I walked into my hotel room after breakfast and realized the shower was running.
Why is the shower running? I could see the little flashes of lights in my brain, hear the clicking and whirling going nuts in there.
A few hours later at the meeting, wearing a t-shirt under my suit: “You’ll have to forgive my attire today… all of my dress shirts were mutilated by the gods of high humidity and the miscreant behavior of shower heads gone haywire. It’s a natural consequence of staying at a hotel with no iron that forces you to either pay €12 a shirt or hang them all in the bathroom while you run the shower at full heat for 15 minutes. It works well enough, provided you remember to turn it off. So at least until they all dry, you’re getting the best of my undershirts. Enjoy.”
Shit like this actually does happen if you travel enough and stay in enough Marriott Hotels. It’s not just that I’m an idiot… it’s also a statistical thing.
–
Speaking of idiots, who are these two jackasses that talk “oh-so-naturally” on CNN International to each other? They sound like two Sunday Morning neighbors, shooting the shit across the white picket fence, one watering his lawn and the other taking a break from mowing it, except that they’re trying. They look like two yokel grandparents who’ve decided to become enlightened and read you headlines from other newspapers and then comment about the obvious, and even manage to get THAT wrong.
Her name, by the way, is Colleen McEdwards. I looked it up but who’s the bag of douche next to her? CNN.com won’t tell me. A weekend guy, maybe? Who knows?
I hope this is purely a ratings thing and that they realize how dumb they sound and go home at night wishing someone would give them a real job. After too long trying to watch this ‘news’ I start wondering if there isn’t something more constructive on TV, like porn or maybe American Idol. It’s really the same thing from where I stand, except that porn at least has utility.
It’s not like there’s nothing happening to discuss: not so long ago, Benazir Bhutto returned to Pakistan and that very night in Karachi there were attacks, as if on cue for the networks. Bombs, killing scores of people, injuring a few hundred more, like something out of a script. Without explosions, who in America would care that she is back in Pakistan? Who even knows who she is in this land? It’s a sad state of things, but then, it’s no big surprise when co-workers ask “Oh, is Hilary running for president this year” as casually as if they were asking if I was going to use my little packet of sugar in my coffee. At this rate, it may as well be acid.
But anyway, back in Pakistan, the news networks covered the explosions and made a big scene of it. Not of the explosions, mind you, but of the fact that they were covering it, as if they’d finally received the memo that stuff happens outside the US. To be fair, it was real mayhem, the likes of which we in this country only know from Schwarzenegger movies and Die Hard. Fools don’t even know. Wake up, it seemed to say, ‘cause this shit happens‘. But then it vanished, as if the credits had already finished and people needed to leave the theater to go relieve themselves in dark bushes. Amazing, the short span of attention you people have. That’s why I keep it moving here, or else you’d drift off to…
HEY! here, here, HERE. Look over HERE!
That’s better.
Also, the mess in Turkey with the Kurds in northern Iraq and Cheney’s Revenge: Iraq 2 - The Son of Saddam. Actually, they’re not related at all as far as I know, but to see Cheney talking about the guy, he’s so certain of the guy’s evil you’d think there was shared blood in Ahmadinejad’s veins and Saddam’s. What’s worse is that he won’t offer a shred of proof to the goal. He just keeps on claiming Petreaus’ reports as gospel. Too bad it’s just as unconfirmed or fact-checked. Or maybe it’s not too bad - for him, at least. At least it’s pretty clear that Petreus himself is quite embarrassed over these political talking points concerning his own words. We’ll probably see him join the ranks of other retired generals when he finally leaves this cursed position of power into which he’s stumbled.
It’s an endless cycle. No wonder the hole we’re in is so deep: we dig it a little more every time you people go to the polls. My god, there is so much to rant about.
Oh, and T’s back. Hope remains for some, though not for all. I’m too tired to go on - sooner or later I have to wake up and you know it’ll just start all over again, which is why I think you keep coming back.
Oh well. At least you’re right.
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Fortunately, the afternoon was dark and threatened rain on that day when the clocks went back. I went from bar to cafe, from church to lounge, reading my books, writing my words. The body was not hung over, but the mind was acting as if it thought it should be.
Inside an English pub I heard the jeers and cheers that were probably attributable to a football game of some kind. The bright light of a tourist’s camera flashed against a store window and slapped me across the face. The day was not making a whole lot of sense to me but at least it was confounding me in a way that was not insulting, however intrusive. It was letting me know I could keep on walking. I did.
In general, it was a wasted day whose sole purpose was to be wasted, falling into reality, or else climbing back into it, depending on how you judge the debauched fun that our merriment last night produced.
For a party of 8 people, it was one hell of a party. Sure, the Dutch don’t really do Halloween, and sure, they won’t all necessarily come just because you invite them 3 months in advance. And they don’t all dance forro. But I do dammit, and I wanted a damn Halloween party nonetheless. And if I’d had to decorate my own apartment and stock my own fridge and paint my own damn nails black, I would have.
Thankfully, there was help. There was a moment though, after all the decorations had gone up and the nails were black and the costume was ready and a couple of drinks had even already been poured when I stood and waited. Nothing left to do, nothing left to plan, just wondering, doubting, me and the empty living room.
“Well, living room, I guess even if no one shows up, it’s been one hell of an afternoon, eh?” It doesn’t respond, as living rooms hate idle chatter. Also, living rooms can’t talk.
“You know, ‘room, it’s been a strange trip, so far, this moving abroad thing. Why am I doing this? What do I want to get out of it? I can’t really say — getting something out of it was never a goal I’d thought about, you know?” It knows.
“Was it adventure? Was it style? Was it accents? Shit, it could have been for the accents. Sometimes I’m just shallow like that. Yeah, it’s best that you don’t respond to that any how. Pretend I didn’t say that.
“But that doesn’t matter; this move, it was never a means. I wasn’t running, toward or away from anything. I just needed for this to happen or something. The horizon is always my end; it’s always my means too. What does that say about me?”
–
“You know, living room, you’re a great listener and you hold a lot of answers, but your public speaking skills leave a whole lot to be desired.
“Anyway, maybe I should clarify, because there’s got to be a root cause. There’s always a root cause in informational science and this is definitely informational. Why am I always seeking to be different, to stand out? I don’t like attention; so why do it?
“Now pay attention, because this is the important part. I think what it amounts to is that I like the attention that I give myself. I like the self-admiration that I feel when I do something I know is original. Something that validates - to me - that I’m an intelligent dude and that I know what’s up. Does that make sense? Is self validation a legitimate vice in vanity?”
It’s a good thing the doorbell rang just then, because I wouldn’t have known how to explain it better if the living room hadn’t understood, and then it would’ve gotten awkward.
And after that? After that we danced. My pirate costume was better than ever thanks in no small part to the gloriously cool initiative of my good friend, Clair, who had the insight, the drive and the initiative to consider that most of my pirate gear did not make it onto the “Pete’s Life: Volume I” box in the move to Amsterdam. Not only did she think of this, she then goes out and gets me some pirate gear and proceeds to send said pirate gear clear across the Atlantic.
Clair, are you listening? I had already promised you a beer next time I see you - are you ready for this?
Are you ready?
2 beers.
There, I said it. I give; I’m just like that.
[Clair will have my head for that, so I hope you're all entertained; it probably cost her, like, 200 mangoes just to ship the thing!]
Seriously, it made my costume come to life. It’s not that I’m not really a pirate, I just have a hard time looking like one. But with a dagger that has phrases written on it like
- May she carry the swift and the beating heart of worthy men…
- Bring me that horizon, drink up me hearties, YO HO!
- We are the beaches of Normandy the night before
- Douchebag fender-offer
well, then you’re all pirate. Black fingernails and eye-shadow just don’t hurt, know what I mean?
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Holy hell, it was a fast night in Vienna. Too many sudden friends met in lonely hostels, too many beers that I or some Australian kid named Denzel must have bought because zee Germans were not coming through on their end of the bar tab, and the ladies from Seattle simply could not be expected to have that kind of zazz. But the night was fun and at the end of it there was no permanent damage. I managed to stumble upstairs and actually fit the key into the keyhole to gain access to my temporary bed. Nevermind that some misfiring neuron in my head was allowed to make the point to drunk Oscar that the laptop would be safer under my pillow than in the locked cabinet the hostel provides.
Nevermind that. My head convinces itself of strange things on that much beer and jager shots. I was lucky to convince myself to take the laptop to bed instead of leaving it in the hallway and not only make it to the top bunk but to not drop anything on the way there.
Christ, Oscar.
A side note on general Eastern European cuisine is that you don’t always know what it is or where it comes from if you just walk into random places, which I do. This time it was good goulash, as far as that goes, hearty and meaningful on a night like that when the wind bites into your face like langoliers gone wild and the rain dribbles onto the sidewalk. But what I’m saying is that it could’ve been anything. Anyways, I lapped up what I thought was the meat, but left half of the dumpling thing on the plate along with the sauce that looked like the remains of something that had seen a fitting end. The smoke in the dining hall got the better of me in that Austrian bar though, and I went home and looked up what the hell it was that I had just eaten.
The next day, you pay for the goulash, but at least it’s the next day, and you’re back in Amsterdam - where the pillows smell like home.
Vienna, Austria — October, 2007
Wombat Hostel, ,Room 211 cabinet 4
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Covered in leaves of autumn, Essen, Germany would be a pretty nice town if it didn’t suck so much. Under light grey clouds the thin rain drapes the industrial remnants of the Ruhr region’s once booming economy. There are streets and streets of old people; a plethora of distance between anything resembling a decent bar scene and 10 hours a day of technical training.
Who needs it?
Supposedly it’s become a university scene and so I hobbled off after young coeds. I found nothing but smokestacks, pretty foliage, passing traffic and plenty of parking, none of which is a euphemism for young coeds. Nonetheless, plenty of parking is a rarity where I come from. Amsterdam, that is.
Oh well. I guess it can’t all be Barcelona’s and Vienna’s, right?
[...]
Right?
Well. It goddamn ought to be. And why not? All I ask for are some steaming hot coeds and a vodka martini - shaken, not stirred, dammit. I know it’s Europe; get yourself a goddamn shaker, Euro-bars. Is that really too much to ask? Eh, Essen?
Dammit.
At least they have good chocolate and the vodka here is cheap. But that’ll only cut if for so long.
So what could I do after the guitar was played and the fingers were calloused? After the work was done and the streets were scoured? With a head of hair soaked in the hours spent in the heavy mist, a slight sniffle and ears tired of rapid German I snuck a peak at the free download just made available: the 1st issue of Transmetropolitan.
Sweet lord, I’ve been waiting for this for some time now. Did you make this happen? It is too late to join your club?
Oh it is? Too much drinking huh? Oh well. At least W. won’t be there either. Oh, he will? Huh. He got back on the bandwagon, you say? Good for him. What about the killing of all those Iraqi’s?
Muslims don’t count? Really? You’ve got to be shittin’ me. Oh, you are. Just playing, you say? I see.
But how about it? He feels really bad about it? That’s it? That’s all it takes? Yeah, I know he’s otherwise incompetent, but so what? So you can plead insanity on Earth and stupidity in the afterlife? That works?
Jesus Christ. No, no — I’m not actually calling him, just… yeah, I know he’s a busy guy. Look, just forget it, ok? Geez.
–
What about Dick Cheney? Yeah, I thought so. That fucker didn’t have a chance, even with these lax standards you seem to… you what? No, why the fuck should I stop cursing? You already said I’m not allowed in anyways, right? You ain’t the boss of me.
What? Sure you can ask me for a favor. Yeah, it can be off the record (*wink-wink*).
What do you mean by ‘take care of him’? Ok… yeah… oh…
Ohhhh.
… yeah, I guess so. Oh, sure, yeah, no problem. Don’t worry — I’m screwed anyway. I’ll tear him up real good when I get the chance. Yeah, of course: right upside the jaw; I know the drill. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just you remember this though, if the two sides ever duke it out and I’m left standing.
The hell You say! I have plenty of scrupples (no, you fix that last typo), it’s just that I have my own set. Look, I’m pretty good with words but you’re the Almighty. You wrote The Bible or something, didn’t you? Well whatever. I’m sure you could have if you’d put your mind to it. Me? I write a blog. Yes, people read it! Jerk.
Sorry.
Well, anyways, the point is I’m in no condition to argue about this, least of all with you. Yeah, I’m sure we’ll speak soon. Yes, I’ll be sure to watch The Daily Show tomorrow. Yeah. Ok. Uhmmhmm. Yeah, ok. Bye.
–
Well. At least I’m reading TM now. T and Mo have been talking about this for years, and I finally got around to it. So far so good. Besides, it’s not like a degenerate like me had a prayer’s chance at a wicca gathering to get into heaven anyways. May as well go all the way, you know? Out like a bullet, no control and blind as a bat.
But at least I’ll have read Transmetropolitan.
What did you do today?
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I snapped up in bed with a jolt as if hit by the titillating 20,000 Volts of a distributor cap. Disturbed from sleep out of a terrible dream is no proper way to make a man jump out of bed - but boy, is it effective.
The first thing I noticed was how dark it was. Not just dark, but black. Pitch black; not like the night, but like fear — like bad things face down in wet roadside ditches, cold and abandoned. Outside the lamps were still on but their lights seemed to be shut out from illuminating my room. The darkness was so empty it held no memories — it was cold and smelled of fiends and… enemies. My chest was soaked but my skin was dry. My medical training jumped and I checked for gashes and other wounds.
–
Nope, nothing.
I still clung to the dream, not wanting to forget it yet. It disturbed and vexed me in a way that made me very uneasy. I had perished killing my killer; died bloody in his hands, and he breathless in mine. He’d stabbed me repeatedly as I strangled him in a bright place surrounded by people. It was not a good hour for such thoughts.
I thought back to the day — what was it? I had come home from work dead tired… dead? Could that be it? …nah - too obvious.
Maybe that run… that run yesterday, concentric circles around the 10 miles of the main canals in Amsterdam — it had almost killed me… but no, no. Too much of a stretch.
I thought back to the roda… that was it: that guy. Tall and muscular; a thin face. He wasn’t just dark, like an African American - he was black. Black like emptiness, black like danger. Negro. A pit of confused anger embodied in the color of a man’s skin. Whatever it was, the important thing is that I saw no smile on his face; no white teeth presented themselves. I didn’t like it.
He was angry from the start. There was no playfulness in his attempted take downs, no creativity in his forceful kicks. Who did he think I was? Was he mistaking me for someone else, someone with whom he had a grudge? Had I done something I did not realize? He was coming for me, and there was anger in his face; fury in his exhaled breath.
I dodged, I rolled, and I answered back with my own, but I own no fury like that. I loath nothing that seriously. I’m there for fun.
Then it happened. His arrastao put me on the defensive and I was forced into holding him in a head lock from above; I hate this position. He twisted out of it and instead of putting me in a headlock - which is what usually happens and one of the reasons I hate that position - he pushed me down to the floor. Fuck.
That horrible position on one knee, head down, elbow to the face for protection: completely vulnerable from above. I’ve always had an irrational fear of this position; a trauma of some kind. Maybe a saw a film or something when I was young, but it makes me uneasy. Something akin to that scene where Alex Murphy gets shot in “Robocop” comes to mind. Why the hell was I watching that when I was 7?
Anyway, my enemy close above me, his thigh keeping me down from behind. The position I dread. Then I hear the click of the knife and the air gets cold with the tip of the blade. What? Wait… why? No, wait!
It sinks in easily and the blade under my flesh fills me with fear. As he pulls it out I draw a quick breath out of instinct; a short, pitiful, thin breath that barely whispers any oxygen. I can smell the blood instantly.
In that second I think back to that first time I was knocked down. The friendly mestre who knocked me horizontally five feet into the air (with all his friendliness), and let me fall into the watching crowd. Piles of humiliation. Yeah.
That’s what it was about; humility. It was always about learning humility. And how do you react? Do you try to rid yourself the humiliation by standing up and getting angry? You’d look more foolish and you wouldn’t learn a thing. Do you cower and roll into a fetal position, hoping for pity yet fearing further beating with no defense? Do you just let fear rush in and do it’s thing, settling into a pointless panic? Or do you rise above, learn, and come back with a bit more awareness, your fear fueling your drive and a cool head full of wisdom to drive the strength?
First, I guess — you have to fall well. Then you worry about what to do after the fall. I have fallen many times since then, and have had it with humility. There were other days in which I might have sat still, hoping for action from someone. Help. Pity. No more knockdowns, no more flying through clapping crowds — no more stabbing, please; let it stop here. There were times when I would not have thought to fight back immediately while the strength was still in me.
But not this time.
Before that breath could be drawn in again I stood straight up, my back to his chest, reached back and grabbed his neck, firmed my grip and pulled. I use my hips to push him over and flip him in front of me, on his knees. He never saw this coming. My elbow was already around his throat, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him as I squeezed the hate out of me. I wanted it all gone and I didn’t have much time.
His arms flailed, looking for a hold, trying to tap, trying to scratch, trying to do anything, but I was out of his reach. I didn’t question him. I looked for no explanation; I needed no explanation. He went limp soon enough but I didn’t let go right away. I had more hate still to squeeze out of me and wanted no drop left.
–
As I thought about this horrible moment in that lonely and new kind of dark, a strange sound rang in my ears. A repeating buzzing, loud and terrible as if it were right next to my ears.
What do I do?
Everything around me was fading, the darkness thinning and I could see an outline of… red lights, numbers…
what is this?
I needed to do something, but what? Suddenly:
Alarm! The alarm clock! Turn it off: Right arm, GO! Reach across; not too far! Remember there was a glass of water there or something…
No? You’re not working?
Ok, never mind… left arm, swing around over the chest; you can do it old boy! That’s it! Right onto the buzzer button. Snooze — don’t turn it off!
At a kid!
–
Ok.
–
A nightmare. What time is it? Did I sleep enough? What did I do to deserve this? It’s cold outside isn’t it? Fuck.
It’s going to be a long, strange day.
Oh well. At least I didn’t kill anyone last night, and then die in his arms. What with the Patriot Act and all, it’s a bad time for people who do that kind of thing.
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