A loud cough and a loud sound of rusted, overly exposed joints, screeching from the winter slumber. The beast has awaken. The surroundings have warmed enough to keep it alive. A loud yawn and the feet started to carry both to the extremities of its dwelling. The host and the guest, politely said. A parasite would be a much better word, though.

I decided that today was a perfect day to show my overly forgotten face to the world. It was a perfect combination of everything, the work, an audition, a coffee or two and a regional tour de…, all that showed itself on my cell-o-schedule. Tour de of the forgotten bars and joints. I just had to go! All the rubbish and unwashed laundry accumulated to almost himalayan heights of my crib. Even the air decided that atmosphere like that is just below its minimum existence standards and quite a threat to its survival as a specie. While waiting to file a lawsuit, that pesky non-grabbable, non-visible and non-smellable nuisance vanished into oblivion without me noticing. Though I almost got him on the last one of the attributes, almost! So, that being said… I left, too.

I remembered getting out, hopping on my faithful cro-moly gingerly-brown bike, with high hopes that it still works and got out on a street. I fast forwarded towards some forgotten backyard of an unnamed cinema studio. When I got there I just remember a flash (camera), a command (“Show us your titties!!” -that is, take off your shirt and show the two girls working there your big, wide, hairy man-pectorals), and a blur. The blur was, of course, just a logical after-effect of my long tongue and non-reflective mouths. Both of them are mostly, if not al-mostly all the time unaware of the idiocities that sprout from them in the more warm and life-encouraging months of the year, like now, agreeing to do silly and quite often also self-hurting stuff. The blur was, secondly, also due the the flipping of the body, as I backflipped through the air, showing my gymnastical prowess to the video camera, while vying for a role in a commercial, worth a phat amount of money. That was, of course, the unimportant and a quaint, if not a bit of a dull start of the day. That was also the first time in three years that I did a back flip.

Then it came the coffee. Better said the call for coffee, and here it was where it all began. We do know how it goes with the invites for a coffee, don`t we?! Lets not loose words there. I hopped on my faithful, rusty, screeching, completely flat-tired bike and went towards the proposed destination. I pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled, and pushed and pulled the pedals. It almost felt as flying. If it were not for the problems mentioned above and quite rusted chain that kept jumping back a tooth or two, it would have been. In the midst of the wildest action and uncontrollable movements I saw a blurred movement. A hundredth of a second, a peripheral vision. Two dark speck were darting on a collision course. I used all my biking skills, brakes were smoking, people were yelling and screaming, the smell of burned tires was all around me. I cursed the bastards away yelling:” This is a bike track, you bunch of benzen-brained butthole bozos!” They barely registered my coming and going. I, unwaveringly, and completely oblivious of what just happened, sped towards my destination. Don`t let the coffee waiting!

So we, me and the friend went there, to some semi-legal joint, where you had to search for humankind among all the possible variables of (semi- and non-)intellingent lifeforms. Mostly they`re just overly stoned city animals, pushing for and through their meager existences, a group or two of high school kids, that were sent there by their sociology professor to conduct some totally unimportant research subject and to completely whack their brains out. Amongst populace like that, there are present, of course, a completely lost subject or two, that just want to know if they just did some societally speaking totally unforgiving thing to end up in a place like that or, that he/she/it/they got just completely lost and are in a really grave situation. And of course a couple of whores, quite smartly disguised as an office … aids (here I mean “accessories” such as ficuses, colorful Italian coffee machines and alike).

Those lost two souls were, who other than I and my friend. Lets just call him Him, because the usage of As and Bs as means to hide the identity is a bit overused by the contemporary legal theory. Does anyone remember how it goes?!

“So A took Bs horse, while B was asleep, and though A and B had an agreement that A will take the Bs horse, it was also said, that the Bs sleep hours were not ment for A to take the horse. What kind of obligation is that?” Horrible, just horrible.

So, I and Him, we sat down. Completely flabbergasted! We just stared around, lolling our eyes in an endless non determined horizontal circles, so we wouldn`t hit any specific eye and still be able to see what was going on, whether anyone was trying to jump on my or His neck or back, with either a sharp or quite rusted part of his or hers table utilities (that is, btw, some other “his” or “her” that the one His sitting opposite of me) and hoping for no one to notice us, except maybe a waiter, if he/she was in his/hers more compliant state of mind and pleasible mood. We just wished for a cup of coffee. Everyone else around us was, of course, also smoking pot.

Yet there he was. The guy that gives everyone else the creeps. The kind that is just like really, really big crocodile, lurking just below the surface. Hungry, silent and deadly. We had a quick talk. What to do?! Ignore?! Bail? Stay?! Slay?! The correct answer was obvious. The decision unanimous.

We drank up. And left. Quite fast, quite alive, quite determined to yet do something useful out of our afternoon and most importantly, we were very, very quiet. The long walk towards the line that marks the end of that semi-legal joints backyard and the end of the animal territory. We were quite cool customers, not wishing to cause any disturbance in the… force. The light of day was coming close, the tunnel was ending and everything was looking good, maybe even too good. We thought we got out safely. Oh, how wrong we were. It was all already above our heads and it stank. Severely stank of… [TBC]

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This is getting hairy!

December 12, 2011

[authors note with a bit of help from Wikipedia:

Hipsters: the term itself was coined during the jazz age, when “hip” emerged as an adjective to describe aficionados of the growing scene. Although the adjective’s exact origins are disputed, some say it was a derivative of “hop,” a slang term for opium, while others believe it comes from the West African word “hipi,” meaning “to open one’s eyes.” Nevertheless, “hip” eventually acquired the common English suffix -ster (as in spinster and gangster), and “hipster” entered the language.]

So there I was standing in front of the mirror, looking into my huge and hairy mustaches. The “trucker” ones, quite Texas-rangerians. A thought zapped through my brain. Pretty scary mustaches. I look like a male porn star from the 70s, hell yeah! I checked my left hand… My right… A foam… A razor… A mirror. It was all set. November and strange enough, the Movember were coming to an end.

But something huge, dark and sinister was approaching the small mountain region with a tad bit of seaside. And worse, it was not alone. There were several huge, dark and sinister immaterial things floating towards this same region. Two hard core 30`s parties and a general election day in Slovenia in one weekend!?! The nation, the people, the weather, it was all getting crazy.

The two parties were awesome and I awoke on an undefinable Sunday of December 4th, completely bleary-eyed, quite hung over and with a huge loss of memory cells. Where was I? What day it is? Am I supposed to get out of bed? A slipper, a flip flop and a slow staggering “Into the … Bathroom.”

The urban survival for beginners pt.I -never walk into a bathroom with a slipper and a flip-flop on a hung-over day in dire need of a razor and the foam!

I got a call. That is, I heard my phone ringing somewhere quite undefinable around the huge pile of clothing lying around in some corner of my living room. It came. It went. Noticed, but clearly ignored. Where is my phone?! What does, whoever it is, want from me? Oh, Sunday. Lunch with my parents… Nooo!

Then I remembered. It happened already in late September. The first alert. A short drive down the French-Spanish border:”Did you hear the X-X-X guy is going for elections?! No, he can`t be. He`s not having enough time for all the preparations. What about his team? Are they ready? But he said he wouldn`t do it…(etc.)” And here we go, two months later we are in a complete turmoil of general elections, guys with hairy mustaches walking the streets and lots of parties in Polaroid… It was obvious. Slovenia might become a hipster infested land.

My second to none surviving brain cell did some math or rather, clairvoyed the upcoming day. I was supposed to pick up my voting reference, take my ID, walk into the retirement home which is just next door to my parents place, check my ID, take a pen, sign some huge piece of paper (A1?!), encircle the number on a separate, smaller piece of paper called a ballot…, with some 15 or so numbers representing the parties -and mind you, I was on two consecutive ones two days in a row and barely made it through alive-, in a cubicle made of carton from food deliveries for those same retirees in this obviously quite popular retirement home… – quite popular, do you say in disbelief?!- Yes, it was so crowded I had to force my entry, snatch a crutch or two that send a couple of human bowling pins flying around, push some other retirees in wheelchairs down the corridor into the always present ficus plantation at the farthest wall with a half hidden sign between the branches “The Mess hall is the other way around! <-, while uncontrollably yelling to other surviving retirees: “Good day to you, toos, How do you dos, Did you had a pleasant nap yesterday?!” and all other sorts of greetings and vague familiarities. That crowded! But … We`re getting ahead of things. -Throw the ballot into a carton box, exchange some pleasantries with local voting commission and leave as fast as I physically can.

The surviving brain cell shuddered in horror. That can`t be. It must not allow it to be. Shutdown imminent! I eyed my bed, cosy. I staggered and barely managed to steel myself with determination. No, I must go. I took my favorite pair of track pants (black ones from Decathlon store, perfect for any occasion), dressed in appropriate sweater and softshell of color black, black gloves, gray beanie, huge smile and … The trucker mustaches.

The walk towards the retirement home felt like the lonesome walk towards the O.K.Corral. Spurs sounding, guns holders on low hung leather belt and rattling guns inside. The tense air of eminent showdown. La calme entre le tempest! Tick/tack, the minutes ticked and tacked away and the front entrance of retirement home came into my field of vision.

I crashed into the place running like a madman with all guns blazing and…, a sudden moment of silence, “Excuse me, do I insert my ballot into this carton box here?” I turned and eyed the box. The “Unsalted beef and mashed potatoes” carton box stared straight back at me and hit me full force, straight between the eyes! I staggered (again!). Suddenly I felt lost, naked and utterly confused. In the last moment of clarity I realised…

The retro looks all around! Tight jeans, mustaches, analog photo cameras, carton election boxes, pens, papers, the monochrome and typewriters.  The hipsters were all around me. We became so hipster-corrupt that the Hipsters (yes, with capital H) were able to infiltrate every level of our society and started to implement RETRO in every last corner near and far around, every human home and, an occasional dog kennel here and there, as happens in more urban and as such, more fashionable and trend observant areas.

I ran home in disbelief. Luckily I had vits enough to stop at parents`s and gulped through the Sunday dinner (yes, I know it is said “lunch” somewhere above in the text. That was just a vision. It was a bit later on through the day in the “present” reality). Later on, I sat down in my faithful beanbag of color green. My phone rang, “We won!!!” We?!! My friend sounded overexuberant.

I cut my mustaches clean.

Why am I mentioning the colors and non-colors so vividly? Hipsters can only see in black and white!

An off-sider on cider

November 17, 2011

As we went for a friends concert in the Irish pub the other day, I noticed, that in Irish pubs, as opposed to English (which is almost across the street here in Ljubljana. almost, but not quite…), there is usually a bunch of english speaking people, who dont speak “English”. They pretty much glower or snarl with that piratish feel of the Caribbeans. “What aRRRe ya singing, matey!? An IRRRish song, aRRR”. So, that gave me a though. What the hell am I doing among a bunch of almost-pirates, who dress in green, shower with gold, feed on clover, dont grow above 5 feet and hate to be called “Leprechauns”? And there is a fog all around the “coast” of Ljubljana… Scary!

Yet the answer was in my hand, a cider. Obviously I wasnt doing a cider in sense of making it, or holding it just for the sake of holding it, but holding it in a more or less consuming sense of “holding” a cider. Like, when you walk the dawg, eventually you have to pick up his droppings (that is shit pretty much most of the time and an occasional rubber ball here and there) and hold them in your hand, until you find the trash can. Ok, i saw some people use the plastic bags for doing it, but I see that as pure hypocrisy. Well, now for the other… side? hand? stuff? anyways…, and you`re already almost in the Irish pub and almost holding that pre-mentioned cider in that pure consuming sense of things.

The color of the drink was red, not because that is its natural color, but because the bottle was of color -red. Like my burgundish red mouse. My mouse. Yesterday it was a mouse, furry little plastic mousey, cuddlish and playful. After 4 o`clock it was “a f-cking red, f-cked up little rodent, full of f-king droppings”. Little piece of computer shit (here we`re on the opposite side of the pre-mentioned very naturalistic dog droppings) with 15 (that is 7 buttons, when I did the count in a brief moment of calm among the rage), fell straight on the “reload page” button after a 3 hour writing session, where I was writing with absolutely great flow and the spontaneousness. I am saying all that just to emphasize that I just hate to save in between the beginning, mid- or ending part of my writing sessions. Why? Because you have to click a button and we all know (don`t we?!), what clicking can and can`t do. Do we!?

But, back to the pub… The trick with that cider was, that when you try to read the ingredients on the label, you just can`t. Because the print is so small, not even an owl could read it, even if it tried really hard to learn. And… The name of the cider is IC Sider (pronounced: eye see sajder), which is really funny, to me at least.

There is a cider thing going on in Spain, too. Well, I shouldn`t say Spain, because the place where Im going to quite often is Basque Country and they don`t really like Spain or being called a Spaniard. But they, on the contrary, really like cider. But, as they are very proud Basques, they dont call it cider, sider, cidre, cyder or something similarish. It is “sagardoa” for a drink for them proud Basques and “sagardotegia”  for a bar, and the habit of drinking cider is so widespread among them Basques, that there is even a costumary dish next to the drink. Now, lets look into the eating and drinking habits of them Basques.

First, they really like to drink. And eat. But drinking, and eating, is essential habit for their society. One day, that was somewhere end of april last year (or two yrs ago, beats me), we crashed into the Zarautz pueblo just in time for a great and important holiday of Pasque(s) (or Easter, as it is also called). And there was a huuuuge tent in the central square, where the whole population of the pueblo was eating. And drinking, but they had a bit of a trouble with sagardoa at that time. It was gone. Not gone in a lost sense of things, like my text yesterday, which was gone and lost. The Sagardoa was gone, yet there it was still. As it was a churchlike holiday, it was not a miracle of some sorts, its just that cider has changed into wine, some 3 months ago at the latest. So they were drinking wine and liquor. Now, lets look back to the eating and drinking habits of Basques.

Secondly, they like to eat, and drink after they wrestled with the bulls. Yes, I know its still Spain and whether they like it or not, bullfighting is still an up-n-coming thing in Spain, but Basques being special, they don`t just fight with bulls in an ordinary Spanish way, with all the glittering fancy robes and red sash and a lot of assistants and a sword and everything, including the usually not so lucky horse. Them being really hardy people, they just like to do it in the extraordinary way, for Spanish at least. They put a bull in the ring (which is in some guys backyard). On the other side they put a really, really sturdy Basque (barehanded!) and they fight. One has its horns and 2000 pounds and the other has really big fists (guess who`s who), and probably a bit of liquor hidden somewhere.

So, after the fight, which is quite a ceremony, imagine when the man throws the bull on his back by his horns (dont really know for the vice versa), they all go to great stone halls of sagardotegias and sit in a rural sort of way, on huge and sturdy wooden tables and benches. Well if they want them benches to hold the man, who just threw a bull on his back by his horns, its got to be sturdy, hehe. And then they eat. And drink. A normal ciderish menu looks like this:

– a cod omelette with peppers, followed by

– a cod (withouth the omelette, -yes, I became quite a bit abashed myself there, too)

-a T-bone steak of delicious built, which they call a Txhuleta (Chuletta) ( six pound pile of bone, blood and a lots of red meat), wallnuts and cheese -they are, after all, very near the French border.

– and all the cider you can drink

I, for one, being a non-sea-animals-eater (anyone knows what kind of vegetarianism is that?), usually just leave the cod appetizers and prefer to dig straight into the T-bone steak or Chulettas. The meat is so delicious, that it pretty much melts on the tongue and after you finish, the plate is red. Yep, im not writing it, but you`ve guessed it (no, its not IC cider labels from the Irish pub!).

An excellent way of spending evenings in Basque. Well, got me hungry, too, but since its only 12:46, lets rather imagine a coffee somewhere. Coffee in Basque Country is quite an ordinary drink, as is pretty much everywhere else in the world, only that they really like to drink “en vaso” or in the glass. Just ordinary “Ikea” glass and there you go. They dont even differentiate between “caffe leche” and “cortado”, or “machiato” as it is also called here, for (near-)Italy living people. They just use bigger glasses for caffe leche, smaller for cortado and thats it. In Portugal, as they don`t like Spain either, they don`t even use milk preparing the coffee. Its black, short and everyone is drinking it. Guess how do they call it? Its cafe, plain and simple.

But we can come to a problem, how to drink coffee with milk, but not using the damned spanish word “leche“? Portugese, being an inventive bunch of people -tipically from the history books: the Pope asks ” how can I split the world?” and Portugese say: “In half!” and thats it for them. Well, here they got quite inventive too, and they didnt just use a bit of milk as is kinda normal with caffee. Nope, they poured the whole damn glass of milk and called it “Galao“. No “leche” involved. So where am I pointing with that coffee thing? Yesterday I got a call from a friend to meet for a coffee. That was just seconds before “The mouse affair!”.  I was delighted, sitting for 3 hours and staring into the screen, and when I tried to sit back and save my work -thump! And its gone!

Like now! I was just finishing this bloody text, and a second ago I got (again!) this double beeping sound of “You received a sms, pick up the phone, meet me for a coffee!”. Luckily… the words will get erased in just a few seconds, just let me pick up my cell and arrange for a coffee…!

“The Em?!”

 [authors note: Around 12 o`clock midnight I just received an invite from a friend for a Google+ account. I started toying around in simple belief that this thing will look and feel something like Facebook page and I just couldn`t be more wrong. So, suddenly around 3am I noticed that the only understandable thing was a “Journal/blog” button somewhere in the nondefinable corner of the screen. Therefore “Hic sunt dracones” and since it was the only button that I really understood, I immediately clicked on it and… just got terribly, terribly lost. All that Latin that Im talking about is the sample text of how will it look for a final user/blogger/observer/reader, but as far as I had none of the troubles with Latin, I was completely shocked on how the computer program can already use your own name associated with that sample text. Since, as you`ll read in the blog, I had a very similar real-life experience as it was in “my” sample text. Therefore I was pretty certain (that was some 2 hours later, around 5am), that the computer programme somehow managed to access some of my previous, very early writings, which you`ll see later on, don`t even exist. But lets pretend for a bit, that they actually do exist, so I was in a State of Frenzy (thats just before Villach, if anyone is interested) and going for e-blood for the abuse of my own intellectual rights. The fact that the computer programme really made me look like a 10-15yr old, as you`ll also read in the blog, if you manage to read as far as the last paragraph or so area, is just not, “Em”, important, at the very least. Have fun reading, I had lots of fun just writing.]

I was just testing the G+ application and something, that is a huge and very definable emotion of “Em?!” was just starting to grow around the cerebrum area under/in/around my head, while my fingers were just clicking on and around my worn out, weakly-burgundylike colored mousey apparature near the huge box and fans of my computer. The letters “journal/blog” in the somewhat hazy part of the screen found my eye. I say just one eye, because the other one was terribly busy finding my rolling papers, trying to silently persuade them to an undefinable action on their own account. The other eye, that is, the first one, still so deep in empirics of its grand question of “Is it by origin of intelligent design or evolved out of pure luck and coincidence?!”, and now it suddenly finds itself in an unknown -the uncharted territories of the Google + environment. Beware, there be dragons!

    The look, the letters, the comprehension and the rationalistic click … “Do you want to create the journal? Yes! (click). Enter the name of your journal/blog. (click)” Yet the eye failed. The last click did nothing. Suddenly the Latin words and letters crashed into my, still so very lonely eye, Latin. “Yes” said the eye, “comprehendable, but weakly -Latin”, at least a bit comprehendable. As a bit of a law studying guy my first association with Latin was of course with “Vis ac metus”, and I even found a word of my imagination in the text -metus, psychical force, fear, PARENTS food between the years of 1 to 5 (or more than 5, as it was the case with my grandma, she was just a terrible cook)!
Suddenly the language changed, my gosh, how quickly can you travel if your eyes dont understand a bit of what are you seeing and/or saying. I even felt a bit time-travellish in the moment. Click, Latin, click, haze and confusion, click, English, click, London… And suddenly i see the name of the author. Whoa, its me!
    I really liked the first line:”Well, the first day of this grand adventure blah, blah…”. It felt like good writing, but I thought:”Werent I in London around 15 years ago? How do THEY know that I wrote a diary? Was I writing a diary at all? Was I drinking at that time? Do they know about a very specific polish girl that was there?”
    A zap in the neuro-connection and my eye sees the movements… Its alive, the fingers are banging the keyboard, the host is obviously in some kind of operation. Let him bang the keyboard. And with another bang, this one was more or less of a wizardish kind of bang and thunder, maybe there was even a cloud or two of some indistinct shade of bluish violet puff and buff, the eye remembered its next memory of London. I bought a book, well, as I was cruising the London i was pretty much hitting the skate shops all around the place and of course, the libraries and bookstores. I bought a lot of books (for a 15yrs old kid), but this one was special. It was a one book trilogy of “The Lord of the Rings” (mind you, that was in 1996 something, forget the pre-movie editions of New Line Cinema corporation!). Paperback, but really monumental edition. It was stolen in the first week of my home arrival. Silly me, but I took that book with me, when I was off for an afternoon skate session at Cankarjev Dom. In those times the lost searchers of Cefurjistan were paying frequent visits to find their lost stuff, which belonged to other guys, mostly skaters. Oh, what lost stuff of those guys? Mostly money, if my memory serves me right.
    I saw through the words, the red line, dazzling in between the LCD crystals. It is NOT my writing. “As bad as that was written, I can be so much worse.”, I happily thought. And that means they didn`t find my ultra secret diary from London (obviously, because it doesn`t exist, but that would be a bit of storyline spoof, eh?). So, with that thought, my other, and now i mean “the other” eye found its target. The mission was set, the fingers lost the bang of keys, lets roll… The dice, of course. Alea iacta est, will this be my first ever published blog?! Will someone understand it? Even with redlinish “Em?!” just rolling around the corners and confusing everyone? Will I write in English? Good night and good luck, a movie definitely worth seeing… (click.)