I’d actually rather not talk about continuations and I ask kindly for you to never mention them again in my presence. If you comply with this request, I’ll be delighted and send you a photograph of my friend Christián being asphyxiated by a wildebeest..

(Christián)

So let’s jump right in.

As I was writing on 1 December, the attractive young woman at Plus Ultra gave me two phone numbers upon my arrival in Logroňo. I contacted Marisa immediately, but left Carmen to go about her life in peace for a time.

(1 December)

The photo above shows Carmen and I having a wild time (well, most likely an absurd and / or silly time) at some café / bar in the center of the city. I contacted her after I broke my relationship off with Marisa. The month was May, I belive, but I may be mistaken.

I sent a series of scurrilous messages to Marisa, as is my way of pushing someone further from the center of my life, because (I think) I felt we were getting too close and I thought (I think) I was not really attracted to her. As are all things in this universe, it was mostly my fault, as I encouraged kisses and hugs. We probably walked hand in hand even then. Marisa was certainly no stranger to affection, however. One of my first memories of her was when I walked her back to her edificio after one of our lecciones and she insisted that I be proximous with her corporal being. I complied and I believe it was the first night we kissed. I also recall walking away, crossing the vacant rotunda in front of that edificio, and muttering to myself: What the fuck do you think you are doing, Bob?

As the once famous and smelly Steve used to say - to make the long and short of it, after that, I ended up contacting Carmen. A few of our meetings in, I made it a point to relate the story of Marisa to her so things would not go awry. Hanging out with her was all I wanted.

As evidenced by the photo, we did have a jolly time together. I made stuffed zucchini at her place one time. We had a bottle of wine and she forced me to listen to some far too happy Latin-ish music. She introduced me to her neighbour and we smoked cigarettes together. We often went to El Rincón de Julio, drank beer, ate pintxos, had pseudo-lessons and laughed often. In a way, I miss her.

(El Rincón de...)

Speaking of El Rincón de Julio, I have gone there with pretty much everyone I know in this town and with my visitors from otherworldly colonies (Michal and Mirka). I find it exceedingly pleasant and recommend it even to the most crusty or pudgy gonorrhea afflictee out there.

(El Rincón de...)

Carmen left for vacation in Italy sometime during the end of the summer or beginning of the fall. I was back in full swing with Marisa by then, so slowly came the scurrilous messages sent Carmen’s way. It didn’t help that she hinted several times to me via SMS that she wanted something “more”. So she is history. Only this entry exists to remember her. Her ashes are already scattered in the río Ebro. And I don’t feel a thing.

During other restless night, punctuated with sleep but mostly filled with half-awake blear, I had a dream about María. For the curious ones, she is Marisa’s daughter. For the even curiouser ones, Marisa is the woman I am spending most of my evenings with. Back to the point: I had a dream about María.

María has a pájaro, a parakeet to be exact. This bird is restless to say the least. In my opinion, it is terrified of her and of her mother. My further opinion is this observation results from them not being able to relate to the bird on its own terms. That is, they have no idea how to think like a parakeet. I’m not saying that I necessarily do, either, but, then again, I do not own one. I suggested to Marisa last night they read up on the proper care, handling and training of such an animal.

Ok, since I am pressed for time (I need to finish paiting my room WHITE), I’ll get back to the dream.

It consisted of a series of animals, beginning with said parakeet. Each animal in sequence was larger and more agresseve than the one that came before. Each animal in sequence, furthermore, consumed the one before. The exact animals are not important. What is important is that María ended up at last with an anaconda. The anaconda consumed not only the animal before in sequence, but María herself.

I thought about the sybolism here, as María is a very disturbed child with brain that is experiencing frequent tiny hemorrhages. She is both bi-polar and excessively paranoid. The last thing I heard from her last night is to cry out: Mama! Mama! Tengo miedo! I also have the suspicion that she is a bit schizophrenic.

Significa que si le des a María más y más de las cosas en las que ella no puede cuidar adecuadamente, su futuro estará peor y peor.

I’ll go ahead and call this a random access entry. My procrastination over the last nine (or more) months has prevented me to gathering all of the thoughts that I shall present here into discrete entries. That, and I’m having a glass of sidra with my tortilla. See, that’s how we do things in Logroňo. Or, rather, that is the way I do things in Logroňo. I drink, eat, and blather. I used to do more of this sort of thing, yes, but much of that was actually not in Logroňo and I wasn’t drinking sidra nor eating tortilla.

That banana is about to be inserted into Bartoloměj’s anus. Yes, it is. What other result could come of such a situation? I mean, really - look at Mirka’s face! She finds the whole situation hilarious. I do, as well.

Christian and I had shipped ourselves off to České Budějovice our cozy hovels in Praha and landed unfortunately with a gaggle of exchange students (more about that later). Happily, however, we navigated from hlavní nádráží to the home of Michal’s parents. The photo was taken in their living room. Bartoloměj’s screamed punctured our dreams for weeks afterwards. At least, according to Mirka, the odor of his feces was passingly pleasant for a short while.

Michal never thought we had the ability to actually find his parents’ house. He underestimated us. I was hurt a bit. All those years I had known him and somehow he still thought I was a crappy navigator! Bastard!

Skirting around cul-de-sacs, bounding over barriers, and bearing the stares of schoolchildren shocked at our antics, we arrived. Then came Michal’s mother and the banana.

Far away from the banana and the baby is this narrow alley. It leads to an open space that becomes an arcade lined with asian fruit and vegetable shops, kebab monstrosities, elegant tourist dives perfumed with jamon serrano, clusters of tables filled with locals and tourists sipping coffee, beer or wine, and clothing markets for victorians and prostitutes alike. Were you to walk far enough and eventually turn to the left, you’d come upon the plaza in which I lived. I no longer live there. I am happy for that. Were you to take the same route during the late ours, you’d have to press your way through carousing would be vocalists and yapping college girls. At least they are all harmless. No, really.

During my first months, I was fairly enamoured with the area. I am sure I’ll still peruse it from time to time. However, as is with the very center of any city, the hulking crowds eventually fatigue me. Since I left my shotgun back in Praha, it was better to move on to a quieter part of Logroňo.

The first person I would say that I met in Logroňo was a girl named Marisa. This is the same Marisa with which I am having a relationship now. I believe it was the first day. Madis and Asun had taken me for a collosal shopping spree at Al Campo, a supermarket housed inside a shopping center in the south-west part of town. They deposited me in Plaza San Agustín, lovingly dragged my belongings and groceries up the precarious, winding stairs to the second floor, and left me to do as I like in a practically unknown portion of the earth.

So, as I usually do in situations such as this, I struck out randomly. I came across a school at one point in my paseo and saw the front was open. I walked in. There were various flyers on corkboards along with what I assumed were class schedules. Footsteps could be heard echoing distantly from my right. I recall that clearly. One of the flyers was oddly (I thought at the time) for lessons in Euskera.

I found a man behind a counter doing something that to me seemed idle and unfortunate, so I began querying him about a place I can find Spanish tutoring. After bantering back and forth for some time, he dericted me here, to which I then went.

(here)

It’s called Plus Ultra. Remember that name. It will refract happiness into your life for as long as you are not a corpse and therefore have no more life.

A very attractive young woman managed to communicate with me and summoned a not-so-attractive woman who proffered a small, yellow sheet (yes, a post-it note that I still have somewhere) on which were two phone numbers labelled Marisa and Carmen. I walked out and immediately sent Marisa a text message and, seeing that she was also one of the gleeful users of WhatsApp, the same message via it.

A reply came within minutes and I believe we arranged to meet that very evening at a bar called Ibiza. At first I thought it surely must be a famous ex-pat gathering place (don’t all European cities have one?) like The Globe in Praha. It turned out very differently.

Whilst peparing and during lunch today, the television was on in the kitchen / dining area. One can imagine that I was not in my own household, not owning a television. The news was blathering away at a tolerable volume. The story was of death. Apparently, during a futbol match in Madrid, fans of the two competing teams formed teams of their own and proceeded to beat each other senseless. The results were many injuries and one death.

Death?

Why??? Mind you, this is over a futbol match. I know people are passionate about sports, just like I am passionate about music. Many of my friends are passionate about sports (well, and music, too). We don’t go beat others who disagree with our specific preferences senseless, however.

Death?

The corpse was carted away in some sort of vehicle whilst the injured were taken to a hospital in ambulences. This all occured at the same time the match was continuing as if nothing had happened at all. Once again, I am deeply disappointed in my species. Humans prefer diversion, escapism and entertainment over the reality that seethes around them. They grease themeselves up in the lubricant of unmindfulness so anything that might wake them up just flows on by.

Fuck um.

I feel that the last months I have been slumbering. Only my dreams have kept me from falling into true nightmarish idleness. The shot of adrenalin came when I realised I must desperately leave the dreaded flat that weighed on me with its dimness. Yes, I am blaming it on the flat. Deal with it!

Many annoyances accompanied that place of residence. It lie in the middle of Logroňo’s party centre where borrachos and kurvy alike swirled like cyclones fueled by the need to exert their miniscule force upon each miniscule night. At times, noise flowed endlessly through the not so well insulated walls of that edifice into my ears as I lay in bed attempting to fall into a reverie. As one may guess, alcohol solved the problem at times, but only at times.

I did not pay rent at all this month. The fifth is the deadline. I received no message from Amador (the landlord) until late in the month. An excuse came to mind, though I don’t recall it now, and I replied with it. He seemed nonchalant about the whole deal. Good for him. I like laid back dudes. They tickle my liver with more than mere intoxication.

Now I sit at an ancient table that came with my new flat. Galictis Vittata, otherwise known as my laptop, sits between two plants named Mike and Susie. If you get the reference, you can beat yourself or the nearest male in the testicles with a razor sharp rutabaga. If you don’t get the reference, then DIE. The flat itself is ancient. I’d place it mid-Eocene. It came sparsely furnished. I have, therefore, been sleeping on a miniture, red sofa during the days I do not spend the night at Marisa’s place. My bed arrives in a few days. It is a bed remindful of the one I had with Melanie in Austin and that I generously gave to Jayson. Hm. The last time I saw that bed was when it was being stored on Craig’s balcony and rain was about to spit from the sky. Fate is a funny marmot.

Since being here, I have re-awakened. I’m no longer snoozing. The slumber has ended. I spent all but a sliver of the money that I have left yesterday on furniture and it doesn’t bother me at all. I have some wonderful cheeses in the fridge. I make tortilla practically every day. And I even created Arroz con Leche yesterday for the first time since 2002. Praise Jesus!!!

Marisa shall arrive soon to help with the completion of the assembly of my new enstantaría para libros, then we’ll head to her place for a cozy night away from the rain and bizarre untruths of the milling, faceless Logroňons.

Más luego.

Un invierno hace muchos aňos, hice un viaje el día de nochevieja, a las montaňas de la zona oeste de Republica Checa. La zona se llamaba Jeseníky. Este cuento no ex exactamente sobre mí, es sobre mi compaňero de viaje. Ěl se llamaba Christopher.

Hicimos el viaje por una de mis amigas checas. Ella tenía una cabaňa en los montaňas y me invitó allí. Me dijo que mi amigo podía venir conmigo, ya que me estaba visitando. Fuimos en tren desde Praga al pueblo cerca de la cabaňa. Tuvimos que esperar dos horas en un restaurante hasta que un coche vino a recogernos.

Como he dicho, nuestro viaje fue durante el fin de aňo y a las montaňas. Bueno, puedes creérte que las temperatura estaba bajo cero y había nieve en todos los lugares. La mayoría de la gente en la cabaňa estaba allí para esquiar. Sin embargo, Christopher y yo no esquiábamos, pero teníamos que entretenernos. Jugábamos a las cartas y fumábamos cigarillos mientras hablábamos.

Bueno, el cuento va así:

Una tarde, los esquiadores regresaron temprano por una tormenta. Todos nos sentamos juntos para jugar algo (yo no me acuerdo el tipo de juego). Al final, el juego cambió las cartas por pintas y chupitos. Algo que también aňadió alegría fue que Christopher no hablaba Checo y en ese tiempo, yo no lo hablaba muy bien. Además, solo algunos de los checos hablaban inglés.

Después de unas horas, empezé a estar cansado y me fuí a la cama de la planta de arriba, pero Christopher se quedó. Pasoron algunas horas y finalmente mi amigo regresó a nuestra habitación. Pero algo no iba bien. Todos las partes de su cuerpo tiritaban y no podía estar de pie. Al principio, pensé que él estaba borracho, pero estaba equivocado.

Escucha esto, después del juego, los checos y Christopher decidieron ir a nadar al río. Recuerda querido, que estábamos en pleno invierno. La experiencia fue demaciada intensa para él, y después de unos minutos, corrió a la cabaňa a través de la nieve sin sus zapatos. Todavía hoy, no puede tocar algunas partes de sus pies. Me sentí afortunado por irme a la cama a tiempo.

Ok, I am wating for this woman who seemes to care for me. I don’t know what to do but write, a bit.

I’d like to listen to music right now. She doesn’t at all. She called. She was missed. Of course, that is a lie, but I’ll remember it.

I’m listenening to “Time” right now… As I tread the halls of sanity. Fuck! I am with Teresa again. Stupid girl. She should have been with me.

I think she was driving. We listened to this song. Fucking Fort Stockton. She was a good girl, though possibly possessed with an absurdity by believing that West Texas was the only place in the universe. Heh. Sort of like my parents.

I called her from El Paso, months later, and she smited me. She told me she was married. I guess I was depressed at the moment, and also from her words. I died a bit at that moment. I remember. I sat down and wrote music. I’m not sure if the music was good or bad, but that was the only thing I could do. She inspired so many things.

FUCK TERESA!

That’s the way life’s meant to be.

The final dream I had this morning after a moderately restless night was about my parents. They stood in front of me, side by side. I was the one that did most of the talking / shouting.

I’ve had similar dreams in the past and they are never pleasant. I usually wake up feeling very disturbed. The sensation takes a few minutes to fade. The story is usually similar. I am ranting at them about my psychological state and how it was spawned wholly from my upbringing. Oh, and from the pit of dispair called Fort Stockton, Texas where I was forced to grow up.

Sure, it is impossible for a child to choose the place where he / she / it is raised, but the parents can give it some thought. When they have choices, this is especially the case. My parents had many choices for work before and immediately after I was adopted. They chose a shithole called Fort Stockton, Texas. See, they had both been raised in small towns in West Texas, as had their parents, grandparents, and on into infinity. So, naturally, unable to see past their own upbringing and incite a change in the firing patters of their synapses, my brother and I were stuck in another small, West Texas cage called Fort Stockton, Texas.

As I said, I was ranting at them in the dream. I blamed my inability to interact with other people socially in a normal manner on them. I blamed my paranoia that I have to keep at bay every day on them. And lastly, I blamed the constant feeling of reservation and guilt at pretty much anything I do on them. I’m not indicating actions that a well adjusted person would feel guilty for, but the residual feeling of guilt at anything I do, no matter its implication. They mostly answered with what I have heard my whole life: We raised you the best we knew how, Son.

That’s not good enough.

I have written before about all of this, but it is still not out of my system. I was kept in a virtual cage whilst I was growing up - even up to my last years in high school. My first real feeling of freedom was when I went to university in Austin.

Oh! What a feeling!

She won’t let you fly but she might let you sing. I could relate to Roger Waters’ lyrics immensely when I was in high school. I was not allowed to go out after school hours. I was huddled with a book in my bed, instead. My only social interactions were AT school. Most weekends, I was forced to go to Seminole to my grandparents’ with my mom and dad and of course I knew no-one there. I was huddled with a book in the bed there, too.

The end result was a social misfit.

They were trying to protect me from the herd. They said as much in the dream and possibly in past dreams, too. I don’t think they used those exact words in real life, however. Afraid of Fort Stockton, Texas’s culture of drugs, sex and alcohol, my parents conceptually locked me in a jail. I was given a daily vacation (during the weekdays) to go to school. Did they not expect to me to try to express myself somehow during these free times? There is no wonder I attempted to make my own way amidst the seething masses in that institution, most of whom thought I was a freak (since I never attended social events).

I don’t necessarily condone a culture of constant drugs, sex and alcohol, but I understand why it existed in putrescent Fort Stockton, Texas. What else were the children and adolescents going to do? Read a book? Heh. Most were uninterested in literature, to be honest. When there is no other stimulation, and you are not a Buddhist Monk, most like to party.

Again, lastly, the guilt. Every small misdemeanor it school landed me with, prior to high school, a beating with a belt. During high school, they landed me with severe psychological lashings. I was berated. I was made to feel like shit. I was always guilty until proven innocent.

There, there. Years have passed. I’m healing, but very slowly.

As I have stated numerous times in my handwritten journals, and under these same circumstances, I have certainly neglected this poor journal. I’d say that it won’t happen again, but that would be a blatant blight against future reality. Of course it will happen again. I am negligent. I lapse. I am just a small, cute pine marten, so what in the name of the deity mustelid’s holy tracks along the bank of the Ebro do you expect?

I begin this entry whilst waiting for 17.00 to roll around - for siesta to end on this chatter-filled Friday. I need to buy an adapter at the local electronics market that converts HDMI to a normal RGB plug. You see, Marisa has left her projector with me. It happens to be a very ancient piece of equipment that doesn’t recognize these new-fangled cables. And much to her dismay yesterday evening, we could not connect the confounded device to my ultra-modern laptop. She ended up calling her son to bring her laptop to us so we could watch the film she insisted was one of the Spanish greats. This Spanish great turned out to be a romantic comedy that was somewhat funny. My favourite genre of films is not romantic comedy, however, as most readers might assume. Hopefully I can expand her horizons movie-wise in the future.

Now I am off to get that adapter. IF they have it. If not - fuck um.

The wheels are turning beneath me again - this time towards Michal:

A hunched being sits opposite me, reminding me of a hunchbacked Viking. His hair is crookedly parted in the middle, almost falling in almost curls to his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, and is possibly bound for a funeral in Tabor or České Budějovice (the latter being our destination).

Beside him, with a mostly erect spine, is a young Czech Chick writing message after message on her mobile phone. I’d guess she’s studying in Praha and going home to commingle with family during this fat and festering Velikonoce. Her eyes were closed in either deep contemplation or profound vacuousness and I snapped a photo. She has smiled at mine and Christián’s antics so far. Taking her to the toilet for a swift swab could be a swell(ing) idea.

The remaining occupants (besides Christián and myself) are haggard hags, and hardly merit mentioning.

Being in Praha once again is a transition for me. My time in Logroňo taught me how to be solitary - not that I needed a lesson, as I am a mustelid and all mustelids are solitary creatures (excepting those Mother Of Jesus’s Slime-Spawn otters). Praha is teaching me once again that I do need the company of others to flourish in life. I too often, when left to simply my own devices for lengths of time, begin to, as a wise man once said, drown in a pool of emotions I’ve melted down. The amusing fact is that the emotions creating the pool are unknown to me initally. They simply don’t exist. They come into being, as if from the vacuum or the quantum soup.

When I return to La Rioja on Wednesday, I’ll be a different person. I’ll pursue my days in a different manner. I’ll fill them up with more creativity. I’ll not flitter about aimless in my flat or on the streets or in cafés with two or more empty cups of café con leche in front of me.

I know I shall not achieve it, but I shall try to create something / anything every day. It is an endevour.

Fuck um. Sloní maso?

We appeared, at this height, like a spreading lichen, a ravaging bloom of algae, a mould enveloping a soft fruit - we were such a wild success. Up there with the spores!

I’m reading Solar by Ian McEwan and this quote comes from that tome. I laughingly use the term tome as the data that is the book resides on my telephone in a special format created by rodents that spend their non-waking hours clinging to the inner linings of the nostrils of yuppies.

In juxtaposition, I am passing a field of solar panels on the train as I type this. They also are spread like lichen on the field of a stone. Their point, though they take up space just as humans continue to, is to provide more life for our aching planet, as oppose to consume it greedily. It’s still quite an ideal to harvest the energy from the sun in an efficient manner, but I wear a semi-smile / semi-smirk that it is happening to any extent at all.

Now I am thinking of the contrast between the human spread in European cities, which is dense and creeping slowly, to the human spread in, for example, Texas, where natured space is transformed to human habitation in huge snatches. The progress of civilization takes enormous bites. Europeans seem to me they have more of a grip on the serenity of untouched spaces. Or, these thoughts may be spawned from my deeply rooted belief that Texans are all cunts.

I awakened with a moderate headache that waned so quickly that minutes later, I figured it was just the remnants of a forgotten dream. A dream about Mustelids? Perhaps of Job Frustration? Or of Hynek’s cat Gnawing On My Patella During A Particularly Heavy Slumber? I’m going to go with the latter since I saw the feline quickly leaving the scene as my eyelids fluttered. Luckily, after Hynek and Nina left for their respective tasks (to transport his semi-paralised father and to take the infant to the doctor for vaccinations, respectively), I roasted the monstrosity of a chewing beast after basting it in a rosemary / dill sauce. The result was yummy, though the cleanup took out a good amount of my morning.

I began my walk at Hynek and Nina’s place. I’d spent the night with them, obviously. They were most gracious and I count them both as close friends. My European friends far outnumber my North American ones. Ain’t that special? I ended up at Restaurant Baterka, where I await Christián who had to scrub blood, fecal and urine stains from his clothing before being presentable for the world. I hope he has not been caught or I’ll have to bust him out of prison again. Last time nearly got both of us tossed into a collosal meat grinder and made into sausage to be shipped out to the poor in Southeast Asia, Mongolia and Northern Louisiana.

(at Hynek and...)
(Restaurant Baterka)
(Christián)

Hynek and Nina live just around the corner to this sign. In the deep, dark past, Hynek (but not Nina, since she did not exist yet) took me to the Computer Crypt, which was located on this street, though I forget exactly where. It was (I use the past tense because I am unsure if it still exists) a place where a group of geeks got together and played computer games, hacked various networks around the Czech Republic and most likely Slovakia, and drank until they were prone or supine on the cigarette littered floor. There was a full bar, you see. Honza Stanek was one of the creators of the establishment. He worked with Hynek and I at my first job in Prague, EIN. EIN is a meandering other story that I will not attempt at the moment - only that its blessing for me is that it introduced me to Hynek and Honza. The Computer Crypt was very impressive indeed.

The Computer Crypt also hosted parties occasionally. One such party was sometime during early December of 1999, shortly before Magdalena and I went for a sojourn to the states (also a story for another time, though I am sure it is pretty well documented in one of my handwritten journals and will find its way into this blog eventually). Magdalena bowed out of the party early and went home, leaving me there to enjoy the rest of the evening without a beartrap clinging to my left ankle. That night, I met Dana Procházková and eventually left Magdalena for her.

A side note.

Procházková is based on the word procházka. It signifies stroll or walk. I also was with a girl with the last name Rychlíková, a name that is based on rychlý, signifying quick or fast. A stroll is usually something done without the thought of hurrying. Miss Procházkova was a very gentle and reserved young woman. She had a hard time hurrying into a relationship, despite my urgings. In contrast, Miss Rychlíchová pretty much wanted to swab on our first meeting. I practically had to hold her back. She was running.

I continued my stroll towards the sculpted park of Stramovka, but before I descended into its treed, squirreled and skimpily-dressed-femaled depths, I made a short nostalgic detour.

The Commercial Agency of the Russian Federation is just behind this street sign. Had I my wonder tool with me, I’d have stolen it. I’d have mounted it, along with the remaining bones of the roasted cat, on a plaque and placed it above Hynek’s computer. He’d appreciate the gesture, I am sure.

(wonder tool)

I am not certain what goes on at the Commercial Agency of the Russian Federation, but I can guess that it involves a great amount of борщ, водка and проститутки. I AM pretty certain that they would not notice their street sign missing until centuries later.

Christián has arrived, but now he is having one of his seven to eleven times daily bowel voidings. He and I used to visit the small train stations scattered about Praha (much like this one) from time to time, sometimes during a journey and sometimes just for the swab of it. Usually attached to these small stations is a herna - no, that is not exactly correct. Usually attached to these small stations is a hospůdka - a small pub where old men and infants alike sit waiting for their train, sucking down half litre of beer after half litre of beer. We did the same.

We were one with them.

I sauntered down the slightly sloping path towards the portion of Stramovka north of the railroad tracks, then along Malá Říčka. The area was sparsely populated. I expected joggers, women performing yoga on the grass and swooping albatrosses, but I was más o menos solitary. I didn’t mind. It is the path to Troja, the Zoo and the Botanical Gardens. If you peruse the map, you can see a path perpendicular to Za Elektrárnou that leads to Cisařský Ostrov. It is a place of horses and humans who tend them.

(Stramovka)

The date on this entry is a misnomer (a word that Hynek informed me yesterday that does not exist in Czech). It’s now Friday, the 18th. Oh well. Fuck um. I was interrupted by Christián and his incessant babbling, carousing and narcissism.

Yesterday, during my walk, I did not pass over the bridge onto Cisařský Ostrov much less make my way to the Zoo. I’d like to before my time is over here, however.

After passing through a short tunnel beneath the train tracks, I encountered this oddly mangled fence. Beyond was the double track of vehicle ruts that ended abruptly in some ten metres. I proceeded to stroll through the more populous parts of the park. Spandex clad women jogged whilst white cables attached their ears to some unknown device. They trod to the beat. I am happy I did not hear that beat. Seeing it replicated in such a manner made me slightly nauseous.

I’ve often conversed about the plodding 4/4 of drum&bass, techno, house and most contemporary pop music, all of which feature the throbbing beat as the consistent frontal element (excepting possibly the last, as banal melodies sung by badly yodeling kurvy are also frontal). I have no problem with repitition and mesmerization in music, but I feel there is a point, where there is nothing more important than a frontal 4/4 beat, when mesmerization becomes hypnosis and then brainwashing. There are diminishing returns! Feeding the brain alcohol is a more pleasurable way to destroy precious mental processes, baby.

Ecstatic canines, tethered to rollerblading youths, eagerly nipped at passers-by but were always, at the last moment, tugged out of range. I passed the planetarium to which I have never been. I lingered for a moment within range of the outdoor pub where I saw Psí Vojací an infinite number of years ago. I cannot remember who I was with, but I suspect it may have been the other Renata - the one of Skanzen fame. Filip Topol is a dead mustelid. And he died very young - I believe at forty-seven. I’d look it up but I’m a lazy mustelid.

(Psí Vojací)
(Skanzen)

I peered into the front gates of Vystaviště at the concert hall where Jeníček and I saw Akvarium. That was in the summer of 2000, during which thousands of bizarre events occurred. Ah, Sweet Entropy - come again for me soon.

(Vystaviště)
(Akvarium)

Photo before last, I was standing at the tram stop that usually takes one to Ortenovo Náměstí, Maniny and beyond. The cunts were, however, in the middle of what I might have termed in my youth as road destruction, though in reality here it is track destruction, as in tram tracks. So, I awaited a bus that sadly substituted for tram twelve. Since I am a lazy mustelid and could have walked, I disembarked at the following stop. The above photo is of the actual train station in the distance. My fleshy form stood atop the metro station as I awaited yet another bus to take me to the aformentioned Maniny. However, since I am a lazy mustelid, I disembarked once again at the following stop, the aforementioned Ortenovo Náměstí. Feeling nostalgic again, I cruised over to the area in which I once lived with Habosh. Christián and I were originally going to meet at Hamburg, but it was full of yuppie scum, so I decided for the place that inspired the subject line of this entry, another restaurant full of yuppie scum. Bastards.

(Ortenovo Náměstí)
(Maniny)
(Hamburg)

Today, which I mentioned is the following day from the date of this entry, we are sitting in another café / pub full of YUPPIE SCUM and fucking foreigners. It’s called, as you may have guessed from context, The Globe. In fact, when I first arrived to Praha in 1998, The Globe was a place of refuge. It was located in another place, however, one of which I shall not at this time disclose. I went there every night and had exactly four glasses of red wine whilst writing in my leatherbound journal (the one sitting on my bookshelf in Logroňo this very second). Additionally, I lusted after the waitress. My shyness kept any progress with her beyond courtesy at bay. Now I cannot picture her face. Well, it was approximately 57 years ago, so what do I expect?

(The Globe)

The cubbyhole we’ve found in The Globe is rather condusive to writing, as I carry on my tradition of doing so in this place. We are also swilling pivo, but that is to be expected, unlike me remembering my ex-waitress’s face. We are outcasts in a café for the special expat in crowd. The others mill about, socialise, laugh and insert small rodents in their nostrils as we sit alone, ensconsed in our cubbyhole - shrouded in private worlds. Fuck um.

The first night I spent at Hynek and Nina’s - two nights ago - I had a long conversation with Hynek about the situation, or more - the enviornment, of the job he had just quit. Well, to be truthful, I mostly listened, nodded, grunted and inserted small rodents into my nostrils whilst Hynek soliloquised.

His situation at said job mirrored closely the situation I found myself in last year at Stonecrop in Boston. A human he dubbed David gave him and others vague instructions as to what to develop and simply stated that it must be done by a certain date. Hynek described it as a sort of UI for deploying cloud servers and found the idea rather useless in general since the deployment (how I despise that word and all of its derivatives) could be done manually by a competent system administrator ONCE and not have to be redone for … well … ages, really. We didn’t get into the details of the application, but only his opinion of its general pointlessness.

The application had to be ready for its clients by the end of this month. He claimed the point in development had been static for months. By no means possible would they complete it in fifteen or so days. He was laughing as he said this. I was, too. Even Nina was laughing. Well, a bit.

He was tasked to create a schedule with precise dates as a sort of ladder of completion (my words). I imagine such a task could be very stressful since it is completely absurd.

The conversation drifted to the space between management and development (or tech people in general). David never had time to clarify or provide specifics on any facet of the application he demanded from the lower echelons of the firm. There was a disparity in knowledge. David seemed to be regarded as the idea man and the conduit to cash (my words). I suppose the tech people were just grunts. Sheep, if you will. Replaceable. I’ve seen this attitude beginning with 1 2 Snap in Munich and continuing through many employments. The fact is, what is brought to the table (Jesus, mother of the wildest of mustelids, I despise that phrase) by the grunts is not akin at all to what is brought to the table by, say, a human atomaton on an assembly line. Programmers, system administrators, rodents residing in the nostrils of yuppies and the like have an innate creativity and ability to contribute to a project if they are allowed.

But, mock the management: FUCK UM.

Nina suggested that a middle man could be employed as a go-between - an intermediary. He / She would be technical enough to interpret the management / buiness assholes’ wishes more concisely to the grunts. He’d be half business asshole and half grunt. A hybrid! Imagine it!

I countered that he / she would eventually gravitate to one side or the other (most likely not to the grunts) and have to be replaced. The replacement would have to be replaced, ad infinitum. And, as an intermediary between the big guys and the grunts, he’d be the narrow waist of an hourglass. Jeremy, Ryan and I talked at length about this concept, even presenting it to the intermediary (who actually knew just about shit about tech matters) at Stonecrop. It did no good, of course.

Hynek followed up that the business assholes would be doing business things most of the time and maybe reach out to the intermediary during 1% of the rest of their time. The grunts may reach out a higher percentage of the time, say even 50%, but possibly never enough. Hynek was cynical. I can relate, though.

Fuck um.