Daniel M loves sports. Unfortunately, he cannot run more than 5 minutes without getting a terrible back-ache, gets tired after playing 6 minutes of basketball and cannot play tennis to save his life; so, as watching football from the couch doesn’t count, he tried finding a sport that is more suitable for him. Glancing at the screen, he watched golf, pool, horseback riding, volleyball and other boring and difficult-to-do activities, until one day he saw four fat men sitting in comfortable chairs, drinking beer. They were playing poker, and as it was broadcasted on the sports channel, it was clearly regarded as a sport.
Playing poker is a wonderful waste of your time and your money. It is also a wonderful way of getting back in your male side. As a classical pianist, getting into your male side is more essential than what it seems. Unless you are playing a lot of chamber music, you do not get the necessary amount of monthly swearing that is so vital in today’s society. Fortunately, a get together of 5 guys with similar problems can unleash a stream of lovely assaults that could make Mr. Tarantino very happy and proud.
True, there are some girls who like to play cards, and some of them are pretty good at it (especially if they are fat truck drivers from Idaho), but you can all agree that poker is almost the last resort of the macho-man, somewhere between deer-hunting and Steven Segal movies. The unexplained thrill of getting a good hand in poker for a man can only be compared to finding that your favorite Italian shoes are now on a serious discount, for a woman.
Now, Daniel M must confess he had only played twice poker in his life, completely sucked at it, but enjoyed tremendously nevertheless.
For our avid readers, who are not scared of lengthy details, here is a scenario of what a game of poker is like, with myself and my friends. Are you in for a bet?
The place: the tall guy’s small, dusty apartment, somewhere near you.
The atmosphere: a Scorsese's movie wanna-be: lots of booze, cigarettes, a computer allegedly full of porn. All five participants are trying to speak and look as if they were from the ‘hood, although all are nerdy looking white jewish boys.
The participants: The tall guy, the crazy red-head, the skinny banker, yellow beard, and Daniel M.
Each participant is getting a modest amount of chips, in 4 different colors. As Daniel M, yellow beard and the crazy red-head aren’t so rich, the money that is played on is actually ridiculous- you cannot win or lose at an evening more than $12. However, all 5 males are eager to win, destroy and conquer over their opponents, at all costs.
The games begin, after a round of some semi-foul language related to the profession of the skinny banker’s mother.
Daniel M. receives his two cards, which are, of course, terrible. The tall guy places a bet
of a 100 before even glancing at his cards. “He is a terrible player, always doing that”, mumbles the crazy red-head, raising the bet in 25. Everyone else checks and yellow beard folds. Yellow beard, who is the dealer for this round deals the three first cards on the table which do not make life brighter for Daniel M. Yellow beard is mistakenly showing his folded cards. “F*ing amateurs, that’s what I have to say- f*ing amateurs”, the crazy red-head says in a semi-angry voice. “Calm down, man, no need to be so nervous for your pair of 9s”, says the skinny banker and is again being asked for the profession of his mother.
Daniel M. folds in this round, and the skinny banker is winning against the crazy red-head, who, how ironically, had actually only a pair of 9s and was bluffing- quite well, I thought.
There are some more rounds, and Daniel M. becomes addicted to the feeling of the chips in his hands and to the sound the make when touching the dirty table.
The tall guy’s girlfriend is suddenly entering the room. “Hey baby, how is everything? Are you winning?”, she asks him in a girly voice. He is losing badly. “Of course I am babe, I am eating them alive... and I will eat you very soon, when they get the hell out of here”.
She leaves, and everybody is laughing at him. “You are so scared of her, it’s ridiculous”, says the skinny banker. “With your mother working on the streets, I wouldn’t be say things like that”, the tall guy replies. “My mother is NOT working on the streets”, he answers.
“I saw your mother working the other day, but because she is so ugly, nobody was even looking at her”, the tall guy continued.
“Well, she is not as popular as YOUR mother”, came the crazy red-head to the rescue.
“Let’s order a pizza, I’m starving”, interrupts yellow beard. “I have no money”, says the skinny banker. He has in his current possession a pile of chips that looks like a mini version of the Empire state building. Yellow beard points out to it. “What- it’s like, $10 maximum, it’s not enough for a cab back home. Actually, saying that, I am tired and I have to wake up very early tomorrow morning”. “He always quits when he is winning. Such a pathetic loser. F*ing amateurs”, mutters the crazy red-head. We continue playing without him, and I continue to receive awful cards, and fail to bluff or detect who is bluffing. I remain with a very little pile of chips next to me, barely enough for one more round. “All in”, I say. Saying that legendary phrase is almost as thrilling as working as the security guide at the Playboy mansion.
I get the same disgusting cards again. I fold. Walking out of the building I’m still feeling the excitement of the unknown and the thrill of saying “all in”. If only the 5 was a queen and the 8 was a king of diamonds, everything would be different. But isn’t that what life is all about?
Monday, 6 October 2008
Monday, 29 September 2008
21. A farewell to arm(chairs)- Part I
So, as you could see, I have finally fled from London, after almost two years of living style that could make Oliver Twist feel like he was living la vida loca. Now, to celebrate my fabulous escape, let me linger back on the various unbelievable stories that are tied to each and every rat-hole (or palace) I was living at these memorable times.
1) Known for my fantastic organizational skills, I didn’t plan my budget, nor my starting living place ahead of time. Luckily, I have met a lovely woman at a festival I was playing at, a week before my travels, who said she could help me starting. She was a lawyer and an amateur violist, and was very keen on music and musicians. She told me she could set me up in a room of a friend of hers, who played with her in a quartet. I didn’t know his profession nor who this guy is, and I only had the address with me.
And so, I arrived in London, two heavy suitcases in my hands, and a heavy bag on my back, and went out of the underground to the fancy neighborhood of St. John’s Woods. Luckily, the sun was shining (a very rare thing, I learned), and I breathed the fresh air of ultra-rich London. Suddenly, BOOM! A woman bumped into me. Seconds later I realized it was no other than Gwyneth Paltrow. Naturally, she had recognized me immediately, but in her newly acquired British manners, she had acted as if I was completely unknown to her. Such a class!
I continued to walk toward the address I was given. I arrived into a very beautiful house, and rang the doorbell. A Philippine maid opened up the door. “Z” is not here at the moment, but your room is on the sixth floor. These look heavy!, she said, looking at my luggage, not offering any help, of course. After what was pretty much the hardest physical challenged of my life (“of your life so far”, would say, and rightly so, Homer Simpson- as I would soon discover), I managed to bring all 70 Kgs onto the 6th floor, passing the kitchen floor, the piano floor, the living room floor, the second living room floor and the bathroom floor.
Arriving there I found a corridor with two rooms, which were the children’s, and a third door, which led to the tiniest space that was originally intended to store clothes. It had no window, no bed, no electric outlets. It had only a small expendable sofa, which couldn’t be turned into a bed, because there was no room. I lay down, completely exhausted and full of pain. A day later I was supposed to play Grieg piano concerto, and couldn’t imagine myself playing a C Major scale. Two hours later, “Z” came and explained me the rules of the house- I was not allowed to go out and in the house after 8, when he put the alarm on. Any movement within the entrance floor will immediately activate the alarm. I am not allowed to cook or eat breakfast in the house, and I have to get out of there in the next 12 days.
I was living like Gollum from LOR for that time, locked in my room after 8, and wasting all my money on eating out in that fancy area. When the time came to leave, I called again my lawyer friend. “Sure! no problem. I’ll set you up with ”N”, she is a really nice laywer, living by herself near the river. She loves music, and would love to host you for a while, until you can settle.”
2) “N” was a nice looking woman in her thirties, had a nice looking face and big boobs.
We set an appointment in her apartment, some days before I could move.
I immediately saw the apartment was very cute (though extremely girly), but definitely for one person only. For a start, there was only one bedroom, and the living room had a tiny sofa, not suitable for sleeping. “So, you think I could use the living room?”, I asked her, after seeing the place. “Oh no”, she said, blushing. “You should take the bedroom. I like to work also at night, and I want to use the living room. The sofa is actually extremely comfortable, and I want to be there”. This looked a little strange to me. “Are you SURE you want me to sleep in your bedroom? It is your bedroom!”, I insisted. “Oh, I know that...”, she said. “Trust me”. Although it did look odd, I didn’t press any further. I had no other choices anyway.
When I moved there, my strange feelings were proven right. On the first night there was a small spider in the living room. She called me right away, completely scared. “Kill it, please kill it”. I did so. She said in return- “so good to have a man in the house”. (Not sure if she said “finally”, as well, but maybe she did). And so, I discovered the true nature of my presence there- it was starting to get colder outside, and she needed a man in da house. The bedroom was not intended for me alone, but for us to share. To clear it up now, I didn’t have sexual relations with that woman. So now comes the question, why didn’t I? I was single, she was sexy, I lived in her house... well, I lived in her house, for christ sake, and she was a lawyer. What would have happened if things would go bad? “Lousy excuse, your honor”.
Anyhow, when she understood it was a no go, she wanted me to get out of there fast. “You see, at least you could have some fun”. “Jews never have fun”.
And so, after two weeks, I still had no money to rent my own proper place, and I had to call my lawyer friend for the third time in a month. “I see. Well, there is one more person that can help you, his name is “L” and he has a lovely Dutch family and lives in the north of town”.
3) My third apartment story was the least crazy of them all. “L” was indeed a family man. He and his wife had 3 young and blonde children, aged between 3 and 6. They also had a dog, which had uncomfortably resembled my beloved dead dog I had when I was a kid. Actually, for the entire time I was waiting for them to get out of the house, so I could finally talk to the dog in hebrew and plan to kidnap it with me. The only annoyance of the place for me, apart from the fact I couldn’t cook, and I was miles away from the place I was practicing at, was that every morning at 6am, I was awaken by the kids shouting “Mama!”, “Papa!”.
After three weeks, I felt I needed a place for myself, where I can truly feel a part of. In other words, I wanted to pay for my stay.
With my very modest budget (which was more than enough if I was living, say, in Berlin) I soon discovered I could barely rent a movie. I called again my lawyer friend and asked her if I she knows anyone who is renting a room in his house. “Well, actually, I do. She is a lovely married woman friend of mine, and yes, they are trying to rent a room in their house. They live south of the river, but it is worthy to check out.” Needless to say, that by then, I had known London complex underground system by heart. I was already living in the north-west, far east, far north and traveled to the far west and to the south of the city for praticing and having lessons with my teacher. I was already very skeptical about her recommendations, but I couldn’t be very choosy.
The couple who showed me the room were extremely nice people, but I immediately saw it is not a good place for me. It was very far from my practicing places, the room was very small and stuffy and I didn’t feel comfortable living in a place with a married couple.
When the woman saw I wasn’t interested, she thought for a minute and then said- “Well, I actually know that a woman in this street is renting a room in her house and she has a piano inside. Would you like to try and have a look if she’s there?”. Sure, I said. We walked down the street for 2 minutes, and a small old lady opened up the door. It smelled TERRIBLE inside. Without even asking who I am and if I am interested in living there she said- “Well, you will be living upstairs. I have a power shower, which is very nice. A month payment is...”, I barely listened to her, as I could barely stand the smell and this old lady looked very, very fishy to me, but then when I passed the living room I saw a beautiful Steinway grand piano. “Hold on a second”, I said. “If I live here, will I be able to practice?”. “Well, yes”, she answered. I thought to myself that if I could practice there as well then it might be a good deal for me. “So, are you taking the room?”, she asked with a grin on her face. “Yes, I am. Thank you very much”. “Wonderful”, she said, “Wonderful”.
*To be continued...*
1) Known for my fantastic organizational skills, I didn’t plan my budget, nor my starting living place ahead of time. Luckily, I have met a lovely woman at a festival I was playing at, a week before my travels, who said she could help me starting. She was a lawyer and an amateur violist, and was very keen on music and musicians. She told me she could set me up in a room of a friend of hers, who played with her in a quartet. I didn’t know his profession nor who this guy is, and I only had the address with me.
And so, I arrived in London, two heavy suitcases in my hands, and a heavy bag on my back, and went out of the underground to the fancy neighborhood of St. John’s Woods. Luckily, the sun was shining (a very rare thing, I learned), and I breathed the fresh air of ultra-rich London. Suddenly, BOOM! A woman bumped into me. Seconds later I realized it was no other than Gwyneth Paltrow. Naturally, she had recognized me immediately, but in her newly acquired British manners, she had acted as if I was completely unknown to her. Such a class!
I continued to walk toward the address I was given. I arrived into a very beautiful house, and rang the doorbell. A Philippine maid opened up the door. “Z” is not here at the moment, but your room is on the sixth floor. These look heavy!, she said, looking at my luggage, not offering any help, of course. After what was pretty much the hardest physical challenged of my life (“of your life so far”, would say, and rightly so, Homer Simpson- as I would soon discover), I managed to bring all 70 Kgs onto the 6th floor, passing the kitchen floor, the piano floor, the living room floor, the second living room floor and the bathroom floor.
Arriving there I found a corridor with two rooms, which were the children’s, and a third door, which led to the tiniest space that was originally intended to store clothes. It had no window, no bed, no electric outlets. It had only a small expendable sofa, which couldn’t be turned into a bed, because there was no room. I lay down, completely exhausted and full of pain. A day later I was supposed to play Grieg piano concerto, and couldn’t imagine myself playing a C Major scale. Two hours later, “Z” came and explained me the rules of the house- I was not allowed to go out and in the house after 8, when he put the alarm on. Any movement within the entrance floor will immediately activate the alarm. I am not allowed to cook or eat breakfast in the house, and I have to get out of there in the next 12 days.
I was living like Gollum from LOR for that time, locked in my room after 8, and wasting all my money on eating out in that fancy area. When the time came to leave, I called again my lawyer friend. “Sure! no problem. I’ll set you up with ”N”, she is a really nice laywer, living by herself near the river. She loves music, and would love to host you for a while, until you can settle.”
2) “N” was a nice looking woman in her thirties, had a nice looking face and big boobs.
We set an appointment in her apartment, some days before I could move.
I immediately saw the apartment was very cute (though extremely girly), but definitely for one person only. For a start, there was only one bedroom, and the living room had a tiny sofa, not suitable for sleeping. “So, you think I could use the living room?”, I asked her, after seeing the place. “Oh no”, she said, blushing. “You should take the bedroom. I like to work also at night, and I want to use the living room. The sofa is actually extremely comfortable, and I want to be there”. This looked a little strange to me. “Are you SURE you want me to sleep in your bedroom? It is your bedroom!”, I insisted. “Oh, I know that...”, she said. “Trust me”. Although it did look odd, I didn’t press any further. I had no other choices anyway.
When I moved there, my strange feelings were proven right. On the first night there was a small spider in the living room. She called me right away, completely scared. “Kill it, please kill it”. I did so. She said in return- “so good to have a man in the house”. (Not sure if she said “finally”, as well, but maybe she did). And so, I discovered the true nature of my presence there- it was starting to get colder outside, and she needed a man in da house. The bedroom was not intended for me alone, but for us to share. To clear it up now, I didn’t have sexual relations with that woman. So now comes the question, why didn’t I? I was single, she was sexy, I lived in her house... well, I lived in her house, for christ sake, and she was a lawyer. What would have happened if things would go bad? “Lousy excuse, your honor”.
Anyhow, when she understood it was a no go, she wanted me to get out of there fast. “You see, at least you could have some fun”. “Jews never have fun”.
And so, after two weeks, I still had no money to rent my own proper place, and I had to call my lawyer friend for the third time in a month. “I see. Well, there is one more person that can help you, his name is “L” and he has a lovely Dutch family and lives in the north of town”.
3) My third apartment story was the least crazy of them all. “L” was indeed a family man. He and his wife had 3 young and blonde children, aged between 3 and 6. They also had a dog, which had uncomfortably resembled my beloved dead dog I had when I was a kid. Actually, for the entire time I was waiting for them to get out of the house, so I could finally talk to the dog in hebrew and plan to kidnap it with me. The only annoyance of the place for me, apart from the fact I couldn’t cook, and I was miles away from the place I was practicing at, was that every morning at 6am, I was awaken by the kids shouting “Mama!”, “Papa!”.
After three weeks, I felt I needed a place for myself, where I can truly feel a part of. In other words, I wanted to pay for my stay.
With my very modest budget (which was more than enough if I was living, say, in Berlin) I soon discovered I could barely rent a movie. I called again my lawyer friend and asked her if I she knows anyone who is renting a room in his house. “Well, actually, I do. She is a lovely married woman friend of mine, and yes, they are trying to rent a room in their house. They live south of the river, but it is worthy to check out.” Needless to say, that by then, I had known London complex underground system by heart. I was already living in the north-west, far east, far north and traveled to the far west and to the south of the city for praticing and having lessons with my teacher. I was already very skeptical about her recommendations, but I couldn’t be very choosy.
The couple who showed me the room were extremely nice people, but I immediately saw it is not a good place for me. It was very far from my practicing places, the room was very small and stuffy and I didn’t feel comfortable living in a place with a married couple.
When the woman saw I wasn’t interested, she thought for a minute and then said- “Well, I actually know that a woman in this street is renting a room in her house and she has a piano inside. Would you like to try and have a look if she’s there?”. Sure, I said. We walked down the street for 2 minutes, and a small old lady opened up the door. It smelled TERRIBLE inside. Without even asking who I am and if I am interested in living there she said- “Well, you will be living upstairs. I have a power shower, which is very nice. A month payment is...”, I barely listened to her, as I could barely stand the smell and this old lady looked very, very fishy to me, but then when I passed the living room I saw a beautiful Steinway grand piano. “Hold on a second”, I said. “If I live here, will I be able to practice?”. “Well, yes”, she answered. I thought to myself that if I could practice there as well then it might be a good deal for me. “So, are you taking the room?”, she asked with a grin on her face. “Yes, I am. Thank you very much”. “Wonderful”, she said, “Wonderful”.
*To be continued...*
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
20. A season in hell
As I looked around, I knew I didn’t make it. I was standing in a middle of a large shopping street swarmed with a million other lost souls, packed like a sardine who couldn’t afford the larger discount box, in a complete darkness below very depressing grey clouds, and equally depressing red neon signs.
I took a glance at the stores names- S&M, HIV, Virgin and Boots, from the latter I had noticed two gay men in leather coats going out of, a sleazy look on their faces. Straight in front of me I could see thousands of Indians, grumpy old women and girls of very low quality of beauty, all standing next to a sign that said- “Thai Lunch Special. All you can eat for only £14.95”. There was no doubt about it. I was in hell.
From a back alley I didn’t notice before, a tall man wearing a dark suit with a red tie, appearing to be a businessman or a lawyer was signaling me to follow him. As I have already assumed who this man was, I had no other choice than to comply. As we followed the dark alley, I had noticed a tiny white poodle walking next to him, making his otherwise very professional attire a little comical. After a minute of walking he stopped and stared right at me. He looked as if he was about to say something, but I was quicker. “Let’s cut the crap. I know exactly where I am, and probably several reasons that brought me here. I know I am in hell, and so, with a simple logical deduction, you must be the devil”. I said this in a very affirmative voice, a little surprised by my own courage.
“How did you know my name?”, he asked me, a little confused.
“Well, you don’t need a genius for that. So, let’s go straight to the point. Where and when am I supposed to get undressed, and who exactly is going to beat me up.”
He looked a little surprised, but appeared content all the same. “Get undressed? I didn’t know it is going to be so easy with you...”
“Listen, Mister. I am not up to any games. Do what you have to do, just let me know my obligations”, I said firmly.
“You really are something special, aren’t you? Well, I won’t complain. Let’s go to my house- it’s only a few blocks away”, he said, not without a shrill of excitement in his voice.
I was a little confused. “Go? to your house? Isn’t it supposed to be here, in this back alley, with pools of lava all over?”
“…”
He looked at me in fixation, this time completely speechless. Something did look wrong.
“Why is it so cold in here anyway?”, I asked. It took him a few seconds to go out of his temporary fixation, and he answered that it is actually a pretty good day in his opinion.
“A pretty good day? Well, for me it isn’t. I am dead, my blog is no longer working and now I am in hell”.
“Dead? In hell? Oh, now I get it!”, he laughed. “Many people make this mistake. You see, you are not in hell, but in central London, in a large street called Oxford Circus. I am not the devil, as you thought, but de-Ville, Jean Claude de-Ville. I am a Belgian, hm... beauty shop owner”.
“What about all these Fetish stores?”, I asked him, a little surprised by his latest explanation.
“Well- I assume you misread most of them. It is M&S, not S&M, Virgin is just a megastore, and such as HMV- the middle letter of this particular store does look like an I, I agree- so do not worry. You are in a very civilized place”. “What about Boots? The next thing you are going to tell me now that it’s just a pharmacy”, I continued to press him. “Well- here you partially correct for once”, he replied with a small grin. “Boots is a normal drugstore during the day, but it become a Fetish store at night”. I still looked confused and didn’t believe him.
“You don’t believe me, do you? Let’s ask my friend right there”. He pointed at a very attractive young woman, who was going out of a very shady-looking store, cleaning her mouth with a small piece of cloth. “She is beautiful- what is her name?”, I whispered to him in awe. “Yes, she is our best, hm... worker. Let’s say her name is Euridece”.
Euridece... such a beautiful name..., I thought to myself.
“Jacqulin!! Come here quick!”, he shouted at her direction.
I was a little surprised that he made a mistake in pronouncing her name. But such an innocent mistake can happen to any of us.
“Jean Claude- I am not £$%£ talking to you until you £$$^& pay me my £$%£^ salary for last month”, she shouted back in an angelic voice. I was totally in love by now.
“Jacquin, get your dirty little ass over here. I want you to meet Mr. M., who is convinced he is in hell and explain him we are in London”.
“Another freak... Just what I need now. Look, honey. I am not dealing with fetish. What you see is what you get. I can give you the full treatment for £250, or if you wish you can get also 10 minutes for £90”, she recited the store’s pricing. As I was of no need of any beauty product or treatment, I refused. “Beautiful Euridece, I am not interested in your generous treatments. All I want is to go out of this place. Now that I have met you, I want us to go together out of here”. I smiled at her, and she looked back at Jean-Claude with a hint of fear in her eyes. Jean-Claude laughed again and said to Euridece that everything is fine, that I am a good guy, and he trusts me to treat her right.
She was still not convinced, even when I declared my love to her, but Jean-Claude pressed her to go with me. I was the happiest person I was for a long time. “Good man, thank you so much for your priceless help so far. Would you be so kind to let me know the way out of here? I want to leave this dreadful place as quickly as possible”, I said. He didn’t answer until I handed him a bunch of notes bearing a lady with a crown on her head.
“Well, let me just tell you that it’s nearly impossible to get out of Oxford Circus today. The central and the Jubilee lines are again out of service, you won’t go anywhere by taking the bus with that traffic, and since there is a football game tonight, I doubt you will be able to pass Cerberus, the pub with the three-heads dog sign on its entrance.”
“I am not afraid of any challenges!”, I said in a heroic tone. “With the fair Euridece on my side, I can stand to everything!”. Euridece was standing next to a street-light, looking somewhat bored, making a balloon from her chewing-gum.
“Well, if you have decided to take Jacqu.. Euridece with you- beware! That lady loves shopping, and if you do not want to lose her, be sure to grab her hand the whole time, and not look back at her- or you will lose her forever.”
I listened to everything the man said, and started running away in haste, trying to beat the crowd and get the hell out of hell. Euridece was complaining the whole time that we are walking too fast, and that she is missing all the sales in the various windows. “No time, my love!”, I shouted to her direction while continuing to run and beat up old ladies as we passed them. “When we are out of here, I will buy you whatever you want”.
We have arrived near Cerberus pub and indeed, there were thousands of fat men with a beer belly and mugs in their fat hands, screaming their heads off and looking kind of unfriendly.
Fortunately, as Euridece was the only more-or-less fine looking woman in that city, all men started forming a circle around her, creating a small path through which it was possible to pass. “Don’t worry about me, I want to stay here. I saw so many discount shops I want to see
and I prefer that then spending time with losers like you”, she said in a brave voice.
“Euridece, I cannot leave you like this... I will never leave you like this!”, I said in despair.
“If you won’t leave right now, I will call the police”, she said in a cold voice, her hands already on a random fat man’s shoulders.
Although tears were running down my eyes and prevented me from seeing anything, somehow I managed to run away and leave London. I lost the love of my life, but my blog was alive again, and I was FREE.
I took a glance at the stores names- S&M, HIV, Virgin and Boots, from the latter I had noticed two gay men in leather coats going out of, a sleazy look on their faces. Straight in front of me I could see thousands of Indians, grumpy old women and girls of very low quality of beauty, all standing next to a sign that said- “Thai Lunch Special. All you can eat for only £14.95”. There was no doubt about it. I was in hell.
From a back alley I didn’t notice before, a tall man wearing a dark suit with a red tie, appearing to be a businessman or a lawyer was signaling me to follow him. As I have already assumed who this man was, I had no other choice than to comply. As we followed the dark alley, I had noticed a tiny white poodle walking next to him, making his otherwise very professional attire a little comical. After a minute of walking he stopped and stared right at me. He looked as if he was about to say something, but I was quicker. “Let’s cut the crap. I know exactly where I am, and probably several reasons that brought me here. I know I am in hell, and so, with a simple logical deduction, you must be the devil”. I said this in a very affirmative voice, a little surprised by my own courage.
“How did you know my name?”, he asked me, a little confused.
“Well, you don’t need a genius for that. So, let’s go straight to the point. Where and when am I supposed to get undressed, and who exactly is going to beat me up.”
He looked a little surprised, but appeared content all the same. “Get undressed? I didn’t know it is going to be so easy with you...”
“Listen, Mister. I am not up to any games. Do what you have to do, just let me know my obligations”, I said firmly.
“You really are something special, aren’t you? Well, I won’t complain. Let’s go to my house- it’s only a few blocks away”, he said, not without a shrill of excitement in his voice.
I was a little confused. “Go? to your house? Isn’t it supposed to be here, in this back alley, with pools of lava all over?”
“…”
He looked at me in fixation, this time completely speechless. Something did look wrong.
“Why is it so cold in here anyway?”, I asked. It took him a few seconds to go out of his temporary fixation, and he answered that it is actually a pretty good day in his opinion.
“A pretty good day? Well, for me it isn’t. I am dead, my blog is no longer working and now I am in hell”.
“Dead? In hell? Oh, now I get it!”, he laughed. “Many people make this mistake. You see, you are not in hell, but in central London, in a large street called Oxford Circus. I am not the devil, as you thought, but de-Ville, Jean Claude de-Ville. I am a Belgian, hm... beauty shop owner”.
“What about all these Fetish stores?”, I asked him, a little surprised by his latest explanation.
“Well- I assume you misread most of them. It is M&S, not S&M, Virgin is just a megastore, and such as HMV- the middle letter of this particular store does look like an I, I agree- so do not worry. You are in a very civilized place”. “What about Boots? The next thing you are going to tell me now that it’s just a pharmacy”, I continued to press him. “Well- here you partially correct for once”, he replied with a small grin. “Boots is a normal drugstore during the day, but it become a Fetish store at night”. I still looked confused and didn’t believe him.
“You don’t believe me, do you? Let’s ask my friend right there”. He pointed at a very attractive young woman, who was going out of a very shady-looking store, cleaning her mouth with a small piece of cloth. “She is beautiful- what is her name?”, I whispered to him in awe. “Yes, she is our best, hm... worker. Let’s say her name is Euridece”.
Euridece... such a beautiful name..., I thought to myself.
“Jacqulin!! Come here quick!”, he shouted at her direction.
I was a little surprised that he made a mistake in pronouncing her name. But such an innocent mistake can happen to any of us.
“Jean Claude- I am not £$%£ talking to you until you £$$^& pay me my £$%£^ salary for last month”, she shouted back in an angelic voice. I was totally in love by now.
“Jacquin, get your dirty little ass over here. I want you to meet Mr. M., who is convinced he is in hell and explain him we are in London”.
“Another freak... Just what I need now. Look, honey. I am not dealing with fetish. What you see is what you get. I can give you the full treatment for £250, or if you wish you can get also 10 minutes for £90”, she recited the store’s pricing. As I was of no need of any beauty product or treatment, I refused. “Beautiful Euridece, I am not interested in your generous treatments. All I want is to go out of this place. Now that I have met you, I want us to go together out of here”. I smiled at her, and she looked back at Jean-Claude with a hint of fear in her eyes. Jean-Claude laughed again and said to Euridece that everything is fine, that I am a good guy, and he trusts me to treat her right.
She was still not convinced, even when I declared my love to her, but Jean-Claude pressed her to go with me. I was the happiest person I was for a long time. “Good man, thank you so much for your priceless help so far. Would you be so kind to let me know the way out of here? I want to leave this dreadful place as quickly as possible”, I said. He didn’t answer until I handed him a bunch of notes bearing a lady with a crown on her head.
“Well, let me just tell you that it’s nearly impossible to get out of Oxford Circus today. The central and the Jubilee lines are again out of service, you won’t go anywhere by taking the bus with that traffic, and since there is a football game tonight, I doubt you will be able to pass Cerberus, the pub with the three-heads dog sign on its entrance.”
“I am not afraid of any challenges!”, I said in a heroic tone. “With the fair Euridece on my side, I can stand to everything!”. Euridece was standing next to a street-light, looking somewhat bored, making a balloon from her chewing-gum.
“Well, if you have decided to take Jacqu.. Euridece with you- beware! That lady loves shopping, and if you do not want to lose her, be sure to grab her hand the whole time, and not look back at her- or you will lose her forever.”
I listened to everything the man said, and started running away in haste, trying to beat the crowd and get the hell out of hell. Euridece was complaining the whole time that we are walking too fast, and that she is missing all the sales in the various windows. “No time, my love!”, I shouted to her direction while continuing to run and beat up old ladies as we passed them. “When we are out of here, I will buy you whatever you want”.
We have arrived near Cerberus pub and indeed, there were thousands of fat men with a beer belly and mugs in their fat hands, screaming their heads off and looking kind of unfriendly.
Fortunately, as Euridece was the only more-or-less fine looking woman in that city, all men started forming a circle around her, creating a small path through which it was possible to pass. “Don’t worry about me, I want to stay here. I saw so many discount shops I want to see
and I prefer that then spending time with losers like you”, she said in a brave voice.
“Euridece, I cannot leave you like this... I will never leave you like this!”, I said in despair.
“If you won’t leave right now, I will call the police”, she said in a cold voice, her hands already on a random fat man’s shoulders.
Although tears were running down my eyes and prevented me from seeing anything, somehow I managed to run away and leave London. I lost the love of my life, but my blog was alive again, and I was FREE.
Saturday, 15 March 2008
19. Tea with the dead (II)
Good morning to all my devoted readers, and welcome back to the popular section of the blog, "Tea with the dead" (©)
As the holidays are now approaching, most dead people tend to spend time with their families, or travel to Miami. Among the list of dead celebrities we wanted to bring here this time, the only two who were available were Anna Nicole Smith and Mr. death himself.
Since my readers enjoyment is my primary concern, and as much as I would like to, an interview with Anna Nicole Smith might be less valuable than to talk with death himself. He came a long way to here, so please, give him a warm welcome! [fake applauses and black confetti in the air]
DM: We are extremely honored to have you here. Thank you so much for coming.
D: The pleasure is all mine.
DM: Would you like milk and sugar in your tea, or you prefer it black?
D: Black, of course.
DM: I didn't think otherwise. So, I am sure you have a lot to tell us. First of all, you look very well.
D: Thank you.
DM: I mean, you look very well for someone who is in charge for so long.
D: Well, I exercise.
DM: But still, you were working for the last billion years, no?
D: Oh, not at all! We substitute every 66 years. I was appointed in 1946. The poor guy before me had two world wars to pass, so I guess I have nothing to complain about.
DM: 66 years? So it means you have 4 more years at work. How will you choose the next person in charge?
D: We already got 1,024 applications, and the grand final will be in a death metal concert in Buenos Aires. Everyone who has voted for the Republican party or fried ants with his glasses when he was young is eligible to participate.
DM: Why Buenos Aires?
D: Good food. Each one who was ever in charge is going to be on the jury. All 50 millions of us.
DM: Don't you think it will be noticed? I mean, that's a lot of guys dressed in black.
D: Fortunately, the London Olympics are taking place that time, so nobody will care.
DM: Well, good luck with that!
D: Thank you.
DM: How do you deal with all this fame and stardom? You are mentioned everyday in the newspapers, make numerous appearances in films- even in Disney movies.
D: Don't forget the many popular book titles I am mentioned: "Death in the afternoon", "Death in Venice", "Death in the Caribbeans".
DM: I didn't hear about the last one.
D: Yes, it wasn't as successful- but much more fun!
DM: Yet, something is bothering me. While we are now having this chat, hundreds of people die every minute. How can you explain it? Can you be in multiple places at once?
D: Oh, you didn't expect me to greet each one of them, did you? I am seeing only celebrities.
DM: And what about all the others?
D: They get an answering machine: "Hello, you have reached death. I am busy with other calls so please wait on line or die again later".
DM: That's quite mean.
D: Well, I have a black humor... But mind you, everyone does get a welcome pack once they are dead.
DM: Welcome pack? What's in it?
D: Toothbrush, small shampoo and soap samples, and if you happen to die in business class, also a pair of socks.
DM: I see. Well- that's a lot of new information... I have many more questions to ask you, but sadly, our time is up. Thank you so much for coming!
D: I am not going anywhere.
DM: I beg your pardon?
D: You cannot expect to invite death and let him walk away empty handed.
DM: What do you mean? Am I going to die?
D: Well, technically, the invitation was the initiative of "Daniel M.'s blog", so I guess I have to shut down and kill your blog.
DM: But... why? I didn't do anything! I have so many more ideas and things to write about. Don't do this!
D: That's what they all say.
DM: Seriously, that's a very bad idea.
D: I am sorry, but I have no other choice.
DM: Can't you just once disobey the orders?
D: That's another thing they all say.
DM: Won't you play chess with me before your fatal strike?
D: Nice try. It didn't help Bergman last year.
DM: I really cannot believe you.
D: You will pass the stage of denial..
DM: But you cannot do this to me, it's not possible!
D: ...anger..
DM: Stop mumbling, you son of a...
D: ...acceptance..
DM: Fine, continue.
D: ...weird, sudden happiness..
DM: When I think of it, I will finally have some time to spend with my daughter in the park.
D: ...realization..
DM: I don't have a daughter... But I could still take the tube to the park.
D: ...jewish realization..
DM: Maybe I will take a bus, it's cheaper.
D: ...and finally, famous last words..
DM: I knew we should have invited Anna Nicole Smith.
D: Well, it's all over now. Sorry for that. As much as I would like to say something clever or witty right now, I must run to my one o'clock meeting. It's Andrew Lloyd Webber, and believe me, I am already 10 years late for this one. For Daniel M.'s male readers- go to your favorite sports website or search for porn or something. For the ladies, hope there is a desparate housewives episode running on television right now. I will see each one of you in due time, so meanwhile- do something useful. Learn a foreign language; propose to the girl you love; find the cure for cancer; make love, not war; steal a candy from a baby; choke an old lady or two;
and enjoy life, while it lasts.
As the holidays are now approaching, most dead people tend to spend time with their families, or travel to Miami. Among the list of dead celebrities we wanted to bring here this time, the only two who were available were Anna Nicole Smith and Mr. death himself.
Since my readers enjoyment is my primary concern, and as much as I would like to, an interview with Anna Nicole Smith might be less valuable than to talk with death himself. He came a long way to here, so please, give him a warm welcome! [fake applauses and black confetti in the air]
DM: We are extremely honored to have you here. Thank you so much for coming.
D: The pleasure is all mine.
DM: Would you like milk and sugar in your tea, or you prefer it black?
D: Black, of course.
DM: I didn't think otherwise. So, I am sure you have a lot to tell us. First of all, you look very well.
D: Thank you.
DM: I mean, you look very well for someone who is in charge for so long.
D: Well, I exercise.
DM: But still, you were working for the last billion years, no?
D: Oh, not at all! We substitute every 66 years. I was appointed in 1946. The poor guy before me had two world wars to pass, so I guess I have nothing to complain about.
DM: 66 years? So it means you have 4 more years at work. How will you choose the next person in charge?
D: We already got 1,024 applications, and the grand final will be in a death metal concert in Buenos Aires. Everyone who has voted for the Republican party or fried ants with his glasses when he was young is eligible to participate.
DM: Why Buenos Aires?
D: Good food. Each one who was ever in charge is going to be on the jury. All 50 millions of us.
DM: Don't you think it will be noticed? I mean, that's a lot of guys dressed in black.
D: Fortunately, the London Olympics are taking place that time, so nobody will care.
DM: Well, good luck with that!
D: Thank you.
DM: How do you deal with all this fame and stardom? You are mentioned everyday in the newspapers, make numerous appearances in films- even in Disney movies.
D: Don't forget the many popular book titles I am mentioned: "Death in the afternoon", "Death in Venice", "Death in the Caribbeans".
DM: I didn't hear about the last one.
D: Yes, it wasn't as successful- but much more fun!
DM: Yet, something is bothering me. While we are now having this chat, hundreds of people die every minute. How can you explain it? Can you be in multiple places at once?
D: Oh, you didn't expect me to greet each one of them, did you? I am seeing only celebrities.
DM: And what about all the others?
D: They get an answering machine: "Hello, you have reached death. I am busy with other calls so please wait on line or die again later".
DM: That's quite mean.
D: Well, I have a black humor... But mind you, everyone does get a welcome pack once they are dead.
DM: Welcome pack? What's in it?
D: Toothbrush, small shampoo and soap samples, and if you happen to die in business class, also a pair of socks.
DM: I see. Well- that's a lot of new information... I have many more questions to ask you, but sadly, our time is up. Thank you so much for coming!
D: I am not going anywhere.
DM: I beg your pardon?
D: You cannot expect to invite death and let him walk away empty handed.
DM: What do you mean? Am I going to die?
D: Well, technically, the invitation was the initiative of "Daniel M.'s blog", so I guess I have to shut down and kill your blog.
DM: But... why? I didn't do anything! I have so many more ideas and things to write about. Don't do this!
D: That's what they all say.
DM: Seriously, that's a very bad idea.
D: I am sorry, but I have no other choice.
DM: Can't you just once disobey the orders?
D: That's another thing they all say.
DM: Won't you play chess with me before your fatal strike?
D: Nice try. It didn't help Bergman last year.
DM: I really cannot believe you.
D: You will pass the stage of denial..
DM: But you cannot do this to me, it's not possible!
D: ...anger..
DM: Stop mumbling, you son of a...
D: ...acceptance..
DM: Fine, continue.
D: ...weird, sudden happiness..
DM: When I think of it, I will finally have some time to spend with my daughter in the park.
D: ...realization..
DM: I don't have a daughter... But I could still take the tube to the park.
D: ...jewish realization..
DM: Maybe I will take a bus, it's cheaper.
D: ...and finally, famous last words..
DM: I knew we should have invited Anna Nicole Smith.
D: Well, it's all over now. Sorry for that. As much as I would like to say something clever or witty right now, I must run to my one o'clock meeting. It's Andrew Lloyd Webber, and believe me, I am already 10 years late for this one. For Daniel M.'s male readers- go to your favorite sports website or search for porn or something. For the ladies, hope there is a desparate housewives episode running on television right now. I will see each one of you in due time, so meanwhile- do something useful. Learn a foreign language; propose to the girl you love; find the cure for cancer; make love, not war; steal a candy from a baby; choke an old lady or two;
and enjoy life, while it lasts.
Thursday, 13 March 2008
18. Jabbar's birthday
Another month has passed, and Daniel M. was still seating in his rocking chair, a pipe in his mouth and Jabbar the iguana on his lap. The rain didn't stop from pouring and in this late hour at night it was the only sound to be heard (Daniel M. was living in a city that while being among the biggest in the world, it was strictly forbidden to show any signs of life after a certain hour, say, 7pm).
Both Daniel M. and Jabbar closed their eyes, completely submitting themselves to this ancient meditative noise, becoming calmer as the minutes passed by.
Suddenly an alarm sounded and flashing red lights filled the otherwise dark room.
The main door was opened, and Alfred, the obedient butler, came in, holding 3 colored balloons and wearing a clownish birthday hat, making him look very ridiculous for any taste.
"Happy birthday, Jabbar!", he said in a serious voice, trying his best to sound as if he really meant it.
"Master, I prepared for you a fillet minion, medium-well, as you like it, and Teresa baked your favorite chocolate cake for this happy occasion."
"Please send her my love, and thank you very much, but it is completely unnecessary, since Jabber is vegetarian and also doesn't eat chocolate and I don't want to be rude and eat the cake all by myself".
"But, master, these are for you", tried the butler to speak to the sane part that wasn't completely destroyed in Daniel M's mind, but with no audible success.
"Many thanks, but I think I will pass. You are dismissed now. Please let me know if there is any...", Daniel M. didn't even finish the sentence as the parrot in the next living room was screaming: "You've got mail! You've got mail!", and later: "Chelsea got beaten by Liverpool 1-0". "I will be right back, sir", said Alfred, hissing to himself: "freak". In no time the butler has returned with a pile of letters and one small package. "Let me know if you need anything else- I will leave you alone now". "Excellent idea", replied the indifferent Daniel M.
He piled the letters on the Art Deco table and started to read them.
First, he saw the commercial stuff. "Sell your mother to receive $10 discount in Tower Records", "Open a checking account for your dog", "Buy four brides from Ukraine and receive one free", and other disgusting stuff.
Later, he was ready to answer the various fan mail he has received.
Peter, from Portland, Oregon (real name), was asking:
"I would be happy to see some drawing along those (great/superb/amazing) posts. Do you think it is possible?"
-My dear Peter, due to a very prosperous month for the blog (two pounds were found on the street), I am proud to tell you that the blog, starting next week, will employ the unknown genius Belgian artist, Jean Philippe leCoq, who will provide each post with his personal view on the subject.
From the press: "Mr. leCoq... is... like Picasso" (Le Monde- edited article), "Jean Philippe leCoq has done it again... almost as... last time..." (New York Times- edited article).
Also visit www.jeanphilipplecoq.be for more information (might not work due to an overwhelming demand).
Jenna, from Sweden (fake name, among other things), was asking:
"I liked especially your post about the old ladies in London. Will there be more posts about old women in the future?"
- Absolutely.
Asaf from Israel writes: "for your next Tea with the Dead section, you might bring Albert Einstein".
- We have already spoken with Mr. Einstein's agent, but currently he is available only in other galaxies. We will, however, bring someone else of this caliber and promise you would not be disappointed.
Anonymous was writing again, criticizing the low cultural standards of the blog, reaching a new low, as he noted, this month.
"Well- maybe this list of 10 favorite movies will shut him up for another while", thought Daniel M., and gave the following:
1) Playtime- Jacques Tati
2) Blowup- Antonioni
3) Dr. Strangelove, Eyes wide Shut or any other film by Kubrick
4) Seven Samurais- Kurasawa
5) Taxi Driver- Scorsese
6) Vertigo- Hitchcock
7) La dolce Vita- Fellini
8) High Heels- Almodovar
9) The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie- Bunuel
10) Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou- Wes Anderson
Finally, there was a large purple package. "I wonder what's inside it", thought Daniel M.
When he opened the package he discovered four large tomatoes, two of them got squeezed and smashed (probably because of the mail), and a small note, each letter was cut from a different newspaper. "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I THINK OF YOUR STUPID BLOG".
Daniel M. could not hold his smile. "Jabbar, finally something for you!", he gave the giant iguana the smashed tomatoes and the beast ate them with pleasure. "Happy birthday, boy, happy birthday".
Both Daniel M. and Jabbar closed their eyes, completely submitting themselves to this ancient meditative noise, becoming calmer as the minutes passed by.
Suddenly an alarm sounded and flashing red lights filled the otherwise dark room.
The main door was opened, and Alfred, the obedient butler, came in, holding 3 colored balloons and wearing a clownish birthday hat, making him look very ridiculous for any taste.
"Happy birthday, Jabbar!", he said in a serious voice, trying his best to sound as if he really meant it.
"Master, I prepared for you a fillet minion, medium-well, as you like it, and Teresa baked your favorite chocolate cake for this happy occasion."
"Please send her my love, and thank you very much, but it is completely unnecessary, since Jabber is vegetarian and also doesn't eat chocolate and I don't want to be rude and eat the cake all by myself".
"But, master, these are for you", tried the butler to speak to the sane part that wasn't completely destroyed in Daniel M's mind, but with no audible success.
"Many thanks, but I think I will pass. You are dismissed now. Please let me know if there is any...", Daniel M. didn't even finish the sentence as the parrot in the next living room was screaming: "You've got mail! You've got mail!", and later: "Chelsea got beaten by Liverpool 1-0". "I will be right back, sir", said Alfred, hissing to himself: "freak". In no time the butler has returned with a pile of letters and one small package. "Let me know if you need anything else- I will leave you alone now". "Excellent idea", replied the indifferent Daniel M.
He piled the letters on the Art Deco table and started to read them.
First, he saw the commercial stuff. "Sell your mother to receive $10 discount in Tower Records", "Open a checking account for your dog", "Buy four brides from Ukraine and receive one free", and other disgusting stuff.
Later, he was ready to answer the various fan mail he has received.
Peter, from Portland, Oregon (real name), was asking:
"I would be happy to see some drawing along those (great/superb/amazing) posts. Do you think it is possible?"
-My dear Peter, due to a very prosperous month for the blog (two pounds were found on the street), I am proud to tell you that the blog, starting next week, will employ the unknown genius Belgian artist, Jean Philippe leCoq, who will provide each post with his personal view on the subject.
From the press: "Mr. leCoq... is... like Picasso" (Le Monde- edited article), "Jean Philippe leCoq has done it again... almost as... last time..." (New York Times- edited article).
Also visit www.jeanphilipplecoq.be for more information (might not work due to an overwhelming demand).
Jenna, from Sweden (fake name, among other things), was asking:
"I liked especially your post about the old ladies in London. Will there be more posts about old women in the future?"
- Absolutely.
Asaf from Israel writes: "for your next Tea with the Dead section, you might bring Albert Einstein".
- We have already spoken with Mr. Einstein's agent, but currently he is available only in other galaxies. We will, however, bring someone else of this caliber and promise you would not be disappointed.
Anonymous was writing again, criticizing the low cultural standards of the blog, reaching a new low, as he noted, this month.
"Well- maybe this list of 10 favorite movies will shut him up for another while", thought Daniel M., and gave the following:
1) Playtime- Jacques Tati
2) Blowup- Antonioni
3) Dr. Strangelove, Eyes wide Shut or any other film by Kubrick
4) Seven Samurais- Kurasawa
5) Taxi Driver- Scorsese
6) Vertigo- Hitchcock
7) La dolce Vita- Fellini
8) High Heels- Almodovar
9) The discreet charm of the bourgeoisie- Bunuel
10) Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou- Wes Anderson
Finally, there was a large purple package. "I wonder what's inside it", thought Daniel M.
When he opened the package he discovered four large tomatoes, two of them got squeezed and smashed (probably because of the mail), and a small note, each letter was cut from a different newspaper. "THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I THINK OF YOUR STUPID BLOG".
Daniel M. could not hold his smile. "Jabbar, finally something for you!", he gave the giant iguana the smashed tomatoes and the beast ate them with pleasure. "Happy birthday, boy, happy birthday".
Sunday, 9 March 2008
17. Fear and loathing in the big apple (part II)
Good afternoon to all my devoted readers. Today, as promised, I shall continue my pointless memoirs of the two years I spent in the big apple. As you will soon find out, the apple is certainly big, but itsurely has many worms in it (and some Mexican waiters waiting to
refill the water glasses of those worms).
Anyhow, I was telling you about my school experience, which was not really a happy one. However, my living experience was much, much nicer. I was living in a student residence place near the Columbia University, intended for grad students from around the world, named, how originally- International house. Each student had his own tiny room (as I was used to the luxury of the farm, with a fireplace and a Sultan-size bed in every room, it was quite a shock for me at first).
I was living in the eighth floor, and my tiny room was just in front of the elevator, ensuring me lots of free nightly entertainment. The house had some great facilities, and various bizarre activies. The most popular figure in that place was a man nicknamed HR, who was a
weird combination between Hugh Hefner and the annoying, though sweet grandfather you never had. He was in charge of most artistic activities in the house, such as Salon night (concerts), ballroom dancing, and ice cream social, which happened every month, including
winter, and in which he was serving some disgusting ice cream to anyone brave enough to go there (legend was that he liked to lick the spoons every now and then). These events were even more painful, as we received voice messages in our phones in his very slow, confused voice: "hello, this is HR. Today, no, sorry, tomorrow we will have... I forgot... All you can eat, for FREE!"
Most people were very nice and interesting, and it was such a nice relief to speak and hang out with non-musicians for a change. Of course, not everyone were equally interesting, and many times in the cafeteria, while your mysenthropic servant was trying to eat in peace,
a guy (usually Austrian) would sit next to me and start the formal boring conversation (what are you doing, where are you from, what is the situation in the middle east, etc.), and after learning he is working in a bank, I would start talking about the quality of the mashed potatoes.
As I said before, I was living on the 8th floor, where I met in my first year some great people who became my best friends, lovers or travel mates- some are even reading this blog right now! One of them, a crazy German guy who is now a reporter in a well known German
newspaper, told me I'm very quotable and had suggested me to write down some of my thoughts. In what has become a I.House cult classic, and the forefather of this blog, I have posted outside my door, every single morning, my saying of the day.
Some popular ones, which I remember- "blondes have more fun, they just don't know it", "drinking while problems may cause pregnancy", and many others became particularly famous. As my room was just in front of the elevator, it was the perfect location. After two weeks, the
whole floor would know about it, and after a month many other floors as well. I would open my door in the morning to see women in bath-robes (and sadly, men in bath robes) waiting for the latest entry and finally started to feel the sweet taste of success (well, I'm a little
carried away here, but it is a post about America, so please forgive me).
As for the life outside the house, I have this nice story. After one concert in Israel, a guy came to me and urged me to call his friend Peggy when I am in New York. He said that she is practically running the town and that she would be happy to meet me.
He gave me her number, and I completely forgot about the whole thing. One day, I found that note in my pocket and it out of complete boredom I dialed her number. It turned out that Ms. Peggy was the most important PR for movies in the east coast. On our first call, she has invited me to the New York premiere of the awful movie, "Memoirs of a Geisha". It was screened at the VIP section of the MoMa, and I was probably the only one without an Armani suit and a Gucci bow-tie. After that horrible film we all went to the fanciest Italian restaurant I've ever seen.
I sat randomly in a free seat, right in front of a thin man with glasses and a very fat guy. The fat guy turned out to be an executive at Warner Bros. (to my innocent question, if he liked the movie, he replied- "we don't look at movies that way, we only care if it's going to be successful. And this is going to be successful, except of Japan), and the thin man turned out to be the executive director of MoMa. Nice. An attractive lady came and sat next to me, and asked me this memorable question- "so, are you from the production, or from the New-York Times?"
My answer, "I am just a pianist", was obviously wrong (the correct answer, of course, would be: "whatever turns you on, babe").
For the next event, a premiere of Ralph Fiennes and Vanessa Redgrave movie, Peggy has asked me to play after the movie, while people were going to eat. And so, after the screening, we were going to a huge palace, and I was pushed to the black box, while all were entering the dinning hall. As it was somewhat humiliating, and I was very hungry, after a while I stopped playing (since everyone was already inside the hall, eating), sat in a free table and ordered whatever I could from the menu. I ate as fast as possible, and ran back to continue playing some more Chopin waltzes and mazurkas I never played before. Many people, upon leaving told me- "Thank you, Mr. Music", or "wow- I love Bach!"
When all was over, I simply ran away with the crowd. I never heard from Peggy again.
The second funny story, faintly connected to music, was after a recital I gave in a small venue downtown. A very nice looking lady in her thirties came to congratulate me, saying- "I felt like you were touching the woman's body all over... making love to her without stopping... Your music sounds so similar to the poetry I am writing... About sex and love making... Would you like me to read it to you?". Now, dear readers, very sadly I had a girlfriend that time, or I would happily recite her poems in my sleep.
Well- I still have many more stories and anecdotes from that time, but these will wait for the upcoming "hitchhiker's guide" section. Until then, be good to yourselves!
refill the water glasses of those worms).
Anyhow, I was telling you about my school experience, which was not really a happy one. However, my living experience was much, much nicer. I was living in a student residence place near the Columbia University, intended for grad students from around the world, named, how originally- International house. Each student had his own tiny room (as I was used to the luxury of the farm, with a fireplace and a Sultan-size bed in every room, it was quite a shock for me at first).
I was living in the eighth floor, and my tiny room was just in front of the elevator, ensuring me lots of free nightly entertainment. The house had some great facilities, and various bizarre activies. The most popular figure in that place was a man nicknamed HR, who was a
weird combination between Hugh Hefner and the annoying, though sweet grandfather you never had. He was in charge of most artistic activities in the house, such as Salon night (concerts), ballroom dancing, and ice cream social, which happened every month, including
winter, and in which he was serving some disgusting ice cream to anyone brave enough to go there (legend was that he liked to lick the spoons every now and then). These events were even more painful, as we received voice messages in our phones in his very slow, confused voice: "hello, this is HR. Today, no, sorry, tomorrow we will have... I forgot... All you can eat, for FREE!"
Most people were very nice and interesting, and it was such a nice relief to speak and hang out with non-musicians for a change. Of course, not everyone were equally interesting, and many times in the cafeteria, while your mysenthropic servant was trying to eat in peace,
a guy (usually Austrian) would sit next to me and start the formal boring conversation (what are you doing, where are you from, what is the situation in the middle east, etc.), and after learning he is working in a bank, I would start talking about the quality of the mashed potatoes.
As I said before, I was living on the 8th floor, where I met in my first year some great people who became my best friends, lovers or travel mates- some are even reading this blog right now! One of them, a crazy German guy who is now a reporter in a well known German
newspaper, told me I'm very quotable and had suggested me to write down some of my thoughts. In what has become a I.House cult classic, and the forefather of this blog, I have posted outside my door, every single morning, my saying of the day.
Some popular ones, which I remember- "blondes have more fun, they just don't know it", "drinking while problems may cause pregnancy", and many others became particularly famous. As my room was just in front of the elevator, it was the perfect location. After two weeks, the
whole floor would know about it, and after a month many other floors as well. I would open my door in the morning to see women in bath-robes (and sadly, men in bath robes) waiting for the latest entry and finally started to feel the sweet taste of success (well, I'm a little
carried away here, but it is a post about America, so please forgive me).
As for the life outside the house, I have this nice story. After one concert in Israel, a guy came to me and urged me to call his friend Peggy when I am in New York. He said that she is practically running the town and that she would be happy to meet me.
He gave me her number, and I completely forgot about the whole thing. One day, I found that note in my pocket and it out of complete boredom I dialed her number. It turned out that Ms. Peggy was the most important PR for movies in the east coast. On our first call, she has invited me to the New York premiere of the awful movie, "Memoirs of a Geisha". It was screened at the VIP section of the MoMa, and I was probably the only one without an Armani suit and a Gucci bow-tie. After that horrible film we all went to the fanciest Italian restaurant I've ever seen.
I sat randomly in a free seat, right in front of a thin man with glasses and a very fat guy. The fat guy turned out to be an executive at Warner Bros. (to my innocent question, if he liked the movie, he replied- "we don't look at movies that way, we only care if it's going to be successful. And this is going to be successful, except of Japan), and the thin man turned out to be the executive director of MoMa. Nice. An attractive lady came and sat next to me, and asked me this memorable question- "so, are you from the production, or from the New-York Times?"
My answer, "I am just a pianist", was obviously wrong (the correct answer, of course, would be: "whatever turns you on, babe").
For the next event, a premiere of Ralph Fiennes and Vanessa Redgrave movie, Peggy has asked me to play after the movie, while people were going to eat. And so, after the screening, we were going to a huge palace, and I was pushed to the black box, while all were entering the dinning hall. As it was somewhat humiliating, and I was very hungry, after a while I stopped playing (since everyone was already inside the hall, eating), sat in a free table and ordered whatever I could from the menu. I ate as fast as possible, and ran back to continue playing some more Chopin waltzes and mazurkas I never played before. Many people, upon leaving told me- "Thank you, Mr. Music", or "wow- I love Bach!"
When all was over, I simply ran away with the crowd. I never heard from Peggy again.
The second funny story, faintly connected to music, was after a recital I gave in a small venue downtown. A very nice looking lady in her thirties came to congratulate me, saying- "I felt like you were touching the woman's body all over... making love to her without stopping... Your music sounds so similar to the poetry I am writing... About sex and love making... Would you like me to read it to you?". Now, dear readers, very sadly I had a girlfriend that time, or I would happily recite her poems in my sleep.
Well- I still have many more stories and anecdotes from that time, but these will wait for the upcoming "hitchhiker's guide" section. Until then, be good to yourselves!
Sunday, 2 March 2008
16. Fear and loathing in the big apple (part I)
Ladies and Gentlemen, devoted readers of the blog, welcome to the United States of America!
These upcoming two posts will deal with the two years I lived in New York, suffering my way through so you could sit comfortably and read this on your laptops.
The first time I came to the States was in a very bizarre coincidence. My grandmother, who ran away to New York when my mother was in her teens and had almost no contact with us, sent one day a letter, offering 4 tickets and inviting the four of us (my divorced parents, my sister and I) to her son's wedding in New York. As it was clearly an un-vitation (surely she didn't expect us to actually agree to come- also, it was sent only a month before the wedding), and all of us are very crazy individuals, we immediately decided to accept this one time offer. We went there separately- my father first, as he had some work to do in LA, my mother and sister some days later, and I came last, from Paris, where I had my summer vacation with my (then) girlfriend.
As I am not the only unorganized person in my family, I wasn't provided with any information, and I didn't know the address of the flat my family stayed at (because we all thought that since my mother will pick me up in the airport, I shouldn't know anything else). In the immigration form, under "address in the US", I wrote: "father's apartment..."- so naive I was back then.
The officer, seeing that stamped my form, and shouted at me- "You are not welcome in the United States of America!". Fortunately, a nice lady working there saw me, and provided me with a fake address, sending me to another officer (if it was only two months later, I would be sent back immediately or stay in prison). This wasn't the end of the story, as I apparently told my mother to be in the wrong airport. As I was waiting for 4 hours in the airport, with no way to be reached, and with no phone number to call to, I got to the mature conclusion that my family is dead, and I have to deal with that fact. With $100 in my wallet, I began to imagine the endless possibilities that are for me that week. "After all his family died, and with only $100 in his pockets, Daniel M. started his way in New York, and after only a month became rich and famous. The new rumors suggest he is going out with Scarlett Joh...", in that point of my fantasy my mother, hysterically shouting at me, came to pick me up.
All that week was immensely bizarre and funny, as to be expected when the four of us are reunited, and more than that, reunited abroad. We all lived in a nice flat not far away from the twin towers and the world trade center. As my sister wanted me to take a picture of us near the towers, I disagreed, telling her it is very stupidly touristic, and they are going to be there for many more years, so we can do it another time. It was, I remind you, July 2001...
Anyway, the next time I came to the States was after I had the feud with M., and I was looking to run away from the to the place that was as different as possible- Juilliard.
Apparently Juilliard was constructed by an architect who was formerly building state prisons (not a joke!), and it explains many things- as I cannot imagine a building that is more ugly or more depressing than that school. The ceilings were all very low, there were almost no windows around, and no places to sit and talk with friends. The practicing rooms looked like death-cells, with almost no air inside, and instead of a piano stood there was an ugly black box.
The pianos themselves looked as if they were suffering immensely, and it was the worst experience ever practicing at school.
As I didn't know at first where should I stay in New York, I was seriously considering to stay at the Juilliard dorms. Fortunately, there were no rooms available, or your humble servant would not be alive today. The dorms were the only place that was worse than the school itself. Situated in the same complex it was only a moment away from school (eww..), so there was no way you could miss a class. You had to share your tiny room with three more people, and was forced to eat three meals a day at the Juilliard Cafeteria. As the suicide rate was very high, the school decided to block the room windows, so no one could jump and sue the school for injuries.
Fortunately, I didn't have to pass all that, as I was living in another part of town, in an other student house- International House. As I have many many things to say about living there, it will have to wait for the next part of the post.
As for Juilliard, from the first moment I saw it was not a place for me. They completely discouraged any encounter with the different departments of the school (dance and drama), and the only things we got in our emails were invitations for a free ice cream socials in room 274. When I saw this place is clearly not for me, I decided to take the easiest courses that were offered in the masters degree. Here are some which I remember:
* Bach's Taxes- This is what I called that course, which was supposed to deal with Bach's music, but instead taught us how many gallons of beer Bach drank while composing (hint: a lot), and exactly how much did he earn for each piece he was composing. Welcome to America!
* Jazz History- A course taught by a tuba player, who claimed to have played with all the jazz legends. Although he was a nice, cool man, he had no idea how to teach a class. The only phrase he knew was, "You dig it? Yeah! You dig it?"
* Music and Technology- By far the easiest course I've ever taken in my life (if you knew how to turn on and off a computer, you could pass the class), taught by a very sexy Yugoslavian lesbian teacher, who never turned off her mobile phone- "Wait a second, it's my second girlfriend. Yes, beautiful? Yes, last night WAS great also for me... cannot wait for next time... Ok, class- where were we?"
* Contemporary Music- In this class we were supposed to play some contemporary chamber music, and discuss it afterwards with the class. Unfortunately, it rarely happened, because the teacher (a very ugly midget, spitting all over) could not stop talking himself, mainly about his group's upcoming concerts in Estonia and Lithuania, and the genius music he had found there.
* Piano Music- Again, another class in which students were supposed to play, but instead the psychotic teacher could not stop himself from talking, sharing with us his impotence problem, his views about contemporary boxers, and other relevant issues.
* Vienna in the beginning of the 20th century- Taught by the unforgettable Pia Gilbert, who was old enough to meet Schoenberg, Alma Mahler and their company, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knew Mozart and Haydn as well. Every second phrase of her started with Alma Mahler, usually using only her first name- "Oh, Alma was with EVERYBODY..."
* German Lieder- This was actually a fun class. Ten singers, all a caricature of classical singers and ten accompanists (I was the only "solo" pianist there), again, a caricature of themselves. It was as if I entered another world, or an episode of "Fame". The women hated each other, all men were gay, and it was just delightful to sit and watch all of that.
"Sharon, did you have a boob-job yesterday? You sound like you did... Shut up, Jessica, we all know how you got the audition in Houston last week..."
As I hated school, I came there less and less, and was spending most of my time in I.House. For some really crazy stories, my dinner with Natalie Portman, some useful tips and tricks for tourists, please wait for the next post. Until then, I bid you farewell.
These upcoming two posts will deal with the two years I lived in New York, suffering my way through so you could sit comfortably and read this on your laptops.
The first time I came to the States was in a very bizarre coincidence. My grandmother, who ran away to New York when my mother was in her teens and had almost no contact with us, sent one day a letter, offering 4 tickets and inviting the four of us (my divorced parents, my sister and I) to her son's wedding in New York. As it was clearly an un-vitation (surely she didn't expect us to actually agree to come- also, it was sent only a month before the wedding), and all of us are very crazy individuals, we immediately decided to accept this one time offer. We went there separately- my father first, as he had some work to do in LA, my mother and sister some days later, and I came last, from Paris, where I had my summer vacation with my (then) girlfriend.
As I am not the only unorganized person in my family, I wasn't provided with any information, and I didn't know the address of the flat my family stayed at (because we all thought that since my mother will pick me up in the airport, I shouldn't know anything else). In the immigration form, under "address in the US", I wrote: "father's apartment..."- so naive I was back then.
The officer, seeing that stamped my form, and shouted at me- "You are not welcome in the United States of America!". Fortunately, a nice lady working there saw me, and provided me with a fake address, sending me to another officer (if it was only two months later, I would be sent back immediately or stay in prison). This wasn't the end of the story, as I apparently told my mother to be in the wrong airport. As I was waiting for 4 hours in the airport, with no way to be reached, and with no phone number to call to, I got to the mature conclusion that my family is dead, and I have to deal with that fact. With $100 in my wallet, I began to imagine the endless possibilities that are for me that week. "After all his family died, and with only $100 in his pockets, Daniel M. started his way in New York, and after only a month became rich and famous. The new rumors suggest he is going out with Scarlett Joh...", in that point of my fantasy my mother, hysterically shouting at me, came to pick me up.
All that week was immensely bizarre and funny, as to be expected when the four of us are reunited, and more than that, reunited abroad. We all lived in a nice flat not far away from the twin towers and the world trade center. As my sister wanted me to take a picture of us near the towers, I disagreed, telling her it is very stupidly touristic, and they are going to be there for many more years, so we can do it another time. It was, I remind you, July 2001...
Anyway, the next time I came to the States was after I had the feud with M., and I was looking to run away from the to the place that was as different as possible- Juilliard.
Apparently Juilliard was constructed by an architect who was formerly building state prisons (not a joke!), and it explains many things- as I cannot imagine a building that is more ugly or more depressing than that school. The ceilings were all very low, there were almost no windows around, and no places to sit and talk with friends. The practicing rooms looked like death-cells, with almost no air inside, and instead of a piano stood there was an ugly black box.
The pianos themselves looked as if they were suffering immensely, and it was the worst experience ever practicing at school.
As I didn't know at first where should I stay in New York, I was seriously considering to stay at the Juilliard dorms. Fortunately, there were no rooms available, or your humble servant would not be alive today. The dorms were the only place that was worse than the school itself. Situated in the same complex it was only a moment away from school (eww..), so there was no way you could miss a class. You had to share your tiny room with three more people, and was forced to eat three meals a day at the Juilliard Cafeteria. As the suicide rate was very high, the school decided to block the room windows, so no one could jump and sue the school for injuries.
Fortunately, I didn't have to pass all that, as I was living in another part of town, in an other student house- International House. As I have many many things to say about living there, it will have to wait for the next part of the post.
As for Juilliard, from the first moment I saw it was not a place for me. They completely discouraged any encounter with the different departments of the school (dance and drama), and the only things we got in our emails were invitations for a free ice cream socials in room 274. When I saw this place is clearly not for me, I decided to take the easiest courses that were offered in the masters degree. Here are some which I remember:
* Bach's Taxes- This is what I called that course, which was supposed to deal with Bach's music, but instead taught us how many gallons of beer Bach drank while composing (hint: a lot), and exactly how much did he earn for each piece he was composing. Welcome to America!
* Jazz History- A course taught by a tuba player, who claimed to have played with all the jazz legends. Although he was a nice, cool man, he had no idea how to teach a class. The only phrase he knew was, "You dig it? Yeah! You dig it?"
* Music and Technology- By far the easiest course I've ever taken in my life (if you knew how to turn on and off a computer, you could pass the class), taught by a very sexy Yugoslavian lesbian teacher, who never turned off her mobile phone- "Wait a second, it's my second girlfriend. Yes, beautiful? Yes, last night WAS great also for me... cannot wait for next time... Ok, class- where were we?"
* Contemporary Music- In this class we were supposed to play some contemporary chamber music, and discuss it afterwards with the class. Unfortunately, it rarely happened, because the teacher (a very ugly midget, spitting all over) could not stop talking himself, mainly about his group's upcoming concerts in Estonia and Lithuania, and the genius music he had found there.
* Piano Music- Again, another class in which students were supposed to play, but instead the psychotic teacher could not stop himself from talking, sharing with us his impotence problem, his views about contemporary boxers, and other relevant issues.
* Vienna in the beginning of the 20th century- Taught by the unforgettable Pia Gilbert, who was old enough to meet Schoenberg, Alma Mahler and their company, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knew Mozart and Haydn as well. Every second phrase of her started with Alma Mahler, usually using only her first name- "Oh, Alma was with EVERYBODY..."
* German Lieder- This was actually a fun class. Ten singers, all a caricature of classical singers and ten accompanists (I was the only "solo" pianist there), again, a caricature of themselves. It was as if I entered another world, or an episode of "Fame". The women hated each other, all men were gay, and it was just delightful to sit and watch all of that.
"Sharon, did you have a boob-job yesterday? You sound like you did... Shut up, Jessica, we all know how you got the audition in Houston last week..."
As I hated school, I came there less and less, and was spending most of my time in I.House. For some really crazy stories, my dinner with Natalie Portman, some useful tips and tricks for tourists, please wait for the next post. Until then, I bid you farewell.
Monday, 25 February 2008
15. Telling the truth to women, a.k.a most embarrassing moment #2
Apart from my professions and various hobbies, I happen to be an activist in several matters.
One of the groups I am proud to be a part of is TITS (Truth Is The Solution), which aims for a better world for couples and for endangered species (a.k.a men) alike.
We believe that every woman deserves a true answer for her daily questions (such as, "do I look fat with that new dress?") and we hope that if every man in the planet stops lying and starting to tell the truth today, in a few generations evolution will create a new race of women which will make relations between sexes much easier and more pleasant for both sides.
Unfortunately most men fail to see to that point, and continue spreading lies everywhere in hopes that they could spread other things in return (those lousy lazy bastards).
As we are still looking for a better, less misleading name for the organization, we will continue fight for justice until the promised victory.
Not very long ago I went out with a lovely girl. We went to eat and then came to her place. In a semi-romantic moment, she held my hands and said she would like me to listen to her favorite song and put on a CD of Phil Collins greatest hits. She looked straight to my eyes and asked me if I liked it. As I saw clearly the advantage of lying or shutting up, I tried my best to avoid answering the question. However, soon enough I understood it was only the first track in a CD of over an hour of this horrid music, and as a founding member of TITS I had to tell her what I really thought of it. True, I could have phrased it a little better, and not share with her the only circumstance I could see myself listening to it again, but still- it was damned worth it.
Another funny instance of telling the truth to a woman, although what I said was heavily misinterpreted, was the famous dinner party story, a.k.a Most embarrassing moment that makes a good story #2.
I was invited to a dinner with good friends of mine in London. As they wanted to help me getting concerts there, they invited also a small concert organizer to dine with us.
From the very first moment I knew I didn't like that woman. She was annoying and kept talking to the children as if they were retarded (I remembered even as a child I hated these kind of people). At one point, after lots of wine was served to everybody in the table (including the children, if I remember right), she has decided to share with us a remarkable story from her long gone youth. This was her story. Please read it imagining a very high voice with lots of hand movements.
"When I was four, I was first brought to London. Everything looked so big and amazing, and I was in awe just walking down the streets. One day my father took me to the Madame Toussaud Museum, and there I found out there was a secret compartment, hidden behind a curtain, and a very long queue to that. I stood in line and waited, but when I reached the top of the queue, the usher told me it is forbidden for a young girl like me to see it. I was very disappointed and left the museum. The next time I came to London was more than 15 years later. Of course, the first thing I did was to run to Madame Toussaud and look for that hidden thing behind the curtain. To my great disappointment, it wasn't there anymore, and nobody working in the museum knew what I was talking about. Now- what do you think was there behind the curtain that could scare me so much?"
Without even thinking twice, I have replied- "a mirror". Of course, I only meant it in the metaphysical sense, meaning that our own existence is the most frightening thing we could expect, but I could very much understand after saying that word that it could be heavily misinterpreted.
As I feared, the annoying lady didn't have an existentialistic education, nor the least Jewish self humor. She turned pale, and for the rest of the dinner kept whispering to the person next to her, "I cannot believe he actually said it". However, unlike the other dinner party in France, where I really wanted to bury myself alive, here I couldn't hold myself from laughing out loud, as the situation was so ridiculous, and couldn't wait to come back home and tell it to my friends (or wait one year and create a blog).
Have your own stories? Wanting to join TITS? Small donations (£1,000 and above, please) are always welcome.
One of the groups I am proud to be a part of is TITS (Truth Is The Solution), which aims for a better world for couples and for endangered species (a.k.a men) alike.
We believe that every woman deserves a true answer for her daily questions (such as, "do I look fat with that new dress?") and we hope that if every man in the planet stops lying and starting to tell the truth today, in a few generations evolution will create a new race of women which will make relations between sexes much easier and more pleasant for both sides.
Unfortunately most men fail to see to that point, and continue spreading lies everywhere in hopes that they could spread other things in return (those lousy lazy bastards).
As we are still looking for a better, less misleading name for the organization, we will continue fight for justice until the promised victory.
Not very long ago I went out with a lovely girl. We went to eat and then came to her place. In a semi-romantic moment, she held my hands and said she would like me to listen to her favorite song and put on a CD of Phil Collins greatest hits. She looked straight to my eyes and asked me if I liked it. As I saw clearly the advantage of lying or shutting up, I tried my best to avoid answering the question. However, soon enough I understood it was only the first track in a CD of over an hour of this horrid music, and as a founding member of TITS I had to tell her what I really thought of it. True, I could have phrased it a little better, and not share with her the only circumstance I could see myself listening to it again, but still- it was damned worth it.
Another funny instance of telling the truth to a woman, although what I said was heavily misinterpreted, was the famous dinner party story, a.k.a Most embarrassing moment that makes a good story #2.
I was invited to a dinner with good friends of mine in London. As they wanted to help me getting concerts there, they invited also a small concert organizer to dine with us.
From the very first moment I knew I didn't like that woman. She was annoying and kept talking to the children as if they were retarded (I remembered even as a child I hated these kind of people). At one point, after lots of wine was served to everybody in the table (including the children, if I remember right), she has decided to share with us a remarkable story from her long gone youth. This was her story. Please read it imagining a very high voice with lots of hand movements.
"When I was four, I was first brought to London. Everything looked so big and amazing, and I was in awe just walking down the streets. One day my father took me to the Madame Toussaud Museum, and there I found out there was a secret compartment, hidden behind a curtain, and a very long queue to that. I stood in line and waited, but when I reached the top of the queue, the usher told me it is forbidden for a young girl like me to see it. I was very disappointed and left the museum. The next time I came to London was more than 15 years later. Of course, the first thing I did was to run to Madame Toussaud and look for that hidden thing behind the curtain. To my great disappointment, it wasn't there anymore, and nobody working in the museum knew what I was talking about. Now- what do you think was there behind the curtain that could scare me so much?"
Without even thinking twice, I have replied- "a mirror". Of course, I only meant it in the metaphysical sense, meaning that our own existence is the most frightening thing we could expect, but I could very much understand after saying that word that it could be heavily misinterpreted.
As I feared, the annoying lady didn't have an existentialistic education, nor the least Jewish self humor. She turned pale, and for the rest of the dinner kept whispering to the person next to her, "I cannot believe he actually said it". However, unlike the other dinner party in France, where I really wanted to bury myself alive, here I couldn't hold myself from laughing out loud, as the situation was so ridiculous, and couldn't wait to come back home and tell it to my friends (or wait one year and create a blog).
Have your own stories? Wanting to join TITS? Small donations (£1,000 and above, please) are always welcome.
Friday, 22 February 2008
14. Tea with the dead
Good afternoon to all my devoted readers. Today we are proud to launch a new section in the blog- an interview, biscuits and tea (earl grey, of course) with a selected dead guest.
For the first celebratory interview we wanted to bring you the king himself, Mr. Elvis Presley, but we found out that he is actually not dead at all, and working 24/7 at a gas station in a small town in Idaho. However, the guest that agreed to come here is less fat, and even more talented than the king. Died only at 35, he was able to write some of the greatest music there is, and was popular with the ladies as much he is popular today with the kids (who know his famous chocolaty version). Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the one and only, Mr. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart! [fake applause is being heard from the computer's speakers]
W.A. Mozart: Thank you very much. Zis is a great pleasure to be here.
Daniel M.: Please, feel comfortable. Would you like some cream and sugar in your tea?
WAM: Only sugar, thanks.
DM: So, Mr. Mozart- how is it to be dead?
WAM: Well, not so good. To begin with, they put us all composers in one building, and you can imagine the noises I have to deal with- Mahler is just above us, and Boulez is my next door neighbor. I'm telling you, Beethoven is lucky to be deaf.
DM: Wait a moment, Mr. Boulez is still alive! I met him personally this summer.
WAM: Believe me, he is dead.
DM: So you know the works of Mahler and Boulez? I am sure it is very interesting for all our readers to know what you think of contemporary music.
WAM: Some of it I like, but mostly I am very disappointed. Ms. Spears has very limited harmonic progressions and Radiohead didn't release anything good after "OK computer".
DM: I meant classical contemporary music, but never mind. By the way, your English is very impressive. Did you talk to Britten or Ives in the last hundred years?
WAM: Hell no! I watch Television.
DM: Do you have television up there?
WAM: It's black and white and we get only Fawlty Towers and re-runs of Baywatch. But I love the opening sequence...
DM: I see. What about your own compositions? Did you have a chance to listen to any of them performed since you died in 1791?
WAM: I heard Badura-Skoda playing some of my sonatas. It was extremely slow and very boring. I hated it.
DM: Were you in the actual concert?
WAM: No, I watched it on Youtube.
DM: So, you have internet as well!
WAM: Not anymore. Since Wagner has downloaded some Nazi propaganda last month they blocked all our building access. But I get sometimes a wifi signal from the painters block.
DM: Wow, I didn't know you were so modern up there. Is the older generation keeping up as well?
WAM: Are you kidding? Bach is composing only with Finale, and it saves him so much time with all the counterpoint. Only last week he composed 500 new cantatas.
DM: Is there a chance to hear any of this music?
WAM: When you are dead, there will be.
DM: I understand. What else? Are you and Constanze still together?
WAM: Constanze is so 300 years ago! As everyone else, I have also been with Clara Schumann and Alma Mahler, whom I married 20 years ago.
DM: Congratulations!
WAM: We have some kind of an open marriage- she lets me go out with other dead women and I let her try and complete my Requiem.
DM: This is absolutely fascinating. I could continue talking with you all day, but unfortunately our time is up. Just one more personal question- in your a minor sonata, the vorschlag should be on or before the beat?
Hallo und herzliche willkommen zu KV467. Die person ist nicht...
Well, I guess I will have to wait another 300 years for this answer, or simply ask my teacher.
Please send me your ideas and suggestions for future dead guests. Our motto is- if he is dead, he can be on our blog. Until next time, have a wonderful day and don't forget to feed the cat.
For the first celebratory interview we wanted to bring you the king himself, Mr. Elvis Presley, but we found out that he is actually not dead at all, and working 24/7 at a gas station in a small town in Idaho. However, the guest that agreed to come here is less fat, and even more talented than the king. Died only at 35, he was able to write some of the greatest music there is, and was popular with the ladies as much he is popular today with the kids (who know his famous chocolaty version). Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the one and only, Mr. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart! [fake applause is being heard from the computer's speakers]
W.A. Mozart: Thank you very much. Zis is a great pleasure to be here.
Daniel M.: Please, feel comfortable. Would you like some cream and sugar in your tea?
WAM: Only sugar, thanks.
DM: So, Mr. Mozart- how is it to be dead?
WAM: Well, not so good. To begin with, they put us all composers in one building, and you can imagine the noises I have to deal with- Mahler is just above us, and Boulez is my next door neighbor. I'm telling you, Beethoven is lucky to be deaf.
DM: Wait a moment, Mr. Boulez is still alive! I met him personally this summer.
WAM: Believe me, he is dead.
DM: So you know the works of Mahler and Boulez? I am sure it is very interesting for all our readers to know what you think of contemporary music.
WAM: Some of it I like, but mostly I am very disappointed. Ms. Spears has very limited harmonic progressions and Radiohead didn't release anything good after "OK computer".
DM: I meant classical contemporary music, but never mind. By the way, your English is very impressive. Did you talk to Britten or Ives in the last hundred years?
WAM: Hell no! I watch Television.
DM: Do you have television up there?
WAM: It's black and white and we get only Fawlty Towers and re-runs of Baywatch. But I love the opening sequence...
DM: I see. What about your own compositions? Did you have a chance to listen to any of them performed since you died in 1791?
WAM: I heard Badura-Skoda playing some of my sonatas. It was extremely slow and very boring. I hated it.
DM: Were you in the actual concert?
WAM: No, I watched it on Youtube.
DM: So, you have internet as well!
WAM: Not anymore. Since Wagner has downloaded some Nazi propaganda last month they blocked all our building access. But I get sometimes a wifi signal from the painters block.
DM: Wow, I didn't know you were so modern up there. Is the older generation keeping up as well?
WAM: Are you kidding? Bach is composing only with Finale, and it saves him so much time with all the counterpoint. Only last week he composed 500 new cantatas.
DM: Is there a chance to hear any of this music?
WAM: When you are dead, there will be.
DM: I understand. What else? Are you and Constanze still together?
WAM: Constanze is so 300 years ago! As everyone else, I have also been with Clara Schumann and Alma Mahler, whom I married 20 years ago.
DM: Congratulations!
WAM: We have some kind of an open marriage- she lets me go out with other dead women and I let her try and complete my Requiem.
DM: This is absolutely fascinating. I could continue talking with you all day, but unfortunately our time is up. Just one more personal question- in your a minor sonata, the vorschlag should be on or before the beat?
Hallo und herzliche willkommen zu KV467. Die person ist nicht...
Well, I guess I will have to wait another 300 years for this answer, or simply ask my teacher.
Please send me your ideas and suggestions for future dead guests. Our motto is- if he is dead, he can be on our blog. Until next time, have a wonderful day and don't forget to feed the cat.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
13. A true story about sex, lies and witchcraft (II)
Well, I was trying to avoid continuing this post as much as I could, but due to some unexpected popular demand I am obliged to finish up this sad and cursed story.
For the sake of my new readers who are too lazy to scroll down the page and read the previous entry (god bless them), and for those who intentionally skipped the first part, because it was too long (god rest their souls) here is what happened, in two phrases: I was invited by M., a well known pianist of a nationality in which every second woman has a mustache and is not Mexico, to come and stay in her desolated farm, to study and assist her, while being completely disconnected from society. After some of the loneliest weeks of my life I fell in love and starting going out with her daughter B., which, of course, didn't help my relationship with M.
M. had four daughters, J., the oldest, who had 4 kids of her own, M., who was living in California and was high on weeds, B., my girlfriend at the time, and A., a dog breeder and one of the funniest and most misanthropic people I've ever met (I still remember her very first words to me, meeting at a party- "I'm A., and I hate people"). When she was in the farm we were enjoying marathons of bad movies, while I was trying to poison her dogs. Once she obliged me to teach her how to say- "I want to fuck you" in Hebrew (not my idea, promise), and after that, these were the first words she said to me whenever we saw each other again. One time, the Belgian ambassador was dinning in the farm, and it turned out that his wife was Israeli. I was sitting just in front of her, when A. came to table, shouting- "Daniel M., I want to..."
Another important character in our story is R., M.'s close friend and 4-hands partner, who was also in love with B., my girlfriend, and absolutely hated me for being with her. Every time it was possible he was saying bad things about me, and finally, when I went to Brazil with M. and B., he managed to convince her I was trying to steal her money (!), and run away.
And so, after coming back from heaven, I was doomed in the farm. M. was barely speaking to me and I felt even worse staying there by myself. In a rebellious act, I went to the place that was as opposite to her as possible- Juilliard.
I was moving to the big apple (future posts will deal with this time), and started a continuous, painful period of a long distance relationship with B.. Her mother was still mad at me, and every phone call with B. has started like that: "Daniel M., I love you so much. By the way, my mother told me it's a shame you were not killed in a car accident". During that year we broke up, and more or less around that time her mother had discovered, finally, that I was fully innocent and was calling me to apologize. She had invited me to do some concerts with her; had commissioned an opera from me; and wanted me to be part of her new pretentious project in Japan, "Art Impressions".
As I like adventures, and a part of me is semi-masochistic, I agreed. But the worst was still to come.
**********************
In summer of 2005, I came back to the farm for preparations to the project.
The project was supposed to be a five day festival, each to include a piano recital, which was to accompany dances, series of bizarre acts and other things I will soon talk about. There were five pianists- M., R., myself and two young talented brothers, aged 8 and 10. Each day had a very modest theme- The world, death, life, children, and recreation. I was to represent... life.
[who thought of death? Raise your hands!]
First thing I had discovered coming to the farm was that B., who was not my girlfriend at that time, was working on that project and was starting to flirt right in front of me with a guy from Venezuela, who was also coming to help with the project. Although I am known for being calm and relaxed most of the time, I didn't forget my Mediterranean hot blooded manners. After a series of manipulations I didn't know I had possessed, I won her back. After one evening I saw it was a mistake, but it was too late for me.
Meanwhile M. was furious at the Japanese, because in promoting the festival they had put her name in a bigger font than the other pianists, and decided to cancel the project there and move it to another location. After one day, this very expensive thing (over 3 million Euros) found a new place, in the beautiful coliseum in Alhambra, Granada- Palacio Carlos V.
The other people involved in the project started to gather in the farm. The list of these most extraordinary people includes:
"Fish" (this was the nickname of this woman, as she looked like a local market fish seller, and I forgot her real name)- Stage director and designer. Was chosen for the job after M. had seen one of her street shows and mistakenly thought she is capable of running a big thing. Hated B. and Diego.
Diego- Choreographer. Spanish to his bones (looked like a strange tormented version of Don Quixote), and a very weird character. Every morning was waking up at 4 am for a series of yoga exercises, which didn’t help him to get calmer, as he simply refused to work with “Fish”, threatening to kill her and run away.
João- In charge of the lights. Was working in movies, but never did theater before. Was always drunk, and never knew which buttons he should press.
In the public general rehearsal, I was playing Bartok’s Out of Doors night-music in a complete darkness, only because he thought “night” meant black-out...
Mauricio- Director of the nature. Do not ask me what this title suppose to mean, but that was his job title. A very strange Italian guy, who told everybody he was an architect, but later was found out to be a fraud. While he was there, he convinced M. that the most necessary thing to do was to bring a special 2 tons stone, all the way to Granada, to be put in the middle of the stage.
Tanaka- Japanese painter. Was brought all the way from Japan only to paint a Japanese letter for two seconds in the third day of the festival. Did not talk to anybody during the whole month of rehearsals, and except one unforgettable phrase, was totally mute.
Dominique- French hermit. One of the coolest older guys I’ve ever met, Dominique was sleeping on trees, was walking around with some sort of a tent on him (sadly, with no underpants, fully exposing his valuable organs while he was sitting), and was a world specialist for harmonic singing- a technique that allowed you to whistle the overtone series while singing a fundamental note. Was brought to the project to unify the five days, and gather everyone on stage to experience the harmonic singing.
Frederic- French philosopher. Was brought to the project in order to sit down on the stage and draw his ideas while listening to the music, half naked.
And so, the craziness has begun. From the start, it was clear that “fish” didn’t know what she was doing. Her stage designs were all very nice and imaginative, but her direction was pretty much the most awful thing and wasn’t even a bit related to the music. The tension between her and Diego has become more and more clear and it was obvious that something is going to explode very soon.
One night Diego has confessed he is in love with M., and is going to try to get rid of “fish” as soon as possible. R., who was a friend of “fish”, became soon also an enemy. The following evening Diego told everyone he is refusing to continue working with “fish”, and is going to do something radical. The next morning he was nowhere to be found. Apparently he was to pack his suitcase and disappear, walking the whole 20 km from the farm to the nearest town by foot, before 6 am.
The only thing that was left after his departure was a note in R.’s room, saying: “Thank you very much”. For the next three days R. was sure it’s a note from Diego, who is going to come back and try to kill him. After a close investigation, I found out that this note was written by the guy from Venezuela who was simply writing a thank you note for borrowing a pen from R...
It was only two weeks before the first concert, and there was no choreographer for the whole show. On the internet M. found a Dutch guy, who agreed to do it for a ridiculously high price. As money was never a problem for that production, she agreed immediately. Meanwhile, Mauricio has found a rock that could fit his plan and figured he needs 20,000 euros in order to take it to Spain and back. Of course, no problem!
I had a lot of free time that month. The recital wasn’t a big problem (the biggest challenge was to play in time with the dancers) and my main concern was to make Tanaka speak. He looked like a Zen master, the kind that will say one sentence every three years, but that one sentence will change your life for ever. And then, one day, I was successful. I was walking past him in the fields, and suddenly he said these profound, unforgettable words: “You know, cigarettes in France are so much more expensive than here. I don’t care, as I’m not a smoker, but still!”. What a man.
Well, we somehow managed to put something together and bring everything to Spain. Nothing made sense at all- it looked like a surreal show that would seem strange even to the biggest Monty Python fan.
On top of that, we were asked to put on the most bizarre costumes. Yours truly was wearing a transparent gaza tape which was painted in red, and was obliged to dye his hair to red as well, and play barefoot. I do have pictures, but I will not sell them to save my life.
Upon coming to Granada, everything that could have gotten wrong, went wrong.
João was fired on the first evening, and the lights were now operated by a 12 year old boy, pressing random buttons. Mauricio’s stone didn’t come on time, and he begged to cancel the whole festival. Tanaka, who was needed only for five seconds was entering in the completely wrong cue, causing some of the dancers to fall of their feet. In the opening night one man was shouting some things from the audience and looked terribly familiar. It was Diego, in the most impressive Hollywood-like entrance. After each night Dominique was doing his harmonic singing with the artists and the public. I am telling you, if aliens didn’t land that week on earth, they probably do not exist. Nobody understood the general story (I forgot to say- there was a story, unifying everything, but it was so strange even us players didn’t get it) or the meaning of the five days, and everything looked so bad, it could almost gain a cult figure among the various mental hospitals around the world.
In the fifth and last day, M. has invited a famous Moroccan singer to sing 5 minutes before the last piece. After 50 minutes, she refused to go out of the stage, and was forced to go away by “fish”. When everything was officially over, there was no party, and everyone were just running away to their homes. I didn’t get payed, as B***** got bankrupted the next month, and didn’t see M. for another two years.
B***** was completely burned by a fire one year ago and was sold to a rich banker this summer.
B. is now married to a successful doctor.
M. is living in Brazil. Still crazy, but still plays the piano like no one else in the world.
Daniel M. is now partially living in London, completely addicted to earl-grey tea and writing this blog instead of doing more useful things in life.
Friday, 15 February 2008
12. How addicted to Facebook you really are
Facebook is a wonderful thing, isn't it? What better way is to start the morning and see the guy you like has poked you, or the girl of your dreams has sent you a likeness quiz.
True, there are certain drawbacks; you may find yourself growing random plants, receiving "are you a hottie?" invitations from your teacher and especially learn that a single day has only 24 hours in it. I strongly believe that every man and woman should look on the mirror at least once a week, and ask himself or herself: Am I addicted to facebook?
Well, almost all of you got to this blog by reading it in my facebook's status, so you must be somewhat addicted. In order to see how much you are, please answer these 9 simple questions:
1) Have you been bitten by vampires already?
a. You mean, like Dracula?
b. I have been bitten by Zombies. Does that count?
c. I am a level 4 overlord with a strong army.
2) What's your goal in life?
a. Be happy.
b. Have more friends in Facebook than my best friend.
c. Get married, so I can change my status on Facebook.
3) How did you break up with your last boyfriend?
a. Met him at a fancy French restaurant and left him with the bill.
b. Sent him an SMS.
c. Changed my status to "Single" and added the "are you interested" application.
4) What's the most romantic phrase someone has ever said to you?
a. Me Tarzan, you Jane.
b. I really want to poke you now.
c. Darling, will you throw a sheep on me?
5) What kind of Facebook geek are you?
a. You are the DEVELOPER. You like to be in control of things, and dominate others. You will not start the day before changing your status.
b. You are the APPLICATION MASTER. Your motto in life is- if it exists, you must have it on your page.
c. You are the OBSESSIVE PROFILE PICTURE DIVA. No need for explanations.
6) Are you a "home" person, or an "online now"?
a. What's online now?
b. Home.
c. OMG! Susie is online now!
7) To help finding your perfect match, answer these defining questions:
KFC or McDonald's?
Britney or Shakira?
Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Max?
Sandals or flip-flops?
8) Rate the things that are most important to you, from the most, to the least:
$
$$
$$$
$$$$
$$$$$
9) And, finally- name the actress. Any actress.
Your score will be shown in the next screen. Please invite 20 friends to continue.
True, there are certain drawbacks; you may find yourself growing random plants, receiving "are you a hottie?" invitations from your teacher and especially learn that a single day has only 24 hours in it. I strongly believe that every man and woman should look on the mirror at least once a week, and ask himself or herself: Am I addicted to facebook?
Well, almost all of you got to this blog by reading it in my facebook's status, so you must be somewhat addicted. In order to see how much you are, please answer these 9 simple questions:
1) Have you been bitten by vampires already?
a. You mean, like Dracula?
b. I have been bitten by Zombies. Does that count?
c. I am a level 4 overlord with a strong army.
2) What's your goal in life?
a. Be happy.
b. Have more friends in Facebook than my best friend.
c. Get married, so I can change my status on Facebook.
3) How did you break up with your last boyfriend?
a. Met him at a fancy French restaurant and left him with the bill.
b. Sent him an SMS.
c. Changed my status to "Single" and added the "are you interested" application.
4) What's the most romantic phrase someone has ever said to you?
a. Me Tarzan, you Jane.
b. I really want to poke you now.
c. Darling, will you throw a sheep on me?
5) What kind of Facebook geek are you?
a. You are the DEVELOPER. You like to be in control of things, and dominate others. You will not start the day before changing your status.
b. You are the APPLICATION MASTER. Your motto in life is- if it exists, you must have it on your page.
c. You are the OBSESSIVE PROFILE PICTURE DIVA. No need for explanations.
6) Are you a "home" person, or an "online now"?
a. What's online now?
b. Home.
c. OMG! Susie is online now!
7) To help finding your perfect match, answer these defining questions:
KFC or McDonald's?
Britney or Shakira?
Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Max?
Sandals or flip-flops?
8) Rate the things that are most important to you, from the most, to the least:
$
$$
$$$
$$$$
$$$$$
9) And, finally- name the actress. Any actress.
Your score will be shown in the next screen. Please invite 20 friends to continue.
Monday, 11 February 2008
11. Behind the scenes of Daniel M.'s blog
Due to some angry letters I have received during the last days, demanding why the blog is not published every day to their lazy enjoyment, I have decided to reveal the secrets behind the blog, and share with you the 10 painful steps each and every post has to pass before it is proven worthy of publication. If a post fails to pass one step, it is being destroyed immediately and the process starts from the very beginning.
Step 1: Daniel M. is thinking hard of a subject that could interest his 2.5 readers.
Step 2: The post is being dictated to a group of 13 drunk monkeys, who are then typing it on the new "Macbook Air" computers, specially bought for this purpose.
Step 3: The result doesn't make any sense, and Daniel M. has to rewrite everything by himself.
Step 4: Everyone is having cookies.
Step 5: The initial draft is sent by email to Michelle, an Australian babe and to Prof. Henry Schubb from Yale University, to make sure the post can be understood both by the stupidest and smartest person in the planet.
Step 5: If their approval was gained, the post is then transferred to Xu Yian, living in a loft in Paris, who is translating it to Chinese (Mandarin) and then back to English.
Step 6: More cookies, followed by some more cookies.
Step 7: If all is well, the post is then transferred to a reading proof group, consisting of 20 people, who are doing this degrading job as part of their prison service.
Step 8: Some typos and errors are being inserted to the post, in order to make some of the readers lose their already shuttered sanity.
Step 9: The post is then published online.
Step 10: The post is being rejected, obliging Daniel M. to remove the pornographic photos and video materials. The censored version is then what you see in front of your eyes.
Well, I hope you understand me better now. As you are reading these very words, I am getting an email from Xu Yian, saying he has finished translating "a true story about sex, lies and witchcraft, part II", which means it will be online very soon. Meanwhile the monkeys behind me are typing what looks like "the hitchhiker's guide to REAL New-York", but it's really hard to see from here. I would like to end this lousy post by a quotation of Helen Keller, said moments before her death, that can still be relevant to this day and age:
Step 1: Daniel M. is thinking hard of a subject that could interest his 2.5 readers.
Step 2: The post is being dictated to a group of 13 drunk monkeys, who are then typing it on the new "Macbook Air" computers, specially bought for this purpose.
Step 3: The result doesn't make any sense, and Daniel M. has to rewrite everything by himself.
Step 4: Everyone is having cookies.
Step 5: The initial draft is sent by email to Michelle, an Australian babe and to Prof. Henry Schubb from Yale University, to make sure the post can be understood both by the stupidest and smartest person in the planet.
Step 5: If their approval was gained, the post is then transferred to Xu Yian, living in a loft in Paris, who is translating it to Chinese (Mandarin) and then back to English.
Step 6: More cookies, followed by some more cookies.
Step 7: If all is well, the post is then transferred to a reading proof group, consisting of 20 people, who are doing this degrading job as part of their prison service.
Step 8: Some typos and errors are being inserted to the post, in order to make some of the readers lose their already shuttered sanity.
Step 9: The post is then published online.
Step 10: The post is being rejected, obliging Daniel M. to remove the pornographic photos and video materials. The censored version is then what you see in front of your eyes.
Well, I hope you understand me better now. As you are reading these very words, I am getting an email from Xu Yian, saying he has finished translating "a true story about sex, lies and witchcraft, part II", which means it will be online very soon. Meanwhile the monkeys behind me are typing what looks like "the hitchhiker's guide to REAL New-York", but it's really hard to see from here. I would like to end this lousy post by a quotation of Helen Keller, said moments before her death, that can still be relevant to this day and age:
Saturday, 9 February 2008
10. Valentine's day special
Another day has passed, and Daniel M. is sitting comfortably on the rocking chair in front of the fireplace, lighting up his old pipe, while petting Jabbar, his beloved Iguana. As he is enjoying the silence of another beautiful Saturday evening, the parrot screams from the other huge living-room: "Attention, attention- you've got mail!"
Daniel M. remains still and doesn't move a bit. Instead, he taps gently on the champagne glass, and an old man with a short mustache enters the room. This is Alfred, the obedient butler, who was serving the house for the past three decades. "Yes, master. What can I do for you?", he asks politely. "More champagne please- and bring me the mail, will you? I haven't had the chance to run all these seven floors downstairs today". Daniel M. continues to pet Jabber calmly, barely looking back at Alfred. "Right away, sir. Right away". Alfred disappears and is coming back in almost a second. "Here is your champagne with today's mail, sir, and also a small chocolate from Teresa. She asks to send you her love". "Good, good", dismisses him Daniel M. impolitely, "and now if you please, close the door after you leave- I would like to be alone".
Alfred obeys quietly, and Daniel M. remains by himself, sorting out the letters.
On the first pile he puts all the numerous fan mail he has received. He opens up only two of those. "Daniel M., you have saved my life. I was about to move to London, but thanks to your p...". Boring, he thinks to himself and opens the next: "Dear Daniel M., my name is Amanda, and I have a confession to make- since I am reading your blog I have lots of troubles with my boyfriend, and I think I am in love with you. What should I do?". Daniel M. is putting the letter in his waistcoat and is moving to the second pile, where he was putting all the personal mail he has received. He found out that Aunt Celia has died this week, and that he inherited more than 3 million dollars. As this is merely a pocket money for him, he throws the letter away.
On the last pile he puts all the commercial stuff, dealing with discounts and promotions for various uninteresting products, such as Shrimp flavored dog-food and Chinese rap songs for your baby. One advertisement is catching his eye- "Buy your wife a diamond ring for Valentine's day, and receive two free rings for your two next wives". This ad is reviving some sort of emotion on his otherwise very still face. Yes, Valentine's day is approaching, he thinks to himself, and I cannot escape it also this time.
Valentine's day is Daniel M.'s most hated day. For some reason, he is left alone every single year. If he has a girlfriend, she is in another country that day. If he doesn't, he is constantly reminded of that by all the kissing couples that are happily walking below his mansion.
Well, nothing to complain, he thinks. His recent choices were very poor indeed- in the past year he was falling only for girls who were either not interested in him in the first place or who already had a boyfriend, and his semi-obsessive nature didn't allow him to realize that or give up. "Well, we had at least some success this year, didn't we, Jabbar? And anyway, who needs women when I have you around?". To these words, the iguana went from his lap to lie near the fireplace, which made Daniel M. think once more. "Now, what should I offer my trustful readers for Valentine's day- should I write about women and their dangerous minds? No- too banal. What about suggestions for acrobatic sex positions or erotic oil massages? Nah- too basic. Anyway, I have to write about something, but what should it be?". He turns to the table once again and reads another fan's mail- this time from a male reader: "Dear Daniel M., when I first heard you are writing a blog, I was thrilled, as I thought to myself- finally some class among all this garbage on the net. However, while reading your last topics I saw you are no different from all the others around. Just pure vulgarity, without any bits of culture. I am very disappointed". Daniel M. jumped from his chair. No one should dare accusing him for lack of culture. For this Valentine's day he is proud to offer his readers the 10 books that he will be happy to take to a desert island, providing that he won't be charge for excess baggage.
1) Yaakov Shabtai- Past continuous. This is, by far, the best novel ever written by an Israeli (much, much better than all these Amos Oz and A.B. Yohoshua that are so popular nowadays), and one of the greatest, most original books written in the last 50 years.
2) Fernando Pessoa- The book of uneasiness- This book, written in a diary form, is unbelievably touching and profound.
3) Felisberto Hernandez- stories. My favorite unknown author, a pianist and composer himself, who was living in the beginning of last century in Uruguay. Unfortunately, both the two books that were translated to English, are now out of print and are extremely hard to find.
4) Georges Perec- Life a user's manual- Not for everybody's taste, but one of the most peculiar books by one the most peculiar authors.
5) Italo Calvino- If on a winter's night a traveler. Well, although not my favorite- still does win me over by its originality and sense of humor.
6) Ernesto Sabato- The tunnel- the perfect book for the obsessive person.
7) Jorge Luis Borges- Ficciones. If you didn't read it before- this is a must.
8) Eduardo Mendoza- The mystery of the bewitched crypt. If you just want to laugh, that's one of the funniest books I read last year.
9) Lao Tzu- Tao te Ching- As Eastern philosophy is a very "in" these days, this is the most beautiful book I know.
10) Malcolm Lowry- Under the volcano- 12 last hours of the drunk British ambassador in Mexico. A genius masterpiece, although a very difficult read.
Finally, for all those of you who have a special one, go fuck yourselves (in the positive, literal meaning). Otherwise, have a beautiful and safe Valentine's day".
Daniel M.'s pipe was running low. Jabbar the iguana fell asleep in front of the fireplace. It was getting colder, and Teresa's chocolate was just the thing he needed.
There were some inaccuracies with the above information. Daniel M.'s Iguana does not name Jabbar, for instance. To find out the real name, text LOVE to the number 079-DANIELMBLOG. £5.99 per text, roaming charges might apply.
Daniel M. remains still and doesn't move a bit. Instead, he taps gently on the champagne glass, and an old man with a short mustache enters the room. This is Alfred, the obedient butler, who was serving the house for the past three decades. "Yes, master. What can I do for you?", he asks politely. "More champagne please- and bring me the mail, will you? I haven't had the chance to run all these seven floors downstairs today". Daniel M. continues to pet Jabber calmly, barely looking back at Alfred. "Right away, sir. Right away". Alfred disappears and is coming back in almost a second. "Here is your champagne with today's mail, sir, and also a small chocolate from Teresa. She asks to send you her love". "Good, good", dismisses him Daniel M. impolitely, "and now if you please, close the door after you leave- I would like to be alone".
Alfred obeys quietly, and Daniel M. remains by himself, sorting out the letters.
On the first pile he puts all the numerous fan mail he has received. He opens up only two of those. "Daniel M., you have saved my life. I was about to move to London, but thanks to your p...". Boring, he thinks to himself and opens the next: "Dear Daniel M., my name is Amanda, and I have a confession to make- since I am reading your blog I have lots of troubles with my boyfriend, and I think I am in love with you. What should I do?". Daniel M. is putting the letter in his waistcoat and is moving to the second pile, where he was putting all the personal mail he has received. He found out that Aunt Celia has died this week, and that he inherited more than 3 million dollars. As this is merely a pocket money for him, he throws the letter away.
On the last pile he puts all the commercial stuff, dealing with discounts and promotions for various uninteresting products, such as Shrimp flavored dog-food and Chinese rap songs for your baby. One advertisement is catching his eye- "Buy your wife a diamond ring for Valentine's day, and receive two free rings for your two next wives". This ad is reviving some sort of emotion on his otherwise very still face. Yes, Valentine's day is approaching, he thinks to himself, and I cannot escape it also this time.
Valentine's day is Daniel M.'s most hated day. For some reason, he is left alone every single year. If he has a girlfriend, she is in another country that day. If he doesn't, he is constantly reminded of that by all the kissing couples that are happily walking below his mansion.
Well, nothing to complain, he thinks. His recent choices were very poor indeed- in the past year he was falling only for girls who were either not interested in him in the first place or who already had a boyfriend, and his semi-obsessive nature didn't allow him to realize that or give up. "Well, we had at least some success this year, didn't we, Jabbar? And anyway, who needs women when I have you around?". To these words, the iguana went from his lap to lie near the fireplace, which made Daniel M. think once more. "Now, what should I offer my trustful readers for Valentine's day- should I write about women and their dangerous minds? No- too banal. What about suggestions for acrobatic sex positions or erotic oil massages? Nah- too basic. Anyway, I have to write about something, but what should it be?". He turns to the table once again and reads another fan's mail- this time from a male reader: "Dear Daniel M., when I first heard you are writing a blog, I was thrilled, as I thought to myself- finally some class among all this garbage on the net. However, while reading your last topics I saw you are no different from all the others around. Just pure vulgarity, without any bits of culture. I am very disappointed". Daniel M. jumped from his chair. No one should dare accusing him for lack of culture. For this Valentine's day he is proud to offer his readers the 10 books that he will be happy to take to a desert island, providing that he won't be charge for excess baggage.
1) Yaakov Shabtai- Past continuous. This is, by far, the best novel ever written by an Israeli (much, much better than all these Amos Oz and A.B. Yohoshua that are so popular nowadays), and one of the greatest, most original books written in the last 50 years.
2) Fernando Pessoa- The book of uneasiness- This book, written in a diary form, is unbelievably touching and profound.
3) Felisberto Hernandez- stories. My favorite unknown author, a pianist and composer himself, who was living in the beginning of last century in Uruguay. Unfortunately, both the two books that were translated to English, are now out of print and are extremely hard to find.
4) Georges Perec- Life a user's manual- Not for everybody's taste, but one of the most peculiar books by one the most peculiar authors.
5) Italo Calvino- If on a winter's night a traveler. Well, although not my favorite- still does win me over by its originality and sense of humor.
6) Ernesto Sabato- The tunnel- the perfect book for the obsessive person.
7) Jorge Luis Borges- Ficciones. If you didn't read it before- this is a must.
8) Eduardo Mendoza- The mystery of the bewitched crypt. If you just want to laugh, that's one of the funniest books I read last year.
9) Lao Tzu- Tao te Ching- As Eastern philosophy is a very "in" these days, this is the most beautiful book I know.
10) Malcolm Lowry- Under the volcano- 12 last hours of the drunk British ambassador in Mexico. A genius masterpiece, although a very difficult read.
Finally, for all those of you who have a special one, go fuck yourselves (in the positive, literal meaning). Otherwise, have a beautiful and safe Valentine's day".
Daniel M.'s pipe was running low. Jabbar the iguana fell asleep in front of the fireplace. It was getting colder, and Teresa's chocolate was just the thing he needed.
There were some inaccuracies with the above information. Daniel M.'s Iguana does not name Jabbar, for instance. To find out the real name, text LOVE to the number 079-DANIELMBLOG. £5.99 per text, roaming charges might apply.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
9. The hitchhikers guide to REAL London
Millions of people visit London every year. Heatrow Airport is Europe's busiest, and one of the world's biggest airports. Most of these people come to take pictures of the Big Ben (which they can easily find, within a click away, on the internet), see the boring weekly ceremony of the Queen's guards (which they can, again, find on youtube.com), and blend into million other Japanese tourists in Oxford street.
Some of them, god forbid, are even coming here to stay. Nobody knows why. Unfortunately for them, the only guides they can get are the fake ones- Lonely Planet, Time Out London, and so on. These are only recommending hotels and restaurants, and do not address the real issues that are important for you. In order to answer these burning questions, I have written the concise hitchhikers guide to REAL London.
In order to avoid my usual cynicism, I have started with the good things first:
* Weather- Yes, you are reading right. The weather in London is actually not bad at all, and at least much nicer than it is usually thought of. It is not raining that much and when it does, it is like someone is sneezing at you. True, it can be gray for long times, but while my dear friends in Europe and North America are freezing to death in the winter, I am getting a nice tan here. Well, almost.
Okay- that's basically it. Now for the really bad things:
* Price- Welcome to hell. When you are renting a small room at a flat with 3 other people extremely far off the center for £450 per month, you know that something is wrong.
* Transportation- Transportation is a huge problem in London. Due to the horrendous traffic, buses are moving slower than marijuana-smoking turtles, and not only they drive on the wrong side of the road, they don't know how to drive on it. I am almost getting killed twice a day (and three times on good fridays). However, that's nothing compared to the tube. I can recall only two journeys when there were no technical failures and everything was running smoothly. It is so rare, actually, that when all underground lines are working without failures at the same time, they will announce it proudly in the speakers. Usually the train is stopping somewhere and the conductor says- "Due to a signaling problem, we were forced to wait. We will be on our way shortly". I never understood what signaling problem meant, nor did anyone else I asked. Other than signaling problems you will hear sometimes nice announcements such as, "Due to a person under the train, there will be delays on the district line", all in a calm and polite British accent. The days when an announcer will say- "Due to an alien invasion, there will be minor delays on the circle line", are not that far off.
* Streets- London is huge. Much bigger than any other Western capital city, and even bigger than that. There are millions of streets in the city, with hundreds of variations- Oxford street, oxford lane, oxford circus, oxford road, oxford parkway, oxford parkway mews, and so on.
In order to find all of those, someone invented the notoriously small-font book called "A to Z", containing all streets in London. This someone was later responsible, so I am sure, of the center for the blind at King's Cross, as it is virtually impossible to see anything in it, let alone differ between all of those tiny little dots.
There are not so many funny street names in London, but I lived once near Swallow street. I know that's a name of a bird, but still, it is quite awkward to say that phrase- "Darling, are you going to Swallow tonight?"
* Women- Ever thought that most English men are gay? Well, you were right- but, I really cannot blame them. Apart from Kate Moss, almost all British girls are between ugly enough to extremely ugly. Last week, in my search for a room in London I have found a place, whose owner told me, without blinking, that she works as a stripper. Now, dear Gentlemen, if I was to see only 10 percent of her bare flesh, I would run to call the police.
* Classical Music- If you think Elgar is a contemporary composer, then London is the place for you! Only here you will be challenged with daring programs, such as Mozart's Jupiter Symphony followed by Mendelsshon violin concerto. And you thought that the IPO was conservative... The audience is not much better thought, barely clapping and cheering, acting as if they were, well, at a classical music concert.
* Food and drink- London is notorious for it's bad food, and rightly so. It is really bad, ridiculously expensive and all in very little portions. One of the popular chain restaurants, La Strada, is offering as an appetizer Caprese salad, which is basically one small tomato cut in four, with a small mozzarella cheese on the side, for the generous price of £7.90.
If you are fed up with those prices and have the possibility to cook at home- you have got a choice between three supermarkets: Tesco (mom, why does this chicken have three legs?), Sainsbury (For the million time, I don't have a Nectar card), and Waitrose (papa, let's not have caviar EVERY day).
Alcohol- London pubs are very nice, but finally when the alcohol starts working, the conversations become less boring and the British girls get less ugly, you have to leave because it's 23:30- closing hour.
* Christmas- Starts in London before Jesus was even conceived, on the 5th of November. After this date, it is virtually impossible to walk in Oxford circus. Actually, if one man starts walking in the beginning of Oxford circus on the 5th of November, he will arrive to the other side on Christmas eve.
* Oxford circus- The most awful place in the western world. Dante's real definition for hell. Avoid like the plague, if you can.
Well- time's up. I promise to update this guide another time, and you are welcome to leave your own ideas about London, and life in general. Until then, drive safely home, and regards to your wives.
Some of them, god forbid, are even coming here to stay. Nobody knows why. Unfortunately for them, the only guides they can get are the fake ones- Lonely Planet, Time Out London, and so on. These are only recommending hotels and restaurants, and do not address the real issues that are important for you. In order to answer these burning questions, I have written the concise hitchhikers guide to REAL London.
In order to avoid my usual cynicism, I have started with the good things first:
* Weather- Yes, you are reading right. The weather in London is actually not bad at all, and at least much nicer than it is usually thought of. It is not raining that much and when it does, it is like someone is sneezing at you. True, it can be gray for long times, but while my dear friends in Europe and North America are freezing to death in the winter, I am getting a nice tan here. Well, almost.
Okay- that's basically it. Now for the really bad things:
* Price- Welcome to hell. When you are renting a small room at a flat with 3 other people extremely far off the center for £450 per month, you know that something is wrong.
* Transportation- Transportation is a huge problem in London. Due to the horrendous traffic, buses are moving slower than marijuana-smoking turtles, and not only they drive on the wrong side of the road, they don't know how to drive on it. I am almost getting killed twice a day (and three times on good fridays). However, that's nothing compared to the tube. I can recall only two journeys when there were no technical failures and everything was running smoothly. It is so rare, actually, that when all underground lines are working without failures at the same time, they will announce it proudly in the speakers. Usually the train is stopping somewhere and the conductor says- "Due to a signaling problem, we were forced to wait. We will be on our way shortly". I never understood what signaling problem meant, nor did anyone else I asked. Other than signaling problems you will hear sometimes nice announcements such as, "Due to a person under the train, there will be delays on the district line", all in a calm and polite British accent. The days when an announcer will say- "Due to an alien invasion, there will be minor delays on the circle line", are not that far off.
* Streets- London is huge. Much bigger than any other Western capital city, and even bigger than that. There are millions of streets in the city, with hundreds of variations- Oxford street, oxford lane, oxford circus, oxford road, oxford parkway, oxford parkway mews, and so on.
In order to find all of those, someone invented the notoriously small-font book called "A to Z", containing all streets in London. This someone was later responsible, so I am sure, of the center for the blind at King's Cross, as it is virtually impossible to see anything in it, let alone differ between all of those tiny little dots.
There are not so many funny street names in London, but I lived once near Swallow street. I know that's a name of a bird, but still, it is quite awkward to say that phrase- "Darling, are you going to Swallow tonight?"
* Women- Ever thought that most English men are gay? Well, you were right- but, I really cannot blame them. Apart from Kate Moss, almost all British girls are between ugly enough to extremely ugly. Last week, in my search for a room in London I have found a place, whose owner told me, without blinking, that she works as a stripper. Now, dear Gentlemen, if I was to see only 10 percent of her bare flesh, I would run to call the police.
* Classical Music- If you think Elgar is a contemporary composer, then London is the place for you! Only here you will be challenged with daring programs, such as Mozart's Jupiter Symphony followed by Mendelsshon violin concerto. And you thought that the IPO was conservative... The audience is not much better thought, barely clapping and cheering, acting as if they were, well, at a classical music concert.
* Food and drink- London is notorious for it's bad food, and rightly so. It is really bad, ridiculously expensive and all in very little portions. One of the popular chain restaurants, La Strada, is offering as an appetizer Caprese salad, which is basically one small tomato cut in four, with a small mozzarella cheese on the side, for the generous price of £7.90.
If you are fed up with those prices and have the possibility to cook at home- you have got a choice between three supermarkets: Tesco (mom, why does this chicken have three legs?), Sainsbury (For the million time, I don't have a Nectar card), and Waitrose (papa, let's not have caviar EVERY day).
Alcohol- London pubs are very nice, but finally when the alcohol starts working, the conversations become less boring and the British girls get less ugly, you have to leave because it's 23:30- closing hour.
* Christmas- Starts in London before Jesus was even conceived, on the 5th of November. After this date, it is virtually impossible to walk in Oxford circus. Actually, if one man starts walking in the beginning of Oxford circus on the 5th of November, he will arrive to the other side on Christmas eve.
* Oxford circus- The most awful place in the western world. Dante's real definition for hell. Avoid like the plague, if you can.
Well- time's up. I promise to update this guide another time, and you are welcome to leave your own ideas about London, and life in general. Until then, drive safely home, and regards to your wives.
Monday, 4 February 2008
8. My private war with old ladies in London
So you are a young and aspiring student, just coming to London, all happy and optimistic for your bright future.
Unfortunately, unless you are the only son of Bill and Melinda Gates, after a few hours you will be out of money, and you will figure out that the places you were thinking of renting, and looked expensive already, are priced for one week and not one month as you previously thought. Annoyed, you will make some phone calls to your relatives and few connections, and will be referred to various old ladies, all very well connected, who would be extremely happy and willing to help you starting up. You will be invited to come up for tea, and will gladly accept their offer. Upon entering their house, you will find out that you have entered another realm, with a different sense of time. The carpets will smell of maggots and you will notice that the big grandfather's clock is ticking twice as slowly. Everything will be either green or brown, and the numerous paintings of the walls will be by a distant relative of Monet, who was, sadly, much less talented than him.
If she has a dog, it will be miniature- the kind that could fit into her purse. Her cat's meow will resemble the sound of an annoying squeaking door. They will both give you a grumpy and superior look, saying- "this is not proper, the way you are wearing your scarf on". You would imagine these dogs are only peeing on selected trees, and the cats only catch mice after their tea break.
You will follow her to the large living room (with a grand-piano from Chopin's time), and she will prepare tea for you, asking- "do you take it with sugar?". You will sit in the comfortable green couch, and then she will ask you some questions about yourself. If you are married, she will ask why don't you have children. If you have a girlfriend, she will enquire why you are not married. If you are single, she will smile and say- I have just the one for you!, and show you a picture of her neighbor's daughter, so ugly that you will lie and tell her you're gay. There will be a moment of silence, after which she will offer you some biscuits. The biscuits are clearly pre- WWII and you are trying to find a moment when she is not looking at you, to throw them away.
Would you like some more tea?, she will ask. No thanks. Are you completely sure? Yes, I am. Because I am going to have another cup. That's nice of you, but three cups of tea one after the other are enough for me, you will reply. She will pour another cup for you anyway, just in case.
She will then tell you some irrelevant stories from her past, and won't make pauses in her sentences. Finally, in the middle of one of them, you cannot take it anymore, and will ask for the bathroom. Her bathroom will be a very big place, usually full of pictures of very corny jokes, such as- "that's pee time!", and so on. Near the toilet you will find, hidden, a deck of cards, and out of boredom, you will shuffle them for yourself. Soon you will discover there are no aces in the deck, and be left with the dilemma- should you ask her about it, and reveal you have touched her property, or continue living with the mystery? You decide the latter. But when you come back and she continues her endless stories (it seemed that she went on by herself while you were in the bathroom), this stupid thing is always on the back of your mind, and won't give you rest.
After an hour of more stories you are trying to say one word, and reminding her you came to ask for her help. Ah, yes, of course! she will say. We have to wait for 6 o'clock, then I will call my friends. Are they out of home, you ask. No, but it is 2 cents cheaper after six. It is only four in the afternoon, and you have to wait two more hours. After that, she will talk with her friends, who will also invite you for tea and old biscuits- and this whole story will repeat itself, until one of them will tell you she is also renting at a very cheap price (for London) her tiny room in her attic, and you will agree. Then you will be terrorized every morning with complains- you boiled hot water for 2 people instead of one, the glasses were not sparkling after you washed them, and so on. Meanwhile your clothes will stink so much lying in the room, and no one would like to speak with you. Unfortunately, even suicide is not an option, as the window is securely shut, to prevent you from getting some fresh air. Desperate, you want to run away. But you have no where to go- because they are lurking for you on every corner, waiting you to make your first mistake...
But enough I say- no more! I won't tolerate this terror one more second. Today, I am able to look straight into their little beady eyes, and say, in a clear and proud voice: I don't want your help, tea or old biscuits! I don't care if Churchill himself ate them, but they are too old now for me. Do not cough in my concerts, do not give me the bad look if I happen to yawn in the street.
And please don't call to invite me for tea, I will call you. I promise. After six o'clock.
Unfortunately, unless you are the only son of Bill and Melinda Gates, after a few hours you will be out of money, and you will figure out that the places you were thinking of renting, and looked expensive already, are priced for one week and not one month as you previously thought. Annoyed, you will make some phone calls to your relatives and few connections, and will be referred to various old ladies, all very well connected, who would be extremely happy and willing to help you starting up. You will be invited to come up for tea, and will gladly accept their offer. Upon entering their house, you will find out that you have entered another realm, with a different sense of time. The carpets will smell of maggots and you will notice that the big grandfather's clock is ticking twice as slowly. Everything will be either green or brown, and the numerous paintings of the walls will be by a distant relative of Monet, who was, sadly, much less talented than him.
If she has a dog, it will be miniature- the kind that could fit into her purse. Her cat's meow will resemble the sound of an annoying squeaking door. They will both give you a grumpy and superior look, saying- "this is not proper, the way you are wearing your scarf on". You would imagine these dogs are only peeing on selected trees, and the cats only catch mice after their tea break.
You will follow her to the large living room (with a grand-piano from Chopin's time), and she will prepare tea for you, asking- "do you take it with sugar?". You will sit in the comfortable green couch, and then she will ask you some questions about yourself. If you are married, she will ask why don't you have children. If you have a girlfriend, she will enquire why you are not married. If you are single, she will smile and say- I have just the one for you!, and show you a picture of her neighbor's daughter, so ugly that you will lie and tell her you're gay. There will be a moment of silence, after which she will offer you some biscuits. The biscuits are clearly pre- WWII and you are trying to find a moment when she is not looking at you, to throw them away.
Would you like some more tea?, she will ask. No thanks. Are you completely sure? Yes, I am. Because I am going to have another cup. That's nice of you, but three cups of tea one after the other are enough for me, you will reply. She will pour another cup for you anyway, just in case.
She will then tell you some irrelevant stories from her past, and won't make pauses in her sentences. Finally, in the middle of one of them, you cannot take it anymore, and will ask for the bathroom. Her bathroom will be a very big place, usually full of pictures of very corny jokes, such as- "that's pee time!", and so on. Near the toilet you will find, hidden, a deck of cards, and out of boredom, you will shuffle them for yourself. Soon you will discover there are no aces in the deck, and be left with the dilemma- should you ask her about it, and reveal you have touched her property, or continue living with the mystery? You decide the latter. But when you come back and she continues her endless stories (it seemed that she went on by herself while you were in the bathroom), this stupid thing is always on the back of your mind, and won't give you rest.
After an hour of more stories you are trying to say one word, and reminding her you came to ask for her help. Ah, yes, of course! she will say. We have to wait for 6 o'clock, then I will call my friends. Are they out of home, you ask. No, but it is 2 cents cheaper after six. It is only four in the afternoon, and you have to wait two more hours. After that, she will talk with her friends, who will also invite you for tea and old biscuits- and this whole story will repeat itself, until one of them will tell you she is also renting at a very cheap price (for London) her tiny room in her attic, and you will agree. Then you will be terrorized every morning with complains- you boiled hot water for 2 people instead of one, the glasses were not sparkling after you washed them, and so on. Meanwhile your clothes will stink so much lying in the room, and no one would like to speak with you. Unfortunately, even suicide is not an option, as the window is securely shut, to prevent you from getting some fresh air. Desperate, you want to run away. But you have no where to go- because they are lurking for you on every corner, waiting you to make your first mistake...
But enough I say- no more! I won't tolerate this terror one more second. Today, I am able to look straight into their little beady eyes, and say, in a clear and proud voice: I don't want your help, tea or old biscuits! I don't care if Churchill himself ate them, but they are too old now for me. Do not cough in my concerts, do not give me the bad look if I happen to yawn in the street.
And please don't call to invite me for tea, I will call you. I promise. After six o'clock.
Friday, 1 February 2008
7. A true story about sex, lies and witchcraft
It is 3am, and I'm in a beautiful apartment in the center of London, waiting for an email from the States to find out if I must leave today (and I already missing my flight back to Berlin as I type) or can stay for another week. I will update this post online, if something happens.
While I wait for this email to come, I am going to share with you whatever I can remember from the most strange, bizarre and unique period of my life- the (so far) untold story of the curse of B*****s (full name cannot be revealed without being sued or killed).
It all started when my first girlfriend (the one with the father from the previous post) has pushed me in going to a masterclass of a famous pianist from a country which is on the border with Spain, but is not France. This woman (let's call her M. for now) was living in a farm, completely isolated from the world, in the midst of wild nature, and was making a public masterclass in the farm every couple of months. I knew the woman from various recordings I had at home, and was very curious to see what is it all about. The application forms we have received were unique as well, and were full of questions like- "Do you prefer playing with a metronome or follow the music's own pulse?", "Is your body going after the music, or you prefer sitting still?", "Is nature part of your true-self?", and so on. It looked a little New-Age for my taste, but I didn't mind so much at the time. We both applied and got accepted (later we found out that there were only 6 applications, and all got accepted). When we got to the airport, her (then) assistant picked us up, and we drove 5 hours to the farm. After a long while on the highway, we took a strange exit on a very bumpy road and drove into what looked to me, total nowhere. One hour later, many olive trees have appeared and then we got there. I think it was evening, and the place looked just stunning. Below millions of stars, the torches of the farm were lit and I felt I arrived to a place of such misterious spirituality I was never seen before. M. was not there to welcome us, and the maids showed us to our room.
The farm was all designed by M., and every room had its own theme. One room (the only in the 16 rooms of the farm I never got to sleep at) was called Maharaja, and was full of Indian and Persian carpets and other goods. Another room was the Blue Room, and was filled with silken scarves and blue perfumes. All was, I must say, in the best taste possible. Each room had its own bathroom, and a big fireplace. Needless to say that couples that stayed together in such romantic atmosphere made good use of the very comfortable double-beds.
The farm was all built in a ח shape and had, besides the various rooms, a big tower that served as a library, a large swimming pool, beautiful dining room, several large living rooms, a huge wine cellar and a very big concert hall. Five minutes walk you could go to the river, visit the hens and wild pigs, look at the stars and the moon and think you are at least the next Fernando Pessoa.
I have just got an email, and I have promised you an online update. One second:
"non stop action every night- do you have what it takes?", no, I think it's not the email I was waiting for...
Back to our story- The next morning we had a fantastic breakfast and started the masterclass.
The masterclass schedule was unique- we had Yoga in the morning, various exercises connecting the body to the music, shouting exercises (I was best by far), poetry reading and a little bit of music as well. Most of the lessons were dealing with connection between body and music, and trying to differ between various "energies". I may seem a little reluctant and cynical about it now, but there were definitely some interesting things there.
In one exercise my girlfriend had to blind-fold me, and make me follow her by producing soft hums. Being the naughty girl she always was, she made me follow her to the bee-hives, almost fall in the pool, and go up the hand-rails above a rocky bottom.
Lunch and dinner were always terrific. The farm was totally vegetarian and organic (people who brought chocolates were nearly shot on the spot... Later, when I was living there, I bravely conducted an illegal chocolate trade) and every meal started with a different home-made soup, which was, by no comparison the best I ate in my life. Almost all the main dishes were an original variation on a theme by Bacalão (the country's official dish). After a few days I could not see fish anymore, and my dreams were full of grilled, juicy steaks.
Well, in order not to make this post another version of war and peace, and get to the interesting parts of the story, I will just say that I had a lot of fun that week, and me and my girlfriend came back a second and third time.
Another email: "Give your woman what she needs. Enlarge your..."- fortunately no need for that. How do they know I am not a woman, anyway? I am going to sleep, it doesn't look like I am going to receive any real emails tonight.
*****
Well, the second and third times I have been to the masterclass were not that different.
In the third time M. took me aside and asked me if I would be interested to stay there for a year, taking lessons from her and living there for free, and in return I will have to give a weekly piano lesson to the children's choir [M. had a nice project in which she took the children of the nearest villages, to form a children's choir. They came to the farm every week, and had their rehearsals in the big hall].
As I had no other plans that time (I was just finishing the academy), and it all looked very exciting to me (private lessons with M., living in this beautiful farm, being away from home for the first time), that I have agreed without thinking twice.
This farm, B*****s, was full of the most strange people I have ever met in my life. It was as if you were not looking for the farm, it was looking for you (like in a horror film).
If I was even the most retarded, untalented half-brother of David Lynch, I would make a film or a TV series that would make "Twin Peaks" look like Sesame Street.
Just a very little assortment: A young attractive girl who was working at the kitchen was caught cheating with the husband of the personal secretary of M., on the night before her wedding; a maid who upon her first day of work was called "Thersa", by mistake, changed officially her name the following day; the cook was offended by M.'s comments on the food one day, tried to poison her and ran away with lots of jewelery and electronics, and so on- there are so many stories to tell, and I am tired to say even ten percent of them all. The reoccuring theme was that every week someone new would enter the farm, gain the love of M. and the trust of everybody, and then get fired or disappear mysteriously.
A fine example of that was Tadeu, who was brought to the farm from Brazil to help M. with her daily schedule and teach me the language, in exchange for voice (!) lessons. He was not the best teacher, to put it mildly, and it didn't help that he didn't speak a word in any other language.
The year was staring with some disappointments for me- I never got any lessons from M. (for the 8 months I was there, I got only one lesson), as she avoided teaching me, and much preferred to talk about agriculture or running a piece through for me.
Teaching the kids was strange as well- I never had any teaching experience, not with total beginners, children and especially in a language I could not say more than five or six phrases (and most of them were related to female organ parts).
It was a very strange time for me. I was breaking up with my girlfriend, M. was away most of the time, it was extremely cold outside and I was left in the farm almost by myself, completely isolated from society. It was like being stuck in the most beautiful prison in the world, and with no one to talk to! Tadeu was the only person who was there, besides the maids, and I started talking to him. It appeared that he had major disappointed in his love-life, and I was trying to help him as much as I could. In a two hours long conversation (I was very proud of myself), I was talking with him about women, the differences between men and women, and their expectations, only to find out a month later that he is gay... More activities with him included tarot, reading my astrology map, talking with the dead, and other normal stuff.
So, the loneliness continued. Unlike what I thought, I didn't practice or composed more during that period, I only felt lonely- more than ever before and after that. (the short story, "hope", that appears on this blog was written in this time).
Then she appeared. In an almost Holywoodian entrance, came to the farm a beautiful, angelic woman. Everywhere she passed I could almost hear violins in my mind, an imagine a halo above her head, like a Catholic painting. Upon an investigation, she appeared to be M.'s third daughter, a Child Psychologist, who came to the farm every weekend to work with the choir children. Drawbacks- she was almost 8 years older than me, the daughter of my teacher and she had a boyfriend (a reoccuring theme throughout my life). I barely spoken to her, so much I was in awe with her presence. Every week I was counting the days before she came to the farm, and all of the situation felt a little like from "Die Schöne Mullerin".
Then she canceled her coming one week, and the next one and the one after that as well. I got sick and couldn't wait to see her. During that time I had composed songs for the choir that didn't have words, as I didn't know the language well enough to write the lyrics as well. After three weeks of absence, she finally came to the farm, and I asked her to help me write the words for my songs. It was a lot of fun, and a good opportunity to get to know her. One day we took a stroll to the river on a full moon's night, and one thing led to another.
She was very discreet at first- barely speaking to me during the day, speaking and much more than that during the night. She was afraid her mother will find out and kill both of us, which most certainly happened. But more on that, in the next post.
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