Give me one and let me ride it. Far away.
Where I feel like being when…
My throat is sore.
My nose won’t stop running. It’s like the marathon all over again.
I almost ruined the fruit blender, forgetting to place the blades.
And finally, I have confirmed four travel options to Warsaw, ignoring my final destination: Krakow.
What else can go wrong?
When I speak in it, it makes wonders. Well it has today. Like for the first time. I was in the subway, the train was crowded and about to leave and us we were still on the platform. When I used it: “Could you move over, please. Thank you very much”. Then the train left and we were on it.
My next rant is about that one traveler who decides it’s a good time to eat a doughnut during subway rush hour. Usually they would eat on you, preferably on your back. Once they are done they would lick their fingers and dust off imaginary, or not! crumbs of their hands. Again, on fellow passengers.
Then this doughnut eating catastrophy got off and a lady came, she was reading Adevarul de seara. I got a glimpse at some random title spelling out the secret: Romanians impolite on public transportation. The writing is on the wall, I am telling you!
I am looking for the phone number of a person. One of my last resorts was the text file I have saved and sent to myself a couple of times some time ago. Searching through my aggregated inbox, you see, not necessarily the best idea this aggregated inbox, I have learned that agenda is probably one of the most tired words in project management jargon: I have it in 453 messages.
Some pretty amazing things have found me.
First, some time ago, my former boss, who every once in blue moon sends randomly significant things to me, has sent me this. Read it, it’s a brilliant account, a piece published by The Huffington Post and tagged Gay Families, Gay Marriage, Gestational Surrogacy, Living, Prop 8, Twins, Living News. I wanted to write about it, but being where I am workwise I will now settle for this very brief mention.
Pretty much in the same line of business, a long-awaited initiative, that I like because it’s serious and decent comes from two friends you can also find in my blogroll. I am jealous. Good jealous. (Guys, let me know if I can help.)
These being said, I am hitting the shower and my neighbours being crass - apparently they have either stopped flushing, because of water costs I assume, or someone has died in their bathroom, repeatedly.
They have wired me the money. If the bank commission is that high, I should not be paying income tax for the whole amount! MOFOS!
If you smoke me, I’ll smoke you back! Who the f*ck is cooking fish at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning and why do I have to notice this when I enter the bathroom trying to brush off my teeth and hangover?
What is this city coming to? I passed next to a hospital the other day and mark for the pedestrian street was stuck on purpose on a pole in the middle of a lateral acces road. Are people sick?
The day can only go higher after you see a red Mini featuring a license plate reading MM number EMO. Which I have before this weekend.
I assume I am not the only one in the world who, when liking a book, buys more than one copy.
From the very beginning I knew I’d quote from the Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy and Other Stories, but not how much. I was also unaware I will read it twice. Aloud. Yeah, the advantage of being 35, soon, and living on ones own. So, it’s read now. Grin. I really dig it.
The whole process goes like this. Take book, split open. Right after the cover, right after the director’s achievements, and Of related interest from Faber and Faber, and “Tim Burton is hereby identified as author of this work…”, and “For Lisa Marie”, and Contents, so, as I was saying, right away after… it brilliantly starts with “Stick Boy liked Match Girl,/ he liked her a lot. He liked her cute figure,/ he though she was hot”. Can you guess how the story goes on? Hint: she was hot. I think it’s a classical romance. It’s not about Stick Boy, it’s about me. And you. And that love that in retrospect should’ve better been unrequited. Or maybe it was unrequited. But you didn’t see that. Nonetheless. Funny.
So far here you are the first verse, but no end. Now, let me stir you with some missing-the-beginning: “He never forgave her unholy alliance:/a sexual encounter/ with a kitchen appliance.” Tell you what, of course that piece is about marriage.
And, finally, a little story in its entirety: The Boy with Nails in His Eyes
“The Boy with Nails in His Eyes/ put up his aluminum tree./ It looked pretty strange/ because he couldn’t really see.”
Do read The Girl with Many Eyes, The Girl Who Turned into a Bed, Roy, the Toxic Boy, Junk Girl, The Pin Cushion Queen, Melonhead, Sue, Anchor Baby - to name my absolute favourites - and let me know what or whom are they talking about.
Later EDIT: I have found this, but I still think everybody should buy the book.
But I haven’t told how I got stuck in the elevator, the other day!
How? That was pretty easy, but not that pretty.
Once upon a time there was the most depressing Monday of the year. People were committing suicides, help lines went red with cries for help, the shrinks’ couches were colapsing under the weight of patients. I was blisfully carrying on with my full day, totally unware, bless my ignorance. I was even laughing and talking too much to me, myself and you, over a cup of tea and a mug of beer. I suspect it was the mug that did it. A subway train or two later and following a brief crisp walk in the dark, I was pit-stopping at the famous corner, the one where you can only pay cash for your essentials and basic crap that one needs to wrestle with the power of the night. You know the likes of milk, bread, or beer, when you ran out of, you absent minded silly boy! Only I needed sour cream and yellow cheese to garnish my potatoes. I am telling you, I was drooling. Cash was exchanged for the goodies, and there I was carrying my heavy bag and soul back to my eight floor dwelling.
Now, my Monday was about to live to its full dementia and distress potential so well captured by the researchers across the world… Let me recap, I was acking to take a piss, hungry, tired, maybe a bit cold, but lookin forward to satisfying these basic Maslow needs. Let me rephrase that: I was looking forward to IMMEDIATELY satisfy these needs. And that was followed by my big eyes growing bigger when I noticed the elevator was being stuck at the ground floor. You must’ve noted above, I live at the eight. Long story short, blinded by urgency, I decide that I need at least try the elevator before climbing up the stairs, laptop on my shoulders, sour cream in one hand, and yellow cheese in the other. And so I did. I slammed the elevator door but it wouldn’t close. A little knob was sticking out in the frame, preventing the door to close. Ha! there was the clue to why the elevator was not working, I thought! Before thinking any better, I pressed that little fucker in, closing the door and now I was in.
A step by step process followed: closing the elevator inner doors, pressing the floor button, not moving at all. Repeat. Not moving at all. Yeap, at this point in time it actually occured to me there was a reason for the little fucker sticking out. Of course, in a civilized country, an explanatory note “Elevator out of business” would’ve rendered void the probability of those being able to read to actually be stuck inside the broken damn thing! without further mental processes.
Except for those occasions when I get terribly upset or plainly raving mad, I am a calm, rational and reasonable individual. Or at least I like to think so. The situation called for calm. I freed my hands, sticking the sour cream in one pocket of my overcoat, and the yellow cheese in the other, because fashion police was probably busy elsewhere. In reaching for my cellular I did not encountered any problem, but in dialing I did. My good friend and neighbour had both his phones off. My best friend did not pick up, he was later confirmed in a meeting. Another good friend who is living relatively close by was out partying, and she suggested I call a repair guy. Now, bless her soul, there was a mobile number plastered across the elevator, even engraved on the button dial. Not having anything else better to do I called, in little hope. After a long while, probably the longest possible before the connection would’ve automatically cut off my call, a heavily bored deep voice answered.
“Hello, you have reached the elevators’ repair shop”. Well, hurray, but wait, isn’t this too formal to be a human being? Was I possibly about to leave a message with a machine? The perspective of spending my night in the elevator, meters aways from my cozy place blitzzed and scared me pissless. But no, gods were watching over me. Their watch was more like a partial eclipse, but let’s get back on track with the story. “Hello, you have reached the elevators’ repair shop, oh, you got stuck, we’re sorry, it’s gonna take a while” were his words, although not word for word. Then, as I was pushing towards my minute-credit limit, he kindly explained what I should do to get out. OK, remove explain, insert repeat obsessively, with the exact same words. And that and the technical terms and the fact I was getting nowhere increased the level of my frustration, so I decided to hang up, free my hands and try my best. Which I did quite successfully.
And now, here’s the best part. As I was breathing heavily up the stairs I though let’s call guy, let him know I am out and thank him. “Hi, it’s me again, thanks for helping me, ’cause I wasn’t planning to spend the night in the elevator”, I said jokingly. To which he replied, seriously “Oh, that wouldn’t been the case at all. I live very closely, but I was just having dinner”.
The noise of my jaws hitting the floor was probably comparable only to the size of my eyes getting bigger, being totally baffled. And why you couldn’t say so? It was not like I was able to come chase your fat ass out of that chair to the fucking elevator that was broken holding me inside.
And there’s Romania for you! We’re nice and helpful when it doesn’t bother us at all.
And we don’t like explaining, because smart people don’t need explaining, they just get it.
As a result of my newly embraced eco-friendly approach to life in the city meets psychosis of daily urban traffic, I am riding the underground. Which gets surreal when I have a perfect audition of Pink Martini performing Sympathique, while observing my fellow commuters.
It somehow reminds me of the words of an actor friend who noticed me in similar weather conditions: “You are so not from here!”
What is worse than getting a “Thank you very much”-but-”We regret to inform you that, although we were impressed by your experience and skills, we have decided not to proceed further with your application this time.” email? Getting one that says “We have received your CV, would like to meet with you, but there is no telephone number to contact you”.
And getting it two months after it was sent.
Oh well, I have just read mine and it felt like the desk just parted and the void wanted to suck me in.
This ads a new dimension to self-loathing and that lately almost omni-present feeling of incompetence.
I am swamped.
So I turn in my resignation two months notice and what is the most common reaction I get?! Congratulations! Hello? I am not receiving anymore congratulations unless they are joined by irrefutably irresistible dream job offers. That, or a life long allowance. Like I said.
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