Interesting article about Iraq the other day in the Washington Post. Of note is the slideshow that demonstrates that Iraqis definitely do not look like Naveen Andrews. I have hammered this nail before, and we will continue to provide evidence that it is an insult to the proud Iraqi people to assume that we resemble South Asians in some way.
For further demonstration of the differences between Iraqis and South Asians I give you Figure 1: a portrait of Caliph and famous Baghdadi, Harun al-Rashid.
As you see, he looks almost exactly like the Iraqis pictured in the slideshow.
Figure 2 shows the famous Indian prince Rama from the famed story called Rendezvous with Rama.
If you are having trouble identifying Rama in the illustration above, just look for the blue guy. Yes, he is shown twice. Soooo confusing.
There you go. I don't think the dramatic difference of appearance between Mesopotamians and Hindustanis could possibly be made clearer. But apparently, J.J. Abrams never bothered to figure out what an Iraqi actually looked like.
Again, this is the most insensitive piece of casting since Robert Rodriguez tried to pass off Antonio Banderas, a Spaniard, for a Mexican in Desperado.
"I'm NOT Mexican"
And by the way, it was pretty insulting to have Salma Hayek, whose parents are both Lebanese, portray Mexican painter Frida Kahlo.
"I'm NOT Lebanese"
I hope that Hollywood will come to its senses and factor in the appropriate sub-continent/blood lineage as it goes forward. If not, does anyone have George Clooney's phone number?
Turkey makes it exciting, but the Germans, as usual, exploit the Turks' efforts and impose limits on their aspirations. The skies unleash their fury on Basel, reminding us that if Julie Foudy and Tommy Smith were playing, we probably would be doing something else. All in all, the Milli Takimi plays with Heart, and can dream sweet tavuk gogusu dreams for 2010.
To get you in the mood for this historic Turkiye - Germany confrontation, here's a little ditty from the hipsters who straddle the German/Turkish divide... and who brought us the notorious Almanci Yabanci:
Tomorrow, June 21 is the day we have declared action against the Oppressive Dunkin Donuts Regime (ODDR). Here's how you can make your voice heard:
DO NOT wear a scarf, no matter how tempted you are to accessorize.
Go to the nearest Dunkin Donuts.
Order a "Deici Frapped Mochislamofascichino."
When asked to repeat your order, ask for one dozen maple frosted donuts (may be replaced by French crullers and/or chocolate honey-dipped.
Pay in cash.
Include with your payment, a 3X5 yellow index card with the words "Free Rachael Ray's paisley scarf!" written on either side.
Once you have your Donuts and change, leave the store.
Eat the Donuts.
DO NOT put a scarf on even after leaving the store and returning home.
Repeat steps 1-9 as necessary.
Thank you for your cooperation. Together, we can defeat the forces of xenophobia and racism in our midst (unless they happen to be the Italian national team, in which case we will be forced to tolerate them for 90 incredibly boring and frustratingly sad minutes.)
I would like to devote this celebratory video to Monkey, who I believe I caught sight of when the TV camera panned over the stands -- although all guys look the same with their shirts off and Turkiye written across their stomachs in red grease paint.
Is secularism's subtle rollback in Turkey the cause of the miraculous way in which the Turkish National Team is winning every game in Deus Ex Machina fashion? I, for one, am getting religion!
The Turks just made the Croats relive the battle of Krbava Field all over again! Will they succeed in extending their empire over the rest of Europe? All I know is, come Wednesday, the Germans are going to look like the wrong end of a Fassbinder flick, if the Milli Takimi keeps this up!
So Tommy thought he was complimenting Tuncay when, during the first half of today's Turkey-Croatiaquarterfinal match in Euro 2008 competition, he declared "He played with all the persistence of an Istanbul carpet seller!"
What was this remark truly, but yet another European belittling of how progressive and unencumbered by morbidEuropean nostalgia Turkey is today? Maybe to this haggis-eating lout, Turkey today is just another rusticOld World tourist destination teeming with swarthy, Euro-grubbing merchants.
But perhaps more tactful praise might have been directed at Tuncay, giving Ataturk's children their due and providing those watching at home with some sense of the complexity of contemporary Turkey. I don't know -- something along the lines of:
He played with all the persistence of a populist pro-Islamic politician.
I generally refrain from using the word "Gay" unless I am talking about my 2nd favorite movie, Zorro the Gay Blade. Many people (some of my bestfriends) tell me that the G-Word can be a hurtful slur, especially when used to describe things that are actually homosexual -- like batteries, celibatefish, and marriage -- and even moreso when used pejoratively.
But, as anybody who tried to communicate with me during the Euro 2000France-Italy final knows, I think the Azzurri are totally gay! They ruin the game. And I hate them.
I am headed to the Palmetto State to see some people. Please return to visit our blog on Sunday, June 8, when I am sure we will have something nice to say about Cokie Roberts.
In the meantime, to help you get into the spirit of Summer, please enjoy this clip from a movie that, if Bryan Adams made movies, would surely be his chef d'oeuvre:
Like many young Americans who are trying to enjoy History today, I am finding there is something stuck in my craw. And it is making odd scratching noises as I get all choked up and teary eyed, singing Wind Beneath My Wings while thinking about Barack Obama.
Ah, yes... it must be the fact that Hillary Clinton has already begun the 2012 campaign.
Now, there are times when it is important to leave well enoughalone. But that time is not now. As an avid reader of advicecolumns, I recognize that now, more than ever, it is time to stage an intervention. In fact, the bunker relationship of Clinton and her supporters, bears all the signs of emotionalabuse. Indeed, her supporters are clearly victims of narcissism.
In the advice columns, one finds the evidence of this particularly poisonous relationship in the Best Friend Conundrum or the In-Law Standoff. It generally goes something like:
I've been friends with Chuck and Blair since we all met in college a few years ago. Since that time, Chuck and Blair began going out together, but things recently deteriorated and they went through a messy breakup. I value my friendships with both of them, but in my recent meetings with Blair, she has told me some awful things about how Chuck treated her and specifically requested that, if I want to keep my friendship with her, I will cut off contact with Chuck. I want to be supportive of Blair, but I have also heard different versions of the break-up from some of Blair's other friends. What should I do?
Or:
I am very close to my family and live a few hours away. As a result, I usually devote about one weekend per month to visiting them. I have recently become engaged to a guy who is all that. The initial meet-and-greet with my parents went over well, however, following the previous two monthly visits at my parents house, my fiance spent the entire drive back talking about how disrespectful my parents behaved toward him. To be honest, this takes me by surprise, since I didn't notice anything off about how they treated him, but he insists that I am too close to them to notice the slights he has picked up on and then proceeds to review with me in detail. It is now a few days before our next planned visit, and he has become increasingly irritable as the date approaches and has asked if we can call the trip off. I have offered to make excuses for him and go by myself, but he protests that this would send the wrong message to my parents and has said that if I really loved him, I would stand up to them about the way they treat him. I'd like to defend him, but I really have no idea how to when I honestly cannot see what they have done wrong. What do I do?
For a while, I have wondered why the Clinton supporters were so angry and how they managed to maintain their furor despite the lack of empirical support for Clinton's claims of wrongdoing on the part of the Obama campaign and the media. Only last night's speech and its specific location -- sealed off from cell-phone, Internet, and televisual communication -- revealed to me the truth: Clinton is manipulating and abusing her supporters in order to keep them from leaving her for Barack Obama.
As most advice columnists will point out, whether the abuse or manipulation is conscious or not is irrelevant. A narcissist genuinely believes that he or she is constantly being persecuted either by a real or constructed rival for the constant attention and validation he or she seeks, or due to his or her grandiose status, of which the rest of humanity is intolerant or envious.
A narcissistic abuser, as advice columnists will point out, will try to cut off his or her victim from information, construct false narratives of victimization (e.g. "Your father told me that I wouldn't make enough money as a professional blogger to support your lifestyle"; "The media has kept me down because I'm a woman.") and apply rules arbitrarily such that they are to their advantage (e.g. "Blair made Chuck systematically go through his photo albums and e-mail account to delete any photo, message or reference involving his exes, but she still regularly meets with several of her ex-boyfriends"; or "You owe it to me to give me all the delegates from the primary we agreed not to contest in Michigan, but you shouldn't have any, because they didn't vote for you.").
As with any abusive relationship, the victims cannot leave, because the combination of control of narrative, arbitrary application of rules, and the control of information create a vicious cycle of misperception and anger, where anyone who seeks to criticize the relationship or the abuser only further justifies the abuser's false narrative of persecution: "See, the media and Obama supporters say that I cannot win the nomination because by all empirical measures I cannot: They must really hate me and love Obama!" This feeds the bunker mentality of an abusive relationship, where the victim cannot leave, because the abuser has convinced him or her that he or she cannot trust anybody external to the relationship as they are only motivated by hatred for the specialness of what they have together, and further, that the victim would have no life worth living without the abuser.
It is this detachment from reality, the spectacle of seeing a small fraction of those 17 million voters (since it is only a small fraction who have been emotionally fragilized by the process) continue to be ensnared in Clinton's abusive manipulations, that has angered Obama supporters and generated the inflammatory rhetoric and counter-accusations that comes across online. Wat can we do to solve this?
First, as any advice columnist will tell you, validating Clinton in any way shape or form would be the worst possible reaction. That will only further perpetuate the adherence of her troubled victims to the "Clinton-BocaRaton Co-dependency syndrome" by legitimizing her delusions of grandeur and providing another false narrative to her supporters. But, then, so will our continued anger and incomprehension of how someone can survive by fueling so much hatred.
No, as most advice columnists will suggest and as clinicians will agree, we need to engage Clinton's victims in a slow, methodic phase of questioning the different principles upon which their relationship is founded. Ask pertinent questions. Provide them small snippets of information when you think they are ready. Allow them to hope for positive outcomes that might not be dependent on their relationship with Clinton. More than anything else, though, you must give them time. Time to cope. Time to heal.
But, be patient. Even if we start today, it may take up to five months.
How can a speech be resilient? That's what Chris Matthews just said. Was it that despite mangling the truth, words still managed to come out of Clinton's mouth? Or is "resilient" just the only acceptable word now to describe anything Clinton does that is destructive and irrational.
Howard Fineman mentioned that Hillary's camp is demanding that Obama not offer the VP spot to another woman. I had my doubts for a while, but I have now come to realize that -- far from being a movement defined by obtaining power to fight for equal rights and equal status -- feminism really is just Hillary Clinton's one-woman cult of personality. My only question, then, is why not choose someone with a better personality?
Tom Brokaw mentioned that Obama's speech moved from "Yes We Can" to "Here's How." He says that that's what we've been waiting for all this time.
Actually, Tom. No. We haven't been waiting, because we've actually been listening to Barack Obama. While I feel good about Obama's chances for winning in November, something tells me that even by January 20 2009, we'll still be hearing from the Russerts and Brokaws of the world: "Gee, he sure can talk about hope, but Obama is still a cipher in terms of the policies he plans to enact..."
Can we drop the Klinton Krazies and still win in November? Yes we can! My assumption is that the Appalachian voters who voted for Clinton did not actually and would not actually vote Democratic in most of the last election cycles. They do not belong, then, to the vote total of reality-challenged Clinton supporters who plan to defect in November. No, these are more likely to be of the sort who, as the Clintons themselves pointed out: "Don't need a president, they need a feeling."
By a crude estimate, then, my sense is that these voters will have the most effect on Obama's margin in Arizona, California, New York, New Jersey, and Florida. While Arizona is probably safely in McCain's hands already, the only states where defections may make a difference are New Jersey and Florida. With the political climate as it is, though -- and, by the way, Thank G_d for Bob Barr! -- it seems fair to give Obama the benefit of the doubt in the Mountain West and Virginia such that an unfavorable turn in the two pivotal "angry states" would be offset. I am, in fact, predicting here and now, a Reagan-esque landslide in the Fall.
But even if some tell-tale combination of racists and the Klinton Krazies (these are distinct constituencies, right Geraldine Ferraro?) does signal an Obama defeat in the November, I believe that it is far more important to rebuild the soul of the Democratic Party around the assumption that we can assemble a majority progressive coalition and re-mold the political rhetoric of foreign policy and national security to the Democrats' advantage, than to cater to the demagogues and power brokers within the party who would insist on turning virulent Bush-hatred and the bitter memory of the Clinton impeachment into the only coherent and sound form of Democratic discourse for the foreseeable future.
Finally, is it okay to refer to Clinton's now defunct campaign for the nomination as the Ronaldo candidacy? It seems that many women thought they were voting for the first woman to ever run for president. Oddly enough though, the Clinton campaign conveyed the message that a woman would only be fit for the job if she knew how to act like a man, thus increasing the degree of difficulty for any future women politician seeking the office. If anyone has run a sexist campaign, then, it has been the Clintons. It is they and their surrogates who have persistently challenged Obama's masculinity and, thus, fitness for the job, and suggested to her voters that... um... at least anatomically speaking... Clinton is a man. (And a Latino one, at that.)
As the final primaries take place even now, I will try to offer assorted reflections on the months that were...
First, given that the nomination of Barack Obama spells certainapocalyptic destruction here on earth, there is a vital question that I need your help answering.
Is the certain disaster represented by the Barack Obama candidacy more like the looming asteroid of Armageddon or more like the unstoppable comet of Deep Impact? And, in a related question, is Hillary Clinton then, the awesome, ballsy Bruce Willis character who will obliterate Obama? Or is she the bold Morgan Freeman-esque national leader who decides the fate of the select few survivors?
(In the interest of full disclosure, I haven't seen either movie, but I bet they're both awesome!)
The path to cheaplatte and a FrenchCruller is paved with virulentxenophobia. As my loyal readers know, I have used this space previously to voice my disgust with the shameless xenophobia of recent Dunkin' Donuts ads. At the time, I had been unaware of the flexible immigration policies practiced by Dunkin Donuts, nor had I visited the local Dunkin Donuts franchise which was run -- shockingly enough -- by a South Asian family (again taking jobs from merit-worthy Appalachian voters!).
Yes, they noticed that behind that innocent paisley pattern, lay the sweaty, swarthy hands of the PersianPuppetmaster:
"The pattern is still widely popular in Iran. It is woven using gold or silver threads on silk or other high quality textiles for gifts, for weddings and special occasions. In Iran its use goes beyond clothing - paintings, jewelry, frescoes, curtains, tablecloths, quilts, carpets, garden landscaping, and pottery also sport the buta design."
Some, though, have suggested that the black-and-white scarf pattern is not paisley at all, but rather... a Kaffiyeh...
This insidious piece ofcloth, also known as the "Palestinian newsboy," as we all know, can mean anything from, "I am a Palestinian (or other Arab nationality) male" to "I am a naive and self-indulgent French teenager trying to figure out why I'm the only one of my friends who hasn't gotten laid yet." And so it was that, under pressure from alert US citizens who have led an admirable crusadeagainst both French and Arabs alike over the past several years, Dunkin Donuts finally returned to its old ways of bashing on all things that appear foreign -- with the exception, of course, of its own latte.
Not content, however, to see Rachael Ray's accoutrement silenced, the US Department of State, amalgamating the black-and-white paisley patterned foulard with the Palestinian kaffiyeh, chose to deny the Fulbright Grant it had previously offered the scarf to complete graduate work in the United States. Although the State Department refused to shed light on any specific threat posed by the kaffiyeh-like item of apparel, they pointed to Israeli model Moran Atias' choice to exile all scarves from her own wardrobe as a model for their decision. While Ray's scarf has maintained its silence on this lost opportunity, an Israeli lawmaker has commented on the decision:
This could be interpreted as collective punishment[...] This policy is not in keeping with international standards or with the moral standards of Jews, who have been subjected to the deprivation of higher education in the past. Even in war, there are rules.
This is why, in addition to maintaining my call for a boycott of You Don't Mess with the Zohan for re-invigorating the "suspect Arab" discourse within American cinema, I would like to declare June 21 "A Day WithoutScarves" as a reminder that by punishing scarves for the actions of a few extremists, we just end up punishing ourselves.
What upsets me most, though, about the dual decisions of the State Department and Dunkin' Donuts, however, is their crass violation of the golden rule: Fifty million Frenchmen can't be wrong!
So why is it that the kaffiyeh is as popular among French trendsetters and youths as Cheap Trick in Japan? Based on my own unscientific and informal field surveys, more French (of non-Arab origin) youths in the all important 18-24 demo wear kaffiyehs than Palestinians. But don't trust me, see for yourself:
This is a country that tells Arab women what they can wear to school, and yet the only subject for debate among the French over wearing the kaffiyeh is whether its current standing as a fashion accessorydilutes its powerful symbolism of solidarity with the Palestinian cause.
One can only come to the conclusion that wearing the kaffiyeh is 100% compatible with defeating Islamofascism! 'Nuff said.
Monkey, after reading your last post, I thought you should see this comic strip.
You're last post confused me quite a bit, and seemed to contain at best a 1:5 ratio of information to words. In fact, I think you might be keeping poor company, after all. For your story held for me a rambling incoherence not dissimilar from this Babyshambles song:
In any case, I finally have been able to take a breather from Cooties Camp. Not only have I missed blogging, but I had to digest your last two posts all at once. Of course, this is only a momentary respite, as we have quite big weekend plans for the boys. Tomorrow we're heading up to the 'burbs to take them to the Kohl Children's Museum, where they will be challenged to not touch anything despite whatever encouragements they might receive from museum staff.
Then, the real test will come on Sunday, when we take them to the Shedd Aquarium,where, not only will they have to avoid touching starfish, but we will provide them with repeated tales that dissuade them from any draw the sea or itsvariouscreatures may have upon their impressionable young minds.
To wrap up our camp, we have planned out an evening full of surprises for our adepts of "the Cootie-free life"
I'll let you know how things go once it's all wrapped up.
Meanwhile, the faculty lounge has provided some interesting conversations. I just learned that one of my fellow faculty mentors was holding a workshop on "UnlearningGrey's Anatomy" At the end of a busy day, when we all gathered round to bang the drum a little bit, I asked one of his pupils what he learned in that workshop. All he could do was keep repeating "Isaiah Washingtonwas right." My colleague later explained to me, "These boys' mothers watch a lot of Grey's. Sometimes I worry, that if they don't keep repeating it, these kids may start to grow breasts."
I'm like, "Dude! Haven't you heard of the SciFi Network?"
Verdammten Schnitzel!!!!!!! Can I not even hier excape that bastard, Chris Noth!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Like Pete's Katie, teh so-called Mr. Big follows me through every frickin' press juncket in the Hapsburg Empire -- and he's not even on the efrickin' Continent!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!L It's worese now, bescasuse aeverybody is fawining all over his "life-partner" and little 5-month-old spawn!
And now, it's all I can do to keep my schnitzel together, what with not having slept but 6 hours over teh past five days!!!! Everything is like in a dream. Even my dreams are like dreams. LIke I'mm dreaming my dreams and not living them, like it s all verwirrungt, you know what I mean?
I have been talking more frequently with Jenny, recently. We have talked about having to learn what to do when you're dreams crash upon the shores. She tels me that before ending up doling out pickles and Grey Goose in the Schatz im Freud, she was a pirate. I thought about how you would repsone in a similar situation, and I asked her fi she was acutally like an "Old School" pirate, or one of the kind of pirates that sink French yachts. She tells me neither, that she used to film US blockbusters and package them for illegal sale in wet streets behind butchershops spattered with sawdusts and under bridges outside tawdry Hungarian spas.
"What mad eyou change your lief?" I asked her.
She told me there wasn't no change, but that she had bmet a guy, who had dreams of his own and led her here to Vienna, and that she guessed we all follow our dreams sometime, until they come crashing down agaisnt the rocky shores of the New Europeean reality, where one day, every movie will be a Dogma film, and pickles wil cost an extrra 10 kronigs with your drikns. I told her, "but, Jenny, there isn't such a thing as a Kronig" and she tells me, "That's what I mean, Monkey, and soon we'll all be pirates, won't we."
And I had the impression that she had said something very deep right then. I didn't know what about it was so deep, but its obvious conclusiveness gave me the impressions that I should have leaned in and kissed her right then, and maybe I would have, if it hadn't been for teh fact that she was Pete's girl now, and then there was Heidi.
Yes, there was Heidi. But where was Heidi, now? I thought. Jenny and I sulkily strolled among the Kokoschkas at the Albertina, reflecting upon our own confused identities, the careful and remarkable precision of the contours of our alienation, our own exiles from our feelings, from our dreams, and the vast borderless landscape in which we were swimming like the gold flakes in a bottle of Goldschlager.
Meanwhile, Heidi was getting made up by Irina (returned from her shoot) to attend the FM4 opening gala for the 8 Festival for Fashion and Photography. Irina had come back, wheich was a good thing, since Jenny was too knew to be indulgent, and Pete needed a helping hand to hold in case Kate would be on the town somewhere with all the hubbub over the festival. Heidi also needed Irina -- I guess, in that sense, we all needed Irina -- in order to know how to conduct hereself and hobnob with the various designers and artists whose eye she hope dto catch, in order to have the promise of something greateer than the rolling hills of Kitzbuhel and the drip of milk from a cow's udder. Perhaps I couldn't promise her that more. Perhaps that's why you've never sought to console or gain pardon from Dagmar -- bugt I'm not trying toi ciriticize you, now, Jew. That is n ot my purpose. The task at hand, now, is to telll my story:
Jenny went off to work as did I, and it must have been 4 in the morning, still dark at least and my head only vaguely weary, that Pete and Irina and Heidi stumbled past the desk toward the elevator bay. Pete jerked still of a sudden, which resulted of Irina and Heidi tumbling to either side of them, so had he been their balance. He turned aroudn and approached me.
"Almost forgot this, Mate," he told me, as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something brown and sticky, rolled several times in plastic wrap until its form had become unrecognizable. "Saved you a spot of Sachertorte -- he said. Thought you could yoose it, y'know, pick you up a bit, i'n'it?"
"Thanks Pete," I said, lifting up the mushy chocolate treeat as if I were toasting him, like men do amongst themselves, as if hiding their feelings behind mannish rituals -- but who were we, Pete and I to hide our feelinngs. I almost felt like we were mates. "G'night now"
My words followed him as he reached out his arms and conducted Heidi and Irina to the elevators.
I unrolled the Sachertorte adn didn't even notice how messy and sticky my fingers became as I filled my mouth with it morsel by creamhy morsel.
The call came a couple of hours later, as a pale violet glow illuminated the pavement out front.
"Konig von Ungarn, Gruss Gott!"
It was Dagmar. "Monkey, is that you? What are you doing?"
I told her I was the NIght Porter, for whatever that would mean to her. Anyway, she urgenlty needed to speak with Heidi, she told me.
I tried the room. Pete answered on the fifth ring, but not altogether out of it.
"Yeah, Monkey that you?" Cough Cough, then I heard the gagging. It must have lasted several seconds before someone else grabbed the phone. No luck, it was Irina this time.
"Can you get Heidi on? Her sister needs to talk with her and quickly!" There was a brief pause, the sound of Irina's palm covering the receiver. She was laconic upoon returning to the phone. "Yeah," she said. The phone dropped and echoed against the Biedermeier mahogany surface of the six-drawer dresser of the Konig von Ungarn.
For some moments, all I heard were petulant cries that filled the luxurious air. "Get away from me... I can 'andle it meself..." It continued, but then a breeze swilred against the receiver and Heidi picked up. I told her it was Dagmar, and patched her through to her sister.
Some time later, I was polishing off my chocolate fingerprints fromthe phone at the front desk, and Klaus came to relieve me of my duties. I hadn't exactly remained awake the rest of the shift, but my mind recognized a certain low level of concern over the reason for Dagmar's unexpected call at the crack of dawn. That left me inquisitive and worried engouh to keep my eyes heavy but open.
The stench of puke greeted me as I got off on our floor. I could tell whey as I prgressed along the hallway. In front of Pete's suite someone had set out a room service trey with four flutes of champagne (I recognized them from the night before) a couple of empy platters, and the silver ice bucket full of thin, gruelly vomit, whose faint chocolate aroma was overwhelmed with the overbeering nastiness of bile. Goddamm Pete and his Sachertorte I though momentarily, my own stomahc heaving, but, I suppose my muscles were too weary to stir a more violent reaction to the grotesque still life. I paced further down the hall to collect my thoughts, then returned past the doorway, and finally reached the courtesy phohne by the elevator.
"Klaus," I said, "send someone up to clean the Doherty suite, bitte."
It was nearing noon, that Pete, Die Presse in hand, slipped into the koffeehaus where I had stationed myself, wearily poring over the faux marble surface of the table and sipping black tea loaded with kandizucker and cream to keep from sinking into sleep. As he order strudels, he caught me out of the corner of his eye.
Pete grabbed the strudels when they were all in the bag, and pushed his 100 euro note to the baker -- "You keep it, luv," was his charming admonition. His gaunt form held me in its shadow for a moment, then he leant down and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "Monkey! Wotcha doin' 'ere?" Then it stopped, he pulled back and took a strudel out of the bag and placed it on the table in front of the teapot.
I restrained myself from shoving the strudel right back into his pasty face. Instead, I asked calmly, "What was that about, the call earlier?"
"Dunno, mate," Pete said, "you'll 'ave to asker yoursewf."
I settled up for the tea and followed Pete out the door. When we got back to the suite, the tray was gone, and the stench had subsided. Walking through the doorway, though, was like a journey once more into the night. the shades were drawn and little light penetrated beyond the three inches of carpet underneath the luxurious, cream satin curtains of the Konig von Ungarn. Heidi, when I found her, was rolled up in Pete's Union Jack with Irina's head nuzzled into her armpit. Her other arm lay at a right angle with spread fingers snug among the rich, silky threads of the thick carpetting of the Konig von Ungarn.
I knelt down and raised her chin slightly, caressing her golden locks with my free hand. I must've sat over her for at least a quarter hour before her breath became more pronounced and her lips parted with a muted cough.
Later... over a strudel and some viennese coffe taht I had Klaus send up, Heidi explained to me what was happening.
"There's a Milk Boycott on throughout Europe! Dagmar doesn't know what to do with out me. Sunday's World Milk Day, and she wante sto know whehter we deliver or not. I have to be there for her. Monkey, I have to go back tot Kitzbuhel, tomorrow!"
Pete was sitting in the lotus position watching CNN-Europe while Irina was still putting on her face in the bathroom.
"Pete," I said, "Let me see your paper."
Heidi and I spread out Die Presse on the table and there we saw the confirmation of what Dagmar had said.
Wir sooooo tired... all of us! What kann ich say, Jew, but that we'ver bin all micsed up with everything's that's gone on in the past few days... I'm sooo tired. It's like everything's suddenly turned schnitzel!
And, now I log in to give ou an update, and I find that you're away at some kind of Cootie symposium... Whos'e going to hear my complaints about how tragic life is without you areound?
But, I will proceed, because I have to get this all off my chest. But I must be quick about it, because I start work in two hours. I haven't slept in days. Yes, I finally came throug with that job as Night Porter at the Konig Von Ungarn. I think everything started going schnitzel when we wpke up in Petee's suite on Sunday morning after our huge Sachertorte binge and watching Carl Barat get mutilatted at the Hans of Austrian thugs. I don't know what ahppend but the four of us -- Heidi, Pete, Jenny (the waitress from the Schatz im Freud), and Yours Truly -- were all lying there naked, pased out, covered up by Pete's Union Jack! The wurst part of it is, I have no recollection of that night afetr Room Service brought up the two Magnums of Perrier Jouet, green apple mentos, and a plate of roast pig.
I wiped the sleepfrom my eeys and dashed to the bathroom -- suddenly the urge overcame me to dry heave into the bidet. Fortunately the thick towel s at the Konig von Ungarn helped me to wipe up the clear bile creeping down the wall sof the procelaine, like rivulets of tokaj down the sides of a wineglass. I stood at the meear, balefully looking at my drawn face -- barely recognizing the soullessness of my gaze, when Pete slams into me, knocking me bback in to the doorknob -- I hadn't shut the door behind me, so great was the urge to puke uout what remained of my guts. I took the seafoam ceramic knob full on in the kidney and doubled over in pain. Mwanwhile, Pete dumped his face in the toilet and his body convulsed violently as he emptied the night's dark memories into the renovated plumbing of the luxurious Konig von Ungarn. I regained my composure enough to reach out a fresh white towel to him, which he promptly wrapped around his dripping pasty head. Then, without saying a word, he stumbled over me and out into the room. I tried to santd up and follow him out, but the blood rushed from my head, and I passed uout.
ich later woke up undeer the placid blue gaze of Heidi, whose hand was stroking my stubbled chin. Her lips bore the marks os worry, chaffed sink peeling back like birch bark and the dried, yellowed leaves of a long neglected volume of Morike. The peace vanishe d abruptly, intruded upon by the cacophony of broken glass and the atonal thud of antiquated ornaments dropping on the luxurious plush carpeting of the Konig von Ungarn. I made my way back on my feet with the assistance of Heidi, and saw throught the fog of returnign consciousness, first Jenny cowerred in a corner, hands over her face and blong tressess spilling over her spread fingers. Then a blur of movement first revealed to me the origins of the noise: Pete had lifted one of the bed lamps from its credenza and was swinging it wildly, as if blingeded by some animal rage.
It appeared, if I udderstood correctly the story that Heid i related to me after we had subdued Pete with a mouthful of Sachertorte, that Pete had gone out to ick up some strudels for our breakfast and get his copy of Die Presse from teh newstand (as is the irrigtaging habit of these luxury European hotels like the Konig von Ungarn and Intercontinental blah blah ablah, to only offer copies of teh Herald-Tribune in the lobby) when he saw the cover of the Kurier's Freizeit supplement.... Kate Moss, and practically in her Geburtstag suit!!!!!!!Ll!!!!!!!!!!
He seriously threw an apoplectic schnitzel fit wehn he saw that! He couldn't stand seeing her, just a year ago, a warm, disintegrating presence in his arms, his muse, gracing now the cover of a popular Austrian newsweekly and in the full flush of Albion good health. I mean, how was he supposed to make his daily visit to the newsstand anymore when she would be there, reminding him of every fcuk-up he had ever made since fame had preyed up on his talent?
"Bloody 'ell," he later told us, as I swept up the shards of his tantrum, and Heidi held him tight against her bosom to calm him, "she were like my Sachertorte, y'understand wot I'm sayin? Blimey, per'aps I loved her be'er than my Sachertorte, din't I?"
And I said to him, "Buck up, Petey! Yu remember what happend to Carl, last night? Seriously it could be worse."
Somehow, he wasn't comforted by my tought love. So, at that point, I ddecided to do what every right-thinkinng man does in those circumstances. I walked him down to the sauna. And tehre we were, sharing the sight of our bare chests, our dignity maintained only by the thick, cream-colored towels, monogrammed with the letters KvU for Konig von Ungarn that were wrapped around our wastes. We sat against the hard woodd in silence, feeling the toxins evacuating our bodies through every one of our pores.
When we got back to the suite, some sense of order had been restored. The earthy instincts of womeanhood had regained the upperhand and Jenny and Heidi moved blithely the lenght of the kitchenette, like two kids discovering the joys of the movign walkways in the airport, crossing paths, going opposite directions. They were preparing the ultimatein comfort foods: Palatschinken filled with pork butter. They had filled the ice box with Zipfers, and I tossed one to Pete and popped one open for myselt, the beer went down cool and repalced all the liquid we had sweated out in the sauna.
As the Palatschinken sizzled in the pans, the phone rand. I answered.
"Herr Doherty?"
"No, this is Herr Monkey, would you like to speak to Herr Doherty?"
"Ach so," the voice continued, "You're the one I was looking for, Herr Monkey. This is Klaus from the executivatsburo, I wanted to let you know that you hat the job. Kann you start tomorow?"
I looked anxiously over at Heidi, but without consulting her, I decided to go ahead. It's what Pete needed from us, after all, a little bit of support.
"OK, be there at midnight promptely!"
I didn't know how hard that would happend to have to work out with our plans...
Ten minutes later, we wree literally snorting down teh palatschinken, and Jenny had opened up one of those magazines for women. Maybe it wasn't the best subject to be talking about aftyer wheat hasd happended earlier, and maybe tjust talking about it in front of Pete could only lead to trouble.
"Hmm..." Jenny started and turned the magazine around so we could see the announcment, "Fashion and Photography? Anybody interested?"
I guess that's when I should've known that things were gonna turn schnitzel... and how!
But for now, I gotta get my uniform on and maybe shave... you know, work.
As with anytime when I anticipate an absence, I like to leave you with some thoughts from our greatest living Troubador. My knees are like jello; I hope you feel the same.
As you see, he looks almost exactly like the Iraqis pictured in the slideshow.
If you are having trouble identifying Rama in the illustration above, just look for the blue guy. Yes, he is shown twice. Soooo confusing.
