Tag Archives: Prague

Wow

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I’m sitting at the Cheap Beer Place, my first time in this august establishment for a few months. As I write this I’m listening to a woman sing “When the saints come marching in”, slowly, in Czech, to the accompaniment of a single synthesizer. That in itself, is enough to warp one’s sense of reality.

At the table in front of me, her back to me, is a woman with a she-mullet. Curly hair towers over her head, and is pulled back behind her ears. I’m pretty sure this was a big style in the ’80’s. I can’t think of any specific actresses or pop stars, but I know I’ve seen the she-mullet before. It’s still not flattering.

There’s a guy punching numbers into the juke box now. He seems ordinary enough. In his non-number-punching hand is a plastic bag with a single roll and a tub of potted meat. This man came prepared.

So now, presumably, the songs he requested are beginning to play. Wow. It’s some sort of children’s choir, accompanied by electric bass and countless people whistling. Oh, and now an electric piano. Thank god, it’s fading out, giving way to We Are The Champions. Sing it, Freddie.

Time passes, the music changes. Now I think I’m listening to Blink-sto osmdesat dva (182, in czech). There’s no mistaking the rhythm, and the accordion is subtle.

***

Never did finish explaining what was so dang surreal about that day – the following day I had a fever and I now have recollections of conversations that could not have actually happened. I’m better now, but I won’t be able to finish the above episode today, either.

Thanks!

Meat Parade

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I was a fuego’s, watering the plants, when the call came from Soup Boy. “You wanna come downtown?”

“I just came from there.”

“I know. But I have an idea.”

I was pretty sure I knew what his idea was. There’s a place down there in Slovansky Dům called Ambiente. The restaurant is based on a simple idea, modeled, I think on similar restaurants in Brazil. You sit, order drinks, and they hand you a menu. Only it’s not a menu, really, it’s more of a guide, explaining what all the different items are.

The subject of this restaurant had come up some time before when I was reminiscing about sushi. There are a couple of pretty dang good sushi places in San Diego, and it has been a long time since I’ve been to one. Ambiente has sushi.

Ordering is simple there; you have two choices. Meat or no meat. No meat means you must be content with the rather lavish “salad bar”, which includes lots of tasty things, including meat and sushi. If you order meat, not only do you have salad bar privileges, but you also get to partake of the meat parade. As it was my first time, naturally I had to get the whole experience. I ordered Meat.

When Soup Boy had first come to Prague, this location had been a bar called Joshua Tree, and his first job in town was bartending there. The ownership had changed, but the wood paneling on the walls still had U2 lyrics artfully carved into it. The place was well-lit and busy, but not uncomfortably so. They apologized; without a reservation there was only room in the non-smoking section. A bonus not to be take for granted here. After we ordered I was awarded a giant Meat Plate and a small set of tongs as a symbol of my quest. Soup Boy, recovering from illness as he was, chose to go small-scale.

He explained the tongs. “Sometimes when they are serving you meat, you will use these to help.”

Then began the Meat Parade. Between the tables passed servers carrying skewers of various dead animals, everything from chicken hearts to beef filet with Parmesan. Sausage, pork, various beef, veal, chicken (when the chicken wrapped with bacon came by, Soup Boy said, “Any time you take one animal, and wrap it around another animal, it’s going to be good.”), and fish. On and on it went, more than a dozen different dishes altogether, including roasted pineapple, which I discovered made all the other things on my plate less filling. The Meat Parade continued, and some of the servers were quite insistent that I take more of whatever it was they were flogging at the moment. Between that and two loads from the salad bar I ate a lot — I mean a lot, of good food. (Although, the sushi, truth be told, was limited in variety and not the best. Not the worst, either – I had quite a lot of it.)

By the time I got home, I was approaching comatose. My belly was a ponderous mountain as I lay on my back. I had joined the Meat Parade, and I had done my share. I am honestly amazed at how much I was able to eat.

It has been about eighteen hours since I got the call, and now, as I write this, I’m starting to feel just a wee bit hungry again.

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A Dream Within A Dream

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I was talking to Soup Boy this morning, asking him if he knew of a place here in the ‘hood where I could send a fax. Sure, there are places in the next neighborhood over, but it’s a cold, rainy day, the kind where you just want to hole up in your favorite café and write. Public transportation is efficient, so it’s not really a problem to go elsewhere.

“People who live in Prague don’t get out into the real world much,” Soup Boy said, “but you don’t even see Prague.

Thanks!

The Night of the Big Game

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It was early when I got to the little café near home. My batteries were already somewhat depleted and I didn’t have my power cord with me, so I didn’t figure on it being a long night.

The place was almost empty when I got there; the only two tables that were taken were the ones I normally gravitate toward. One is directly beneath the TV and close to the outlet, and the one next to it also has good access to electricity. They are both by the window, which can be chilly, but when things get smoky it’s a blessing. They also happen to be the tables that are most out of the way when things start to get crowded. (There are only six tables in all.) That didn’t seem like it was going to be an issue, however.

Soon, though, people started to arrive. One regular took over one of the two tables that can accommodate more than two people, and rounded up extra chairs. The other larger table was usurped soon after. There was talk of turning on the television. At first I thought people were gathering to watch Velký Bratr, the absurdly popular Czech version of Big Brother. Absurdly popular doesn’t even begin to describe it. Then I realized the gathering crowd was all male, except for a small knot of three girlfriends huddling up at the far end of the bar. Sports, then.

I put my head down into my story and raced the batteries. Just as the laptop gave it up, the game was starting. Fotbol. Soccer to the Americans in the audience. It was a big game, I knew, because the Czech Republic, an early favorite to qualify for the World Cup, had lost a couple of important games and was now fighting for one of the last spots.

The graphic came up on the screen: Norway vs. Czech Republic. Wait a minute, they just played Norway the other day. Is this a rerun? Luckily I did not know how to ask anyone and therefore display my ignorance. It was a two-game playoff, the winner going to the big dance.

It was crowded in there by then, but I decided to hang out and watch a bit of the game and see what words I could pick out of the conversations around me. People kept arriving, and when the game got boring there was plenty of activity around me to provide entertainment. By halftime I was sharing the table with a pair of drunk kids in their early twenties.

At the half, an older guy, a fixture at one of the barstools, saw I wasn’t working and came over and asked in czech, “Why aren’t you working? Where’s your computer?” I started to answer, but he had already assumed I couldn’t understand him and had turned to other regulars to translate. It took some time for me to get the six people all translating differently at once to understand that I understood in the first place, so they would stop explaining and let me answer. “batteries are kaput,” I said in Czech, (although the ‘Kaput’ may have been German).

“You need batteries? Batteries? I’ll get us some batteries!”

“He’s buying you a shot,” one of the kids said in English.

I knew that already. I don’t know if “Batteries” is common slang for shots or if it’s just one of those cases where anything would have been taken as a euphamism for booze. No matter, moments later I was holding a shot of Becherovka.

The night did not descend into a long and painful trail of trading shots. The game started, the game ended, the Czechs won, I talked to the drunk kids some more, I managed a few sentences in Czech, and fun was had by all. The bar closed at eleven on the dot, and we all went home.

In the two days since, I have studied my Czech harder than ever. I felt it while I was there. I was close. Afterwards I thought of many things I could have said had I had the presence of mind to dig the words up. A few more words, maybe throw in the past tense (which I hear is pretty easy), and I can have conversations in czech. Slow, painful, conversations, but that’s OK. Once I cross that threshold, I think things will speed up as I get more meaningful practice.

Today as I was walking I was greeted warmly by one of the Little Café regulars as I passed him on the street. It was early yet, and the Little Café was not yet open, so he was heading for the Budvar Pub on the next corner.

Thanks!

The Ex-Pat Game

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In the previous post I mentioned that on a Sunday morning in the center of Prague you will find many more English speakers than Czech speakers. Soup Boy and I were in Kava Kava Kava, and because we ordered in Czech, the waitress told us the network password verbally, rather than writing it down. She left us to our geeky devices, and I wondered aloud about capitalization. A guy nearby said, “You should have just asked the computer guy,” in a louder-than-necessary voice, and handed me a slip of paper with the password written on it.

“Thanks,” I said, and turned back to my work.

“I’m just happy to hear some English,” he said. “I’ve been in Ukraine for seven months.” And so began the Ex-Pat Game. When you meet any traveler who had been abroad for a long time, one of the first questions they will ask you is, “How long have you been here?” In this game you gain status among other Ex-Pats if you have been abroad longer and if you have been to more exotic places. Noticeably lacking, at least among American Ex-Pats, are questions like “How many languages do you know?”, which might indicate someone who is not traveling with an insulating buffer of Americanness, but is rather making an attempt to integrate with the local culture.

This guy became increasingly annoying as he told everyone who would listen about his time in Ukraine. “They’re so fucked up!” he said over and over. “They have no clue at all!” The Englishman who had luckily installed himself at the table between us attempted to engage him. “The thing to do,” he said, “is when you see something that is obvious to you but not to them, think of it as a business opportunity.” I don’t think the Brit realized – or perhaps he did but still felt the need to fight the good fight – was that Ukranus was playing the Ex-Pat Game, and wasn’t really interested in constructive solutions. He was interested in being an expert, a worldly man, a voice of reason in a land of chaos. Someone Who Knows More Than You Do.

The Unimpressed Ex-Pat is also part of the game, and that’s the part I play. It’s easy, because I’m not acting. It really is frightfully easy to move to another country and live. Certainly it is easier for an American with no Czech to move to Prague than for a Czech who knows no English to move to San Diego. I give myself the right to be an unimpressed ex-pat as long as I remain unimpressed with myself as well. Soup Boy and I sat, unaffectedly unimpressed, trying to ignore the guy as he found new people to tell he had been in Ukraine, and how messed up it was there, and about how he was going back in a few days. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Of course Soup Boy and I talked about a lot of Ex-Pat stuff, too. I mean, heck, this place is different, and it’s about the only thing we have in common (OK, not true. We both know that life is mildly ridiculous, and if you can see that, the rest doesn’t matter). If it was the same as everywhere else, we wouldn’t be here. For me, a guy who doesn’t get out much, the differences are less significant, except for the cost of living, but still it’s fun to compare and contrast cultures. Occasionally I was aware of Ukranus listening in, and I realized that, consciously or no, I was still playing the game. I very much wanted him to know that I’d been around a bit as well, so he could stop trying to impress me. I tell myself that I just wanted peace and quiet, but come on, there’s more to it than that.

There is another community of ex-pats here. Poets, musicians, and so on. There are a few of them I have met that I actually like (the ones who do not fit the following description, and there are thankfully several), and at least a couple are even talented, but as much as a long-term ex-pat will put on airs, the long-term ex-pat artiste can make for a long night at the coffee shop. If their conversation measured up their pretensions they would be a fun and challenging crowd to hang out with, but in the end it is just another extension of the Ex-Pat Game. To be fair, some of the gap is because we have very different backgrounds – I am not nearly as well-read or well-filmed as the rest of them. I don’t remember names well. It stops a lot of discussions short. But I sit and listen to them talk, even among themselves, and I swear I am the only one listening to any of it. Often the conversation is not a dialog but a pair of monologues. The whole game is to come up with something you have read that the other has not, and then expound the virtues of that work. “I’ve read Plato!” starts to sound a lot like “I’ve been in Ukraine for seven months!”

I’d rather sit by myself and get something done, thanks.

So a couple days ago I revived my Czech studies, for four reasons. First and foremost, it’s only polite to speak the language of your hosts. Second, it’s interesting. Third, I’m not finding that many people to hang with among the ranks of the English-speaking residents. Not that I hang out much anyway – Big D, one of the least pretentious and most likable people I’ve ever met, must think by now I’m shining him on. Finally, as an Unimpressed Ex-Pat, I can score a lot of points in the Ex-Pat Game with the question, “How is your Czech?”

Oh, yeah, and there are a lot of pretty bartenders who don’t speak English.

Thanks!

Sunday Morning in Prague

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I’m at a popular coffee shop near the center of town. I’ve not been here before; it’s out of my ‘hood, but if you want Internet on a Sunday morning, options are limited. So, I’ve been out and about this morning. Everyone I have seen or heard falls into one of two categories: Americans and people being paid to serve Americans. No right-minded Praguite would be out on a Sunday morning.

Thanks!

Non-Stop… IS A LIE!!

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The non-stop snack bar stopped. I had no business being there at that point, anyway, but Pavel (the guy on the next stool) and Hanka (the bartender) turned out to be very friendly folk. I was there much longer than I had planned to be. At one point, near the end, Hanka took the keys and locked the front door. “She is closing,” Pavel explained to me, “but she says it is all right if we stay.”

It had started when Pavel asked me what I did for a living. “I’m a writer,” I said. something something Spisovatel something he said to Hanka. something something piš something she said back to him. “She is worried you will write about this place,” he translated.

“I already have,” I said.

Things just got rolling from there. I paid for Pavel’s next beer. I was at my limit by that time, but then Pavel bought me a beer. Now it’s tomorrow afternoon.

Thanks!

Non-Stop Snack Bar

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Names of businesses are descriptive here, and Non-Stop Snack Bar is a perfect example. It’s a snack bar (emphasis on bar), and it never closes. This place is a little unusual in that the beer served is not prominently displayed. There are only two things a czech bar patron wants to know: when is the bar open and what beer is served. The rest is inconsequential.

This is the closest all-night place to where I live, and I have never been here before. Strašnica is not really your party-all-night kind of neighborhood.

I was just getting ready to write “this is a cash on the barrelhead kind of place.” I paid for my first two beers when they arrived, and I’ve watched other patrons, some obviously regulars, do the same. Third beer (laptop open), she marked a piece of paper and waved off the payment. I think the real reason is that she’s too busy scarfing down Buffalo Wings that she had delivered from somewhere else. Yes, it’s a snack bar, but the emphasis really is on bar. And Herna. There are slot machines all around me, taking the space where my favorite table would be, but they’re in quiet mode, softly purring in an almost soothing manner.

The TV is on. There’s a movie on with Harrison Ford in it. There is a limited pool of good dubbing actors, and the one who is playing whoever the hell Harrison Ford is supposed to be has a distinctive voice – kind of high and nasal. I don’t hear much czech TV, but I hear this guy all the time. Tonight the movie went into commercial break and we were treated to an ad for cold medicine where the guy had the same distinctive voice as the lead actor in the feature. There was another commercial that didn’t include him, but then the next one did.

I have been sensitized to his voice to the point where any time I’m listening to the television I can’t help but say, “There’s that guy again!”

Thanks!

De Brug – echoes

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A couple of days later I was talking with Soup Boy. Soup Boy is certainly popular with the ladies, and has a healthy and active social life. He was bugging me about working fourteen hours every day and not getting out and meeting people. In my own defense I mentioned my encounter at De Brug. I started to describe her, but I didn’t get far.

“Black hair down to her butt?” Soup Boy asked.

“Yeah, ” I said.

“I know her. Damn, it’s a small town. She’s a trip. And she’s hot.”

“She just broke up with her boyfriend,” I said.

“Reeealy…”

“Yeah, we spent the afternoon disparaging North Carolina. He sounded like a real goober.”

“I never could figure out what she saw in that guy.”

“Well, she’s not seeing it any more.”

The conversation continued like that for a while, mostly at Goober’s expense. I wondered if I would hear from her again about her writing. She had said her life could fill ten books, and from what I heard from Soup Boy, she might not have been exaggerating.

Two days later Soup Boy and I were on a tram, and he says, “I have some gossip for you. It’s about Cleo.” It took me a moment to figure out who Cleo was, but then I was all ears. “I was at a party last night,” he said, “and I thought she might be there. I asked about her and they said she was in the hospital.”

“Holy cow.”

“Not the hospital, really, the psycho ward. I guess she’s kind of freaking out about her boyfriend.” She had seemed sad when I met her, but hardly freaking out. Still, people keep things inside. Then Soup Boy dropped the bomb. “Apparently she stabbed herself pretty seriously, a couple of times.”

Not even ‘holy cow’ could convey what I felt then, so I didn’t say anything at first. Eventually conversation turned to the futility of grand gestures of desperation, the fleeting nature of life, Soup Boy’s ex-girlfriends, and what a goober Goober was.

I understand her stay in the hospital was brief, but I have not heard from her since. I hope she does write her ten volumes, and I hope writing them brings her peace.

Thanks!

She Who Smiles Rarely is in fine form today.

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I haven’t seen her for a while; I was starting to wonder if she still worked here at Crazy Daisy. No worries, on a quiet Sunday afternoon we are here together, and just as far apart as ever.

At one point as she was approaching my table I looked up, and I read her thoughts with startling clarity. She was preparing herself in case I smiled at her as she passed by, mustering the resolve to perhaps smile back a little if she had to. I looked back down at my work but smiled anyway, letting her off the hook but perhaps still sharing a little cheer.

I did get one smile, as she was taking my menu. It wasn’t even particularly forced.

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De Brug

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I would have left some time ago, but the music is too good. The beers here cost damn near a buck fifty, and the gulash I had, which was excellent, was also on the spendy side. But the tunes are good. Johnny Cash, Lou Reed. The woman next to me here at the bar, who is probably from Jamaica or environs, requested Beatles, and right now “Something” is playing.

There’s a good vibe here. The language in this bar is English, which means I can talk to people, and they can distract me while I write. Jamaica woman is a terrible singer, but that’s not what matters. She’s singing. I’m singing along as well. Other patrons are singing. It’s the vibe.

Danielle just arrived. The bartender asked, “do you want a coffee or a beer?”

“Beer.”

“So you’re having a good day.”

“You bet.” Danielle is American. She rolls her own. Squeeze is playing now, at the request of the Brit sitting next to me. Lots of people are following along. and that’s all right.

So there’s this World cup thing going on. It’s only football (soccer to those where football means Sunday), but people still get pretty worked up about it. The Czechs lost a game they really should have won a few days ago, and now they’re pretty much out. I had a discussion with the dutch bartender that went –

J: The czechs look good on paper but they lost the critical games.

DBT: They’re still the best team in the world.

J: If you can’t win the games that matter, you’re not the best team.

DBT: That’s not the way to think about it.

There were a couple more rounds of that. Apparently I’m awfully damn American to think that the measure of a team is whether it wins the big games, but I’ve met a couple of Atlanta Braves fans who think the “European way”.

But that’s not important. What is important is that the woman who was next to me is not Jamaican. Even that’s not important. What is really is important is that I know she’s not Jamaican. I know this because I talked to her. Yes, you read that right. I talked to a woman in a bar. I didn’t mention this before, but she has long, straight hair that hangs to her waist, enormous walnut eyes, and rich, full lips. The process that led to conversation was a gradual one, stretched over an hour, and was based mostly on both of us knowing the lyrics to certain songs.

She’s not from Jamaica. Man, was I off with that guess. There’s a musicality to her speech that I attributed to the islands, but I was plain and completely wrong. She’s your typical Korean-French-American-Swiss-andsoforth kind of girl. If she is the physical representation of globalization then all I can say is bring it on. I didn’t mention it before, but she is beautiful.

I told her I was a writer. Her vision of me instantly became misty and irrational. There’s something she wants to write. She asked me to read the first paragraph, but I stopped at the second sentence. The first was golden, Five words. A question. A damn good question. The second sentence was a train wreck. I skimmed the rest of the brief text and found muddled ramblings punctuated with really good questions. She looked at me hopefully. “You have a story to tell,” I said, “You have the questions. You don’t have to have the answers, but when you speak of cruelty, you have to be specific. You have to show the cruelty. If it’s your life, you have to show your life.”

More conversation ensued, and I promised to edit her work. That will be a major undertaking, certainly frustrating, possibly embarrassing, if she follows through. But she has a story, and I will do what I must to see a good story told. So we talked for a bit, and just before Skippy arrived she said, “If you read this I will never be able to talk to you again. We can only talk through email.”

And then, as foreshadowed, Skippy showed up. In fact, Skippy is sitting next to me now. Cleopatra is long gone, but Skippy is pounding away on her laptop.

His name is not really Skippy, but it should be. As I post this, he is wondering why I’m smiling at him.

Thanks!

Just So

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I had brunch with Graybeard the other day, at a place popular with Americans. They serve big American breakfasts on the weekends, and that is always a Good Thing. Mmmm… Big Brain Scramble!

After we ordered the waitress brought us our utensils and napkins. Exactly two napkins. Graybeard, as you might guess, has a long, gray beard, and he likes extra napkins to keep it clean. He made a comment about how cheap the Czechs are, only bringing one napkin per person, but on reflection I think he’s missing something about Czech culture.

The czechs as a group are craftsmen. Do not confuse this with industrious or efficient, but in the little daily tasks most czechs I know like things to be just so. Rather than provide some napkins, the waitress will carefully count out the correct number. Not out of cheapness, but out of rightness.

I doubt this attitude would carry over to a repetitious task like working in a manufacturing plant. There’s little opportunity for craftsmanship there, and other czech habits, like drinking beer with breakfast, would probably reduce productivity. Where I would hire a czech would be for something that required skill and patience, but the deadlines could be a little looser. Perhaps manufacturing high-end musical instruments, or glass blowing.

Thanks!

People watching

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Where I sit offers a good view of a busy tram stop. Good people watching. Evening is coming on, but the day has been warm and the night will be pleasant.

Out one window I watched a woman, old and bent, age reducing her to perhaps four feet tall, climb onto a tram with deliberate slowness. It was not easy for her to do, but life is not easy, and that’s no excuse to stop trying. She had her life to get on with. Then I glanced out another window just in time to see a young couple, perhaps in their late teens, dash through traffic and hurdle the metal fence meant to discourage people from dashing through traffic. Carefree and completely trusting of bodies that have never failed them, they laughed and joked as they flirted with the autos.

The old woman was once that way, too, and one day, if they are lucky, the kids will be like the grandmother, watching crazy fool kids who think they are immortal.

Thanks!

Cheap Beer Place

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After writing that last bit I stayed in Cheap Beer Place perhaps a bit longer than I should have. I was nursing the beers and nursing the batteries, giving me plenty of staying power, but the ol’ laptop had been in my backpack quite a while when the three guys asked if they could share my table. Things were getting crowded in my section of the bar, after I had spent the afternoon as king and sole patron. Time had passed, shifts had changed, and my favorite waitress had given way to some new guy, who was obviously a rookie.

The three guys were all right. They were younger, Slovak, and there for the dancers. I’ve never been able to figure it out. Cheap Beer Place has, on seemingly random nights, girls who dance without very much on. They do this as the rest of the bar continues its normal vibe, ignoring them completely. They’re just part of the background. I think, if I was hired to be sexy (no worries there), it would suck to be completely ignored. But that’s how it goes, there.

The lads I was with actually approached the evening with much more gusto than the average customer. When the first dancer started they all moved their chairs around for a better view. They made little effort to include me in their conversation, but that was all right with me. Striped-shirt-guy even went over and talked to the dancer for a while, joking and chatting and getting nowhere with her. The dancer did her job, however; I decided to stay for one more beer. As my refreshment arrived so did three more guys, older men, also Slovak.

The mood at the table instantly soured. Striped-shirt-guy in particular was not happy to see the newcomers. One of the new three sidled up next to him and put his arm around the young guy. They left for a while. One of the other youngsters explained to me that we were the only two heterosexuals at the table. The elder batch gave off a predatory air. It gave me the creeps.

I don’t get hit on in bars. It’s just a simple fact. Well, while I was trying to flag down rookie waiter to pay and get the hell out of there (Prosim! Prosim! Zaplatim! dammit!) and the mood at the table was swirling down the crapper, I was hit on. Hard. With no subtlety whatsoever. He wasn’t vulgar (that I could tell), but he was persistent. I tried to absorb myself watching the dancers to, you know, give a hint. I’m not sure why I thought a hint would work, since “I like girls” and “NO, NEVER, EVER” (with gestures) hadn’t seemed to get the point across.

Finally rookie came by with my bill (prices have gone up at Cheap Beer Place). I stopped on the way out and told the dancer I thought she was very pretty – not a lie at all. She smiled and thanked me, also sincerely, as she slipped out of her top. What a crazy place.

Thanks!

Prague – the Homecoming

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Soup Boy blew his knee (again), and is mobilistically impaired. He dropped me a line, saying he would be at Cheap Beer Place for the afternoon. What better place for me to reintegrate myself in my two-months-forgotten lifestyle? I walked in and as I was crossing to the table my favorite waitress asked (in czech, of course) “Beer, yes?” It was as if I had never left. I was kind of hoping for “Hey! Great to see you! Where’ve you been?” I was also dreading the greeting, since what smattering of czech I had has completely fled. “I’ve been in America, making a movie,” I was hoping to say in a suave, offhand, no-big-deal kind of way. Making a movie. Nothing to get excited about, but you’re welcome to gush and think I’m a big shot if you want. Unfortunately, even at the best of times I didn’t know past tense in Czech.

I would have settled for “nice haircut.”

But I’m here, and the words are coming. Soup Boy is an animator, a creative individual at that, and he’s stuck in a spot with a bunch of characters, a great setting, and a lot of potential, but no story.

Favorite waitress just passed, and I had my finger way in my ear. It was itchy. I looked stupid.

ANYway, Soup Boy is an animator, he wants to do little short bits with his characters. I looked at what he has and it’s Writer’s LEGO. Lots of good stuff to work with, the pieces fit in an infinite number of ways, and there’s no right answer. Heck, when God’s one of the characters, you have a lot of room for fun.

Now I am alone; Marcela has carted Soup Boy off to his job, leaving me here to Get Back to Work.

Thanks!