Fat bastard, little dog, and civic action

Repost from elsewhere...

It is hard to leave New York. I was determined to get on the bus at 6pm. But spending the afternoon at MoMa with Michaela, I lingered. From 6 became 7, then we made dinner out of it, with more friends.

Finally I got to Port Authority at 10pm, joining the red, white, and blue snake of people baseball-hatted with Red Sox hats. Damn, nobody informed me that Red Sox played the Yankees today, which means half of Boston is trying to get back along with me. A little frog-eyed pug was prancing up and down, panting, looking up at everybody with his puggly eyes. We wait. And we wait. Apparently one bus has come and gone, we are the leftovers that have to wait for an extra bus to be sent.

After about an hour of waiting, it comes. We stuff ourselves on the bus like sardines, and resume waiting. We wait ten minutes, twenty, nothing happens. Suddenly the bus terminal security comes and inquires after a "dog in a plastic bag". Apparently someone complained about a dog on board. A young girl steps forth with the little pug, who is fortunately not at all in a plastic bag. They take her off the bus. Bus is murmuring with disapproval. My neighbor, a young slim woman but with a voice of a hurricane, stands up, pointing at a big grouchy man with thick glasses.

"It was him. He complained. The girl just spent her last money on the ticket and now she'll be stuck in New York because of the fat jerk. The dog couldn't have bothered him, he was at the back of a bus, in a bag!

A young man assumed a role of a negotiator. Any way we could accommodate both? If you sit in the front and the girl with the dog in the back? No. The fat man wouldn't have it. He's allergic, and we should all leave him alone. He won't have the dog on board. More people pitched in with persuading and commenting. The jerk proceeds to insult everyone. All my inclinations to reconcile the masses went down the drain when he referred to the Rutgers basketball team in connection with my neighbor. I was perfectly willing to let anyone shred him to pieces then.

"Wait what I'll do to you when we get off the bus in Boston!" said the fat jerk to the negotiator.

"Are you threatening me, sir? Did everyone hear that?"

"Yeah! We all heard him, get him off the bus!" bus roars.

Negotiator went to get the security. By now the bus is two hours late. Security comes back and asks the man to step off the bus. He won't. We are asked whether we want to proceed to Boston with him, since we're so late already, or call 911.

"Call 911! I don't feel safe with a racist on board!" someone exclaims.

I try to convince the jerk that it's not worth his or our time to be holding everyone up, but he won't budge. "It's a matter of principle!" he exclaims. I roll my eyes, and step outside for a smoke. Finally the police comes and they drag him out during wild cheering of the bus.

In the meantime, the girl with the pug was displaced. A group of volunteers sets off in search of her. When they emerge victoriously, holding the pug up above their heads, his feet sticking up in the air stiffly, another round of hollering ensues. Finally we start for Boston. We'll get there around 4am. Ack. As I drift to sleep, the negotiator is passing around his phone number. He's having a barbecue tomorrow, and wants the whole bus to be there. I have to do this Greyhound thing more often. There sure is more action than in the last James Bond movie.

Happy Goat on skis

I am a Good Skier. Always have been. Why, I skied before I walked.

That is why I was determined to get some skiing in this winter, even if I go alone. I signed up with Boston Ski and Sports Club, and off I went to Sunday River.

On the Day D, I took a cab to the bus. I was as excited as the Happy Goat from the proverbial Slovak fable that went dancing on ice.

This Happy Goat loves steep and loves speed. The Force is with her. Trouble is, they don't do mountains here the way they do them in Slovakia. Here, they believe in the Mogul. Those wicked things are everywhere, especially since it's been snowing for 3 days in a row.

The Happy Goat assumes the position and pummels downwards. She's stopped in her tracks by 3 feet deep snow. With a still excited grin on her face, the Goat is detached from her skis and propelled 5 meters up into thin air.

Repeat 130 times.

By the time the Happy Goat realizes the approach might be at fault and not the skis, she is wet throughout, collecting 130 scoops of wet powder under the shirt and pants and socks and underwear.

This Happy Goat at least didn't break her neck like the proverbial Happy Goat that went dancing on ice due to extreme happiness. She was just sick for two weeks and pulled her shoulder so that she still cannot move it well 3 months later.

So, remember what happens to the Happy Goat. Do not get overly excited. It can cost you life.

Back in the hood.

I tried them all. Just as other cyber adolescents, I was lured by the new hip kids on the block. My love affairs with myspace and facebook were much like the real life ones. Hot, passionate, all consuming, devoted, unconditional, and.....short-lived. Leaving behind a taste of annoyance, obscure hurried shame, disappointment, and that nihilism feeling that nothing really matters as we all muddle through just to survive, and all else is a lie to cover up the fact that all we'll ever amount to is a few pounds of rotting flesh and a heap of bones. I will get cremated, of course.

Thus I'm back to this hollow willow (another Slovakism, I imagine. You figure it out, use some cross-cultural imagination), because "writing so as not to die or perhaps even speaking so as not to die, is a task undoubtedly as old as the word itself."

I've no news of import. I got engaged and disengaged, got a job for which I'll be moving to The Hague, wrote some chapters for some books, played in few theatre plays, nothing out of the ordinary. Just marking my territory here after the winter sleep.

Indian Diary of a Worldly and Streetsmart Traveler No. 3

August 13, 2006.

I am sitting on a train, on the way to Newark to catch my flight to Delhi. I am typing up a training manual for young business school students who are involved in a student group studying causes of communal violence and prevention of open conflict. My mind is stuck in an analytical mode. It’s a lot of ‘how tos’ ‘what to do whens’… While writing, I noticed a guy across the isle and decided to write a manual about him. He’s a busy one, fidgeting about, doing this and that, thus providing me with a lot of material for observation. My neighbor (ugly pimpled little shrimp, must be a virgin still) is writing a porn story about some Lie “getting plowed [sic!] from behind”, thus I need to do everything in my power to stay focused on my screen. Shudder.

WORLDLY AND STREETSMART TRAVELER’S GUIDE TO SPOTTING A TRAVELER FROM CAPE COD:
To determine whether or not the subject of your observation is indeed returning from Cape Cod, you will need to focus on the following:
1) Appearance and behavior
2) Edible items
3) Print material

1) Appearance and behavior:
1a) The Cape Cod returnee would be clad in casual summery items. He may be wearing khaki pants of a light coloring, white sneakers or flip flops. In latter case try to discern whether the subject has sand stuck to his toes. Fingernails may be dirty, unless the subject has OCD and cleans nails compulsively (please refer to the section 1b) on OCD spotting below). The t-shirt may depict a crab or somesuch sea creature. Over the t-shirt, the subject just might wear a linen blue and white checkered suit. If accompanying by wife, she, too, will be wearing a linen suit. They will be very clean and stiff looking.

1b) OCD spotting:
It might be of essential importance to determine whether the subject is OCD as that is a variable that has to be factored into the formula in order to avoid data pollution. OCD subject will most likely be brightly clean. He will stand up and sit down repeatedly to check his back pocket. If the subject is carrying a live lobster in a paper bag, he will also check on the lobster every five seconds and talk to it softly. Subject will leaf through the paper a few times before he starts reading it and he will make sure each page is neatly and appropriately folded. Then he will stand up a few times to check his back pocket again. Such subject will have clean toenails even if returning from Cape Cod (refer to section 1a) for details).

2) Edible items:
- Oyster crackers. Lots of them. Everywhere. Loud.
- Clam chowder. Smelly. Annoying. Spilling on neighbor who apparently finds that annoying as well.
- Live lobster. Really. Subject may prance around with it, taking it to the café coach for unfathomable reasons (To have it cooked? To have it put in water or fridge?), then come back and peak into the lobster’s paper bag and talk at it every now and then.

3) Print material:
Provincetown Magazine.
Post cards from Provincetown.
Whale watch leaflets from Provincetown. Subject will be waving them around ostentatiously while talking to spouse in animated fashion so as not to leave one soul behind and unaware that the subject has seen live whales recently. La-de-da.


If your subject scores highly on at least two out of the three items listed above, he is most likely coming from a vacation in Provincetown. The sooner you acknowledge this and pretend to be envious, the better will your chances be of him giving it up and leaving everybody alone.

So it begins...or the Indian Diary of the Worldly and Streetsmart Traveler No. 3

Movie. Must watch a movie. Have a beer. Sit down.

How do people do it? Shanti was telling me yesterday that she usually packs within half an hour. I started at 11am. It's 10pm now and I just closed the suitcase. I can say proudly that it is at least 1/2 empty, though for fairness' sake, I need to add that it's a monster of a suitcase. But it's the only one where the two giant paper rolls I'm bringing for our training would fit. Not that I pack in one go either. I don't do anything straightforwardedly. While I pack I find things that distsract me in the process. Thus I did my manicure and pedicure, since I found the dearly missed awesome nailfile that was hiding in a pile of papers, I stitched some missing buttons on things, went to buy another Wild Turkey bottle for Andreas to bring to Hyderabad (he requested two). I also washed my Timbuk2 bag and my Fighter Club sneakers and while I was collecting them from the garden where they were drying, I watered the lawn and all the plants. That's at least 4 hours of activities right there. Plus trying on all of my t-shirts to see which will cover my new tattoo. I'd rather not display it to the 200 students that are devoutedly Christian, conservative, timid, and uptight.

I wish they were handing out the Wild Turkey t-shirts with those bottles I bought. Since it's my dad's favorite bourbon as well, I've been buying it for some time. It came with a t-shirt once that depicts a very red turkey and says 'Wild Turkey' on it. That's all. Looks funny on my father, to say the least. It goes well with his collection of t-shirts, many of which are inheritance from my teenage years. There's the 'Psycho' t-shirt, the 'Nirvana In Utero' t-shirt, the crazy army t-shirt... He wears them all. To work. Combined with short shorts, long socks, and sandals. He's a professor, mind you. Oh well, I embraced it as a charming element of his character. I used to concern myself a great deal with what he wears, inspect his outfit before he leaves the house, but these days it actually warms my heart to see his silly outfits. Whenever he buys a piece of clothing for himself, it guarantees to be a lot of fun, if hideous. His suits have a colorful checkered inside that shows on cuffs and collar, his pants will have twenty pockets and fifty buttons... Seems that I'm homesick. If I could choose whether to fly to Hyderabad, New Zealand, Brazil, Rwanda, tropical islands of the Carribean, or Slovakia tomorrow, I would not hesitate. Well, I'd think about Rwanda for 10 seconds, but still. I am due to go home for awhile.
But I'm not going home. I'm going to Hyderabad. (Bummer. Oh poor me). Via Newark and New Delhi. There I meet David and Brigitt, and we'll stay in 'Hotel Star' near the airport. Hotel Star is sending a driver for 'Sir Dagmar" to pick us up. I reserved our rooms over email, and it seems that it never dawned on them I could possibly be a female. I am in charge, arranging things, I must be a Sir Dagmar. Sure made for a good nickname.
I shall watch Hotel Rwanda now to get ready for the trip. Don't ask me how, I'm not even sure how myself, but it does make perfect sense deep down in my head. The Department of Homeland Security and their freezing of all pending applications, which screwed me over big time, is to be thanked for my gloomy mood. But musn't grumble. There are always worse things in the world than not being able to work or possibly face deportation. Like... genocide. Which is why I read Dallaire, Gourevitch, or Powers in bed before I switch the lamp off.
I should seek inspiration from my five year old nephew. He repeated the mantra I taught him to me on the phone today:"I choose to be happy! I choose to be happy!" And he's bloody right.

Hotel Rwanda it is. Whee! More to come... from Hyderabad.

Babes in the woods

Cleopatra! the musical has moved to Provincetown. That means that once a week we pack ourselves into cars, curse our way through Boston traffic jams on the way out of town, and then drive for another two hours all the way to the end. These trips sometimes involve getting in touch with Nature. Which may be a problem.

Billy and Jimmy have wooden shacks in the woods of Truro, right outside of P-town. We left our cars there and carpooled downtown, as it's damn near impossible to park there. Upon our arrival, we saw a beige car already standing there, engine running. Passangers, consisting on Cleopatra herself, Siphylis, Fagonius, and Slut/hoofer, had no intentions to set a foot outside. We did manage to lure them out, but it was short lived. Mosquitoes, bugs, creepy crawly things of the forest were too much for this crowd. Slapping ensued. Afro ran for the car first, under two minutes. Stepher followed. Claudio exclaimed he's had enough nature for life and if he wants more, he'll flip on the Discovery channel.



Waiting for the van to pick us up, I sprawled on the grass in the sun, listening to gentle breeze through the treetops, buzzing of a honey bee, car engine, and Afro's yelps "There's one inside! Kill it! Kill it!"

Nature is way more tolerable from inside of an airconditioned car. Even if there is 9 of us packed into it. Orphans were bursting into merry songs. Althtough Afro would occasionally still burst into screaming at the sight of a surviving mosquito. Quite an adventure, I tell ya. I wish to lure these delicate creatures into woods more often. Something tells me that is but a pipe dream though.

That is disturbing!

Strangers that are smiling at each other on the subway are disturbing. I mean come on, it's supposed to be a grumpy, cranky experience. You're not meant to be pleasant to others. That freaks me out. Go get an effin' life!

Ex-es that are getting married in a few weeks writing "You've been on my mind a lot lately" are way too disturbing. What am I to do with this piece of information? Stick it in a pot and let it grow into a little coward tree?

Plastic bags are disturbing. Those should be outright outlawed. Especially in Eastern Europe, which has gone haywire with its plastic bag fetish.

Gimme Lean sausage that contains no meat, virtually no fat, no cholesterol, yet tastes wonderful is creepy. What sort of dark voodoo magic and sorcerism is that?!
Hardworking people. I don't understand them. I don't think they are human.

People that tear up when their old tractor dies ...(well, that is actually quite sweet).


Few hours later: I have a fresh addition to the list: Lies that turn into self-fulfilling prophecies freak me out, too. I got late to my boxing class, so I lied that I got a flat on my bike. It's conceivable. I bike everywhere. Well, two hours of torture later, when my shins felt like they were squeezed in the Spanish Boot (a nice medieval torturing equipment) for days and I couldn't even pedal without wanting to cry, I hear SSSSssssss - a FLAT! Gah. my good trusty gorgeous Univega was long overdue for a flat, last one I got about a year ago, but today?! I know gods were waiting for that moment and pinched the tire to get me back for all sorts of minor sins of this week. But still. Self-fulfilling lies are way too disturbing!

Currently listening: Pioneer By Auktyon Release date: By 06 June, 2006

Back in the Ring

Today I have to resort to drawings. Brain smashed to pieces, arms limb. General happy and stupid feeling. That's how I like it.
The Ring is different. Different from Schwarzweiss Boxzentrum, that is. There are many more trainers, and someone is always after you when you work out. There are classes three times a week, which is nothing but an expensive fetish club really. I'm paying $129 a month for a monster of a man to yell at me, force me to crawl on the floor, squat for forever and suffer insufferable pain.
I can't possibly describe every way of torture I had to endure. One stuck in mind, though. We lined up and watched the trainer, eyes wide with shock and horror, perform the routine we were about to mimic. He put himself into a pushup position, raised one arm one leg, and lounged forward, while going down into a pushup in this awkward twisted state. Then he lounged again, thrusting his other arm and leg forth. It was very impressive. He looked like a young Jackie Chan trying out one of his tricks. We were to do two rounds around the whole gym this way. Ha.

When we embarked on our epic journey around the gym, it looked, for some reason, different. I kept thinking of the Mystics in the Dark Crystal, how they moved slowly and in agony when they had to journey to re-unite with the Skeksis. Each time a Skeksi died, a Mystic would up and die, too. Poof! I sure felt like one, certainly one of those nearing death. My paws were in my way, butt too huge to hover above the ground for long. It's a good thing nobody I know saw me, although the doorman, who I call Ted, because he looks just like Ted the doorman from the Institute in Vienna, said that I did well and looked best in that 'flopping mess'.

I also have a confession to make. The Ring is an American boxing club. Men there are civilized, polite, PC, do not stare at you and ask "you..will you party with me?" suggestively. I miss the crazy Serbians, Albanians, Chechnyans. I miss (some of) the attention, smirks, winks, and smacks. I miss Magda and I bitching about the "White Sweater" and how he won't go away from his staring stool at the bar. Or teasing Gogi and Elephant Boy mercilessly. It is ridiculous, silly, vain, but it is so. What would happen to an American male if he let go every now and then? I would not sue, I swear!

Vanity leads to Insanity

Take it from me, children. Vanity leads to insanity. Not that insanity is necessarily a bad thing, but there are better things in the world. World peace, for example. Or a cranberry chicken salad.

In any case, few weeks back, I received an email from an esteemed professor of an esteemed university in Vienna. He is putting together a book on citizenship policies, and the draft on Slovakia was done by an ex-classmate of mine. It reeked to high heavens. Can I edit/ re-write it?

"Ooooh, how jolly!", my inner ego, or Id (whichever of the buggers has these subjects in its job description) clapped its hands. They turn to ME, of all people! I am tickled pink. I squirm in the chair for a few seconds (cannot reply immediately, that is sooo below me), and then type hastily:
"I will be glad to re-write the chapter, it seems to be right up my alley" (read: I have not the first clue about the subject, don't even know where to begin looking...)

So I got myself into this mess. I have not read the draft before I blurted out my overjoyed agreement to be the co-author. I had to pack up my entire apartment next week and move, if only across the street (that would be a topic for a separate post). I had a newsletter to put together, edit, and mail out for work. No matter. I'm a superwoman, I can do everything. Right.

The moving took up, as it does, way more time than one plans. Deadline came and went, and I was still hauling boxes of books, Aztec statuettes, spices and single socks (you never know when the twin sock re-appears!) from the apartment on 54 to the one on 59. On Sunday I finally sat down to what I thought would be a day, maximum two, of editing. It became painfully obvious to me within an hour that I should have read - and declined- the job before I responded. The English was so horrendous I couldn't understand it even in Slovak syntax, considering all possible words and idioms that the author could have had in mind. Rest was a mumble-jumble of legal quotes (quoted in a wrong format). Then came this 'analysis' that made my eyes bulge out of my skull. Even the notorious nationalist Slota, who peed drunk out of a restaurant balcony not too far from my home in Bratislava, could not trump it.

Needless to say, editing was a Sisyphos' battle. I trudged through it for hours and hours, not sleeping on Sunday, sleeping only 2 hours on Monday....with still more to go. Hastily, I was adding sources so that the analysis has a head and a heel, as we clever Slovaks say. One of the sources that I found made my heart stop. It sounded so familiar, where have I come across it.... With suspicion I scroll through the chapter draft.... there it is. Translated word to word...no attribution. Holy smokes. I wonder where other "analyses" in the draft come from. I google a few sentences here and there.... all lifted, plagiarized, swiped, scrounged, pilfered, filched, mooched, cribbed, dipped...well, stolen (uh, sorry, got a little carried away with my WDICT32 Translator program here). It is Tuesday, my brain is fried, as are my eyes. At this point I am attacking the text randomly, ploughing through it to add sources, change wording, cite what can be cited. And ignoring calls and emails from work and home. Everybody's pissed off at me at this point. And I'm pissed off at me, the chapter sucks, as do I. Bitter, furious at the original author for her audacity to plagiarize worse than my freshmen, and at self for vanity and idiocy, tired to the point of having twitches and spasms in random parts of my body, where I didn't even know I had muscles, I finally send the sucker to the editor on Wednesday night (well, Thursday morning, to be frank), being able to read it over once, barely. I fall asleep, out in a coma. I sleep right through an important work meeting (standing the poor woman up in a coffee shop), and a few more phone calls. One colleague of mine is now convinced I dislike her and don't want to work with her any more. My mother believes she insulted me in some way and is now inquiring what has she done to deserve the dead silence from me. Editor writes back that he is 'generally happy' with the chapter, but has many comments and 'suggestions'. I will never catch up on emails. My reputation will be forever tarnished with this ogre of a chapter. They would probably fire me, if they could. All I can say, just as that raven did (well, him, and the international society after the Holocaust) is :"Never more!"
So, I picked myself up and dragged myself to The Ring. I took a free trial boxing session with a personal trainer, and all of my troubles floated away. Or were punched into the heavy bag. And the trainer....so handsome, so well sculpted, so funny, so....divine. Back to boxing. That is the world for Dasha. None of this academic crap. I'll leave that to the birds!

Quagmire

This is how conversations sometimes go on the very last date... not that I would know of course... Painful at the time, but highly entertaining in retrospect.


She: "Hmmm.... you computer boys..."

He: "What?"

She: [that didn't sound good, did it?...] Oh, it's just... you surprised me..

He: "Why?"

She: [Shit...couldn't I just have been quiet?] Well, you know, you sit behind a computer all day long, one would not expect a great performance... [I can't believe myself, I have gone obviously mad!]

He: "Oh."

She: [Rectify! Rectify!!!] It's imagination. Most nerds are endowed with abundance of it! [doh. sinking, sinking for good]

He: "It was just ten minutes."

She: "You were looking at the clock? [I do not like the direction this conversation is taking...]

He: "Oh no. I only did that once, to this girl that really truly sucked... She thought she was hot shit... [looking around somewhat nervously...]

She: Hmmm.

He: "I mean, I'm just guessing, it's a time estimate. I'm pretty good at that. [now pulling away, quite apparently out of his element]

She: "Yes, it's amazing how human mind works" [shut up, just be quiet. gah, can I leave now? I wish it wasn't my bedroom..]

-- silence--

He: "Should we maybe try to get some sleep?"

She: "Yeah, absolutely [Yes, please! The sooner I get to shut up for good, the better!]