I'd like to say I'm above getting upset by these douchebag commentaries, but, sadly, I'm not....


RE: Iran rep details nuclear program
> [http://www.praguepost.com/articles/2008/03/26/iran-rep-details-nuclear-program.php]
> 
> There are those writers who write to inform, educate and stimulate
> thoughts amongst their readers and the ones whom are known as word
> merchants - paid to write to promote lies and propaganda to influence
> the thinking of the public for the agendas of their paymasters.
> 
> You yourself know which category of writers you belong to - we call it
> gutter press!
> Shame on you to spread propagdist material in the name of newspaper
> journalism.
> 
> 
> campaign@campaigniran.org <mailto:campaign@campaigniran.org>

This is probably fairly uninteresting to anyone but me, but I lost a lot of sleep over it, so...read it.



http://praguepost.com/articles/2008/03/19/the-man-who-knows-too-much.php

This came in response to a snarky article I recently wrote about our prime minister and his chumminess with the Bush administration.


Dear Madam:
Apparently you are still longing for the beautiful  life  under Comrade Klement Gottwald.
Your are an unreformed Bolshevik fossil from a bygone era. Your time is up and shall never return.
Regards
[picture of American flag]
 

I've been a serious slacker with this livejournal thing. I guess it's because the things I'm to write about are not as happy and cool as they used to be. I was part of a relatively unpleasant incident on Friday night, about which I'll talk later. (I'm at work right now..supposed to be writing about a new 2000 Kc banknote. How in the fuck do you write 800 words about that??) 
Last night I went to dinner with my dad's lawyer Lat and his family, whom I'd never met before. They'd never been to Prague so I took tham around the main drag a bit. At first I was a bit annoyed at how classic-touristy they were, but they were so mesmerized by the city that I couldn't help feeling warmed by their wide-eyed excitement. Yes,  I live (and was actually born) in one of the world's most gorgeous cities. I need to remember that when life starts making me bitter. 
On Sunday I went to the zoo with Kenny and the grandparents. We had an awesome time. I can't remember the last time I'd been to any zoo, let alone the very same one I used to go to when I was wee. 
Personal economic problems are dragging me down a bit (I recently realized that my monthly salary is less than a roundtrip ticket from Prague to NYC)..But that's something I'll have to get used to. Although, what's the point of being here if you can't go to Valencia for the weekend? 
Going to a mountain cottage in Sumava (our version of the Black Forest)  with Kenny and the cousins in two days. We originally planned to go to Slovakia, but we only have four days, and it takes about a day to get there by train, so we scrapped it for another time. Ah well, South Bohemia is just as cool. 
Will write about unpleasant hospital trip another time. Now it's time for Banking & Finance.

A confession: despite all the moving around, I am a creature of habit. Spending Sunday nights alone in the flat, for example, was starting to become a standard pastime. Which may explain why I’m so damn irritated now that the flat—and, consequently, my life—has been taken over by my parents. I know I’m being crabby, but seriously, I just spent the whole weekend with them. We went to a wedding. We hiked. We shared a hotel room. Do I not have a right to be slightly claustrophobic?

            I suggested packing up a few things and going to sleep in grandma’s empty flat in Prague 4, but mom seemed offended, so I made it sound like I really just wanted to use grandma’s bathtub (we only have a shower here) and scrapped the idea altogether.

            Somehow, their presence only makes me even more prone to missing Charlie and the privacy of our house in Brighton. What I wouldn’t give for a pint of cider at the Village right now…Ah, I’m whining. Time to go pass out in an unoccupied corner of the apartment. Will write more when I don’t feel like a two-year-old brat.

Current Mood: cranky

I am way too excited about this article.

http://praguepost.com/articles/2007/06/20/controversial-paumer-came-home.php

I know that I’m more than a week past my personal deadline, that I’ve transformed my weekly journal into a bi-weekly, and that it’s atrocious. But I’ve just poured myself some nice Scotch (my father is in the house) and I’m very anxious to make up for all that lost time, so…

            I’ll start with the canoeing trip:

Imagine me in wet sweatpants and a RedSox hat, squatting at the front of a plastic orange canoe, gripping a plastic paddle, awaiting further instructions from my 72-year-old grandfather whose 200+-pound ass is parked in the back of the rocking vessel. Then imagine a sunburned, sweaty me feebly stirring the placid waters of the Berounka as a stiff-limbed Grandpa huffs behind me. Finally, imagine me hanging over a bubbling rapid, paddling empty air while the back of the boat scrapes the riverbed under the weight of Grandpa’s behind.

            Meanwhile, in a nearby canoe, high school history teacher, recent aneurysm survivor and Grandpa’s lifelong friend Michal makes inappropriate comments to a frantically paddling cousin Misa. “What’s worse?” she wonders. “Michal having another episode or Michal making a move on me?”

            Despite our geriatric companions, both Misa and I derive energy from the lush wilderness, medieval castle ruins and cliff-hugged meanders of the Berounka valley. We vow to never again sit in the same boat as a septuagenarian and plan future canoeing trips with our respective boyfriends. THE END

           

The following week is marked by the arrival of the Hulpach boys: My father and Kenny took up residence in my otherwise lonely flat. A day earlier, Prague welcomed Jacki and Jean, who took up residence on the pullout couch in the living room. While in Prague, the girls were escorted to four bars, each within 500 meters from the flat.

            We flew to Paris at an ungodly hour on Friday morning, thus missing a night of sleep that the ville lumineuse never ceded. To explain: my heart belongs to Prague, but I would cheat on her with Paris. 

            On day one, we sleepwalked through les Jardins de Luxembourg and La cimetiere du Montparnasse. Double espressos no longer had any effect, so I dragged the girls to the Café Select—the establishment in which Hemingway drank his way through The Sun Also Rises—had a whiskey, and felt like the happiest Bohemian in the world.

            At night, Jacki and I dragged Jean on a quest for “The Film Noir bar”. To explain: When Jacki and I last came to Paris, we were both single, and so, nuturelment, we wanted to meet the boys from la Sorbonne. Our hotel at the time was in the Quartier Latine, a stone’s throw from the famed university, and in our wanders through the dim-lit streets ‘round Cluny, we found a bar whose flickering neon light spoke to us in a universal language. In short: we went in, met a group of French kids who took us to another bar, got drunk, had great fun, but no action ensued.

            Much has changed over the last two years, but Jacki was apparently still on the same mission. The hotel she selected, for example, was only one block away from the one we’d stayed at on our previous trip. It took determination, but after combing through the Sorbonne area for an hour, we finally found the familiar neon light. Different actors, same scenario: After a few rhum-cocas, we were approached by a French boy whose name I forget (unlike Jacki), introduced to a dozen of his closest friends, and hauled off to a Saint Germain bar called la Guillotine. At this point, someone handed me a TGV (Tequila-Gin-Vodka). Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to drink it—they only gave it to me as a joke—but I did. After all, I’m Czech. And so I got into my usual state of being plastered without knowing I’m plastered, and conversed in le franglais affreux with the locals until I saw that Jacki was also plastered, and whispered in her ear the lethal phrase: “Jacki, when is the last time you got laid?”

I didn’t mean anything by it—after all, I was plastered—but Jacki was obviously stirred. When I looked to find Jacki an hour later, she was in a passionate embrace with the guy whose name I don’t remember.

Ruling to give my sexually deprived friend some privacy, I opted out of the bar and headed home. It was lovely—the morning fog was rising from the Seine, the Boulevard Saint Michel was all but abandoned, and I was absolutely hammered. In my wanders, I bumped into a 32-year-old French-British financial analyst whose uneven steps indicated that he was just as forlorn as I. He asked me if I wanted to join him for breakfast. And so it was that an affianced 23-year-old journalist from Prague and a 32-year-old what’s-his-name from Bath discussed literature and world politics over oysters and white wine in a Champs Elysees café at, oh, 7 in the morning.

Meanwhile, Jacki got it on with her “French lover.”

On Saturday night, we took Jean to the scummy strip clubs of Pigalle and then to Le Pulp, a lesbian club which ended up being a riot, even for those of us who claim to be straight. Jean is considering chopping her hair so that she could be easily identified by other lesbos. I’m all for it.

On Sunday, Jacki and I hiked up to Montmartre. We sat in front of the Sacre Coeur and picnicked on a baguette and a bottle of Cotes du Rhone. La fin.

This week, I worked my ass off and continued to not sleep. On Monday, I met up with Prague Post photographer Vladimir and took the train to Podebrady, a central Bohemian spa hamlet about 50 km west of Prague. My mission was to meet Milan Paumer, a former member of an IRA-style Czechoslovak resistance group that sabotaged, chloroformed and shot commies in the Stalinist 1950s. Everyone HAS to read my 1600-word people profile this Thursday. Shit like this makes me realize why I do what I do.

 

           

           

 

           

Current Mood: amused

A special Monday night edition:
The Vietnamese lady at the Vecerka and I are old buddies. When I shuffled in for a solitary bottle of Moravian red, she gave me a 'free present' of highly addictive coconut-milk-roasted peanuts. They were gone within ten minutes, along with half the bottle. Sad, I know. If only I had some pot..
I had some sort of a mini meltdown this evening, highly discouraging since deadline day is still so distant. It only takes one Telefonica O2 lady to ruin your day: apparently, I owe 6500 CZK (roughly $325) by noon tomorrow. It's not that my bill is past due, in fact, I haven't even received a statement yet. It''s just that I'm a new customer and my long distance fees are so high that Telefonica can't distribute the pleasures of their telephone towers unless I guarantee my allegiance by paying up at high noon. So much for service. In these parts, it's the customer's job to oil up the provider.
But I knew this. I'm only pissed off because, while everyone demands my money, no one is giving me any. Today I presented the Post finance dept. with a "bill" demanding an April paycheck and have yet to hear back. I haven't even formed a plan of action for the 25,000 CZK I'm owed for May. 
In the evening I fought with Cathal about absolutely nothing. We never fight. He thinks I dropped him for a job that I don't even like. Ah, ambition. Plague of relationships.

May 27

 

Another Sunday night…why is it so depressing to be back in the flat? Must be the prospect of dragging myself back to hell, oh I mean work, tomorrow morning.

I miss Charlie, and I am beginning to lose my sense of humor.

            A man came to fix the boiler Tuesday afternoon, forcing me to miss half a day’s work and a dinner date with Grandpa Calumet (Peace pipe). It functioned for exactly 22 hours before I was taking sponge baths in the sink again (a less-than-ideal situation when you wake up dirty and hungover on deadline day and all you want is a hot shower). Now, 6,000 CZK later, it is working, but I’ve been told it’s only a matter of days before it craps out again.

            It’s not that he’s not a nice guy, but the boiler man’s regular visits are starting to get a bit expensive, especially since I have yet to see a single koruna from the Post, where I’ve been turning tricks for what, eight weeks now? Upon questioning the finance department, I was told to bill them. Interesting.

            But there is good news: after spending hours on hold with Telefonica O2, that ADSL light on my modem is finally on, which means I now have internet at the house, which means that I can spend more time at home and less time among the dust bunnies and the unbearable heat of the business news room. My job is getting to me.

            I spent most of the week trying to decipher the bureaucratic mess that grew into my Czech state forest VS. logging companies story (see my illegible article later this week). For two nights, I dreamt about being chased out of the agriculture ministry by a chainsaw-wielding press secretary. I killed the nightmare with two bottles of wine at the Wednesday night trannie show, a monthly event that is quickly becoming my favorite excuse to chain smoke in a dungeon bar with old friends. Even conservative cousin/favorite person Monika came this time, and, what’s more, I saw her order at least two sex-on-the-beaches. All the more reason to get plastered the night before deadline day.

            The forest article took until two a.m. on Thursday, the “lighter” cottage article was completed around the same time on Friday.

            I spent the weekend at Grandpa “Calumet” Hulpach’s cottage, always a sharp contrast to the Dolany weekends with my mom’s parents. Lots of food, beer and Grandpa’s long-term girlfriend Thea’s cats. Saturday was unbearably hot, so we went for a swim at the fish pond. In the afternoon, we visited playwright Karel Capek’s old manor (Grandpa had taken me there before but I didn’t want to spoil it).

            Today we visited the ornate Jesuit Monastery on Svata Hora before lunch, beer and Becherovka at Dobris Chateau. Grandpa, who’s really more of an anthropologist than a novelist, talked about accomplishing his “life’s work”—a collection of Bohemian and Moravian folk tales. “I’m allowed to die now,” he said.

            He also said he’d ask his literary buddies about getting me translating work. Book deals are allegedly hard to come by, but scripts might be a possibility. (Fingers and toes crossed..)

            We are canoeing down the Berounka next weekend. Let’s hope it doesn’t rain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Current Mood: drained

I wonder if these weekly postings have anything to do with the fact that I WORK AT A WEEKLY. Another professional deformity? Hmm..