaming mug of tea close at hand. I am perched significantly higher than I was before; the Chairs of Death are gone, made up for with a rearrangement of the booth seats, which have been given stilts to accommodate now-taller tables. Some floor space was lost to the stairs; where there used to be six small tables now there are five. The tables are taller than they used to be, however, so the reduced seating is made up for by accommodating more standing. I have not ventured into the mysterious downstairs yet, but since the toilets are down there, it’s only a matter of time.

Overall, the place feels a little less café-like, and a little more bar-like. It will be more difficult to drag tables together to suit whatever conversational groups emerge. Perhaps new taller chairs simply haven’t arrived yet. The biggest losers might the canine regulars — sitting way up here, I can no longer reach down and idly scritch a dog noggin while pondering the next paragraph. As I type this the owner’s jack russell terrier is trying to figure out what to do about the situation.

A question for the philosophers among you: If a little café changes owners, then changes its name (not really sure what it was before, but it wasn’t that), gradually turns over all the employees, changes the beers on tap, and is then remodeled, is it the same little café?

Thus the world races on; the only constant is change. I sit, perched up high, rotated ninety degrees, and I know I must adapt or be left behind.

Thanks!

On the cover over at Piker Press

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<a href=”http://www.pikerpress.com/” class=”newWin”>Piker Press</a> is running a story of mine this week, and since it’s on the front page it even has an illustration with it, which is pretty cool. I mentioned the story briefly a while back in an episode where I was working on a story at the clip of one paragraph per hour, and then I took a break and cranked out the first draft of another story in about the time it took to type it. This is the easy story, a lightweight but fun little tale of demon summoning and retribution. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Now that the next issue is up, the story (without illustration) can be found here.

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Thanks!

New Toys!

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When Soup Boy moved out, he left a legacy behind. Nothing major — some dead flowers, some rocks, a few other odds and ends. I’ve long since taken care of most of those things, but after the disruption caused by the Great Flood of ’06, I was confronted once more with an odd assortment of pebbles and small stones. They ended up on the table where I put my laptop when I’m using it at home. So there I sat this morning, reflecting on the irony that it was the rocks that I was having difficulty getting rid of. I couldn’t put them in the yard, because the landlord would run over them with the lawn mower. Just putting them in the street seemed irresponsible, and putting them in the trash wouldn’t be nice to anyone.

City Life, I tell ya’.

SBL_1.jpg

Rock Stack SBL-1. Nothing mind-blowing, but likely the first of many.

This morning I was mulling this oddity of modern life, asking myself where I could put the rocks when I realized one particular rock clearly belonged on top of one of the others. I stared in disbelief, stunned that I had not noticed that simple fact before. After a few fairly aggressive stacks tumbled I relocated the operation so that I was not working my near the glass coffee table, and that was pretty much it for my morning.

Stacking small rocks is noticeably different than stacking large ones. The biggest difference is that the tiny adjustments you make to adjust the balance have a much more dramatic effect on a small rock, and even the smallest disturbance can have catastrophic effect. Getting all the pieces to work together can be tricky. On the other hand, it only takes a little bit of friction to keep a small stone at an improbable angle. The biggest advantage of the small stones is obvious when the stack falls over.

Eventually I got a stack that was fairly stable if not particularly breathtaking, and before I added the One More Thing I hauled out the big camera, tiptoed around the apartment while the batteries charged up, and then snapped a few picks. Maybe I can hone my rock stack photography skills as I practice my rock stacking.

Of course, then I tried to add the One More Thing and the stack collapsed, but that was all right. The rocks are still there, waiting for me.

Thanks!

Announcing Muddled University

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Muddled University Banner Logo

On behalf of the board of directors, it gives me great pleasure to announce that Muddled University will be ready to welcome its first class in the spring of 2007. Muddled University will offer a wide range of graduate and post-graduate courses of study, but all will include that unique “Muddled Experience”, a combination of memorable cultural experiences and mood-affecting chemicals.

Located in Prague, the picturesque capital of the Czech Repblic, nestled in the heart of central Europe, Mud-U is within walking distance of museums, ancient architecture, and hundreds upon hundreds of bars. Not only is this environment enriching for students, the faculty will find the environment ideal for continuing research projects.

In addition, Muddled University will rapidly establish itself as a leading Internet presence, embracing and extending the technology of distance learning. Students will be able to receive an education every bit as rich and rewarding as one earned here at the Muddled Campus — from anywhere in the world!

FACULTY:
Although Mud-U has not finalized its staff for the upcoming academic year, be sure to check back often. The list could include the names of luminaries such as Stephen Hawking, Tony Hawk, Voltaire, Toulouse-Latrec, Geordi LaForge, Don LaFontaine, Aristotle, Jesus, and Oscar Mayer.

ACADEMIC LIFE AT MUD-U
At Muddled University, we have redefined the academic experience. Eschewing the traditional rigidly-defined requirements that lock students into narrow fields of focus, Mud-U instead encourages students to pursue an education as broad as life itself, and to bring all that life experience back to the university — for credit!

COURSES OF STUDY:
In order to expose students to a variety of topics as broad as life itself, the courses of study at Mud-U are likewise varied. From academic to athletics, from fine art to fine dining, (and everything in between!) Muddled University provides a richness of experience that no accredited university can match. Below are listed the primary fields of study, but never forget that “if it’s life, it’s educational.”

Television Sports:
While some universities have focussed on physical fitness and the performance of sports, and others have emphasized the broadcast of sports, only Muddled University has recognized the place where technology has had the greatest impact in both amateur and professional sports. Television has changed the consumption of sports forever. The Bachelor’s degree in Televion Sports meets this growing need head-on. Channels are proliferating and ever bar has a plasma TV. TiVo makes it easier to skip the commercials. This course will leave the student well-prepared to succeed in the world of watching the big game on TV.

Masters of Fine Arts in Literature: Haiku
The Japanese are forever frustrated that westerners think Haiku is just about counting syllables. Most Japanese probably won’t like this class either, but let’s face it, when you get to a certain point you just have to accept that 5-7-5 is haiku and that’s that. In this course of study the student will explore 5, 7, and perhaps some other prime numbers as well. Areas beyond merely composing and performing haiku will be explored, such as how to create a properly-formatted .png graphic to publish a haiku on the Web, the best fonts to use, and so forth. Students will also have a chance to evaluate the work of others, and turn them into .png’s as well.

MoFA in Literature: Blog Comments
Courses include: “Typos and unnuendo: Did that mean what I think it did?” and “Inside Jokes.” At the end of this course of study, students will be able to dazzle and baffle other members of online communities with non-sequitur statements harkening back to other comments made years ago that leave their peers reeling in admiration.

BoFA and MoFA in Graphic Design
Truly a recursive course of study, students will even have the opportunity to design their own diplomas! Also included is repairing annoying errors on Web sites and complaining about Internet Explorer (bachelors degree) or to use of subtle hints that whatever you’re using as an alternate is the best thing out there (master’s). (Please note that there will be no diplomas for any degree program until the Graphic design department comes through.)

MoFA in Fine Art
Can you draw this? Send in your rendition of this image to our professional evaluators and we will tell you if you qualify!

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MuD in Squirrel Behavioral Studies
Mud-U is so far ahead of all other institutions (civilian and military) on the subject of squirrel behavior that a simple PhD was deemed by the board to be inadequate. For this and perhaps other subjects to be offered in the future, the degree of MuD will be awarded. Watch all those other “scientists” turn green when you whip out your (to be designed) diploma and laugh in their pathetic little scientist faces. “You think you know squirrels? Do ya? Buddy, I’ve made up more than you’ll ever know about squirrels!” At Muddled U, our team of crack scientists delves where none has dared go before into the dark, mysterious world of the squirrel. In addition, Mud-U safeguards the public trust by maintaining the Suicide Squirrel Alert System. Do you have what it takes to join this elite team as it protects the world?

Bachelor’s of Arts in Supermodeling
Looking great on the runway isn’t all there is to succeeding in this highly competitive field. In this intensive course of study you will learn how to stand out from the crowd. Lear how to make the Paparazzi work for you — hooking up with that married movie star isn’t going to do you any good if no one sees it. Also learn how to make the casting couch your best friend, and when it’s time to switch sugar daddies. (Applicants please include portfolio of lingerie shots.)

Please note that more degree courses will be added to to the above list as we bring on more faculty. As a student, you are welcome to custom-tailor your education to your own needs and interests. Tell us what you want a degree in, and we’ll make sure you get it!

TUITION AND FEES
At last, for a fraction of the cost of a Harvard Diploma, you can have an educational experience as broad as life itself. Work-study programs are available as well. Now you can earn a respected degree and help keep Mud-U running at the same time.

EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITIES
Muddled University intends to draw together the finest minds on the planet, to create a center of innovation and education unprecedented in history. We recognize that people like that will not be motivated by simple money, so here at Mud-U we have concentrated our benefits package on the “intangibles” — a great working environment, constant intellectual stimulation (other sorts of stimulation optional — see supermodel degree above), and the chance to be part of the team that changes humanity as we know it.

Do you know something that someone else doesn’t know? You can be a teacher! Now accepting applications.

Work-study programs in Janitorial Science are still available — start earning your degree today!

Thanks!

Focussed Marketing

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Tonight I was watching the Finns skate against the Czechs. It was a decent contest, but Finns had my boys pretty much outclassed. My Bili Tigri goaltender gave up three, but that doesn’t reflect the chances the Finns had. None of that matters.

I have noticed in a few international matches that Garnier Fructis, the shampoo, is a major sponsor. At first this struck me as odd. In general, hockey fans are not the crowd I’d be selling fancy shampoo to.

Unless…

Fructis Mullet formula.

Pay dirt, baby.

Thanks!

An Unlikely Injury

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The plan at Saxkova Palačinkarna (Sax is a dog, by the way) tonight was simple: two cups of tea, two beers, and an evaluation of the effect on the first 150 pages of The Monster Within if I add two telling words in the fourth paragraph. The result: three teas, three beers, a rewrite of chapter three, and a bloody knuckle. The first results can be attributed to bad communication, bad counting, and good ideas. The last is a little more complicated. In fact, when I left Saxarna my knuckle was still intact. Indeed, as I emerged from the convenience store with a loaf of bread (the crumbs of which I am picking out of my keyboard as I compose this), I was still more or less in one piece. As I stepped out of the store and put the earphones in, however, I sowed the seeds of my own destruction.

In retrospect, perhaps it was not the act of putting phone to ear that did me in, it was my skipping over a tune in the shuffle because it was too mellow. Thus it was that “Electro” by Gwen Mars was crashing against my eardrums when I got home. I set aside my backpack, and there in the kitchen I proceeded to Rock Out. It was with a grand leaping air-guitar flourish that I cracked my hand into the ceiling lamp.

It wasn’t until after the number off the new(ish) Dickies album was over that I noticed the blood. Rest assured, by then the house was rocked.

Thanks!

A remarkably unremarkable day

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It was a day remarkable for its unremarkableness. I was invited by a friend (by his mother, really) to a meal. I went, had an enjoyable time, and left before the conversational pauses got too long.

The meal itself was very tasty; an excellent beef noodle soup (“handmade noodles,” Martin’s mother explained, “with my hands!”), followed by a plateful featuring two different kinds of potato dumplings and two different kinds of cabbage (czech variations on sauerkraut), all framing a lovely roasted duck breast. It was an excellent meal. conversation was convivial, I managed a bit of czech, I understood some of the jokes and the rest were explained to me, which gave everyone a chance to laugh at them again.

Martin’s father has a very impressive collection of books. He was able to travel to the west during the communist times, and he would smuggle books back into the country, at considerable risk. We talked about the weather, about how warm things have been so far this year, the warmest in almost 50 years (or was it 80?) and that was fine with them. The entire family agreed that there’s no such thing as a winter that’s too warm. Personally, I waiting for the payback storm. After the last two winters, it seems only a matter of time before the bottom falls out of the thermometer.

Feeling bloated, I declined the offer of a lift the short distance home, and instead walked home through the light rain, and reflected that what not long ago would have seemed a sure opportunity for culture shock was instead just a pleasant meal with a family I didn’t know very well.

On a not-very-related note, this evening the downside of my new favorite place was made abundantly clear. Saxkova Palačinkarna is closed on weekends. Spending the evening there with a chocolate crepe to fill in the gaps that are starting to appear in my stomach would have been perfect. I was halfway there when I realized what day it was and that I would likely be disappointed. I wandered up and down the street for a while, and ultimately ended up at U Kormidla, which is nice enough but doesn’t have readily available electricity. Ah, well, I can always write at home.

Thanks!

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!