tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-124346482024-03-07T13:16:43.635+03:30Prague Dispatch - E. VolkmanDeep wisdom about movies, music, bad guitar playing and how to survive homemade brandy from an American resident of lovely Prague, Czech Republic. Not available in retail stores. Offer good while supplies last. Money back if not completely satisfied.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-4730990483622897462013-10-26T06:03:00.001+03:302013-10-26T06:03:03.953+03:30<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-91197107109608470462008-01-27T07:29:00.000+03:302008-01-27T07:42:09.056+03:30My new screen-o-blogDear y'all;<br /><br />I'm a few months into my new life in LA, and my time these days is spent walking the picket lines of the writer's strike and searching for a meaningful day job. I'll be in Prague in late March, so maybe I'll post anew on this site, but otherwise please don't expect too much from this blog in the near future. Meanwhile, this past week I launched yet another blog, a serial in screenplay form called <span style="font-style: italic;">The Accident Twins</span>. Do please take a look: <a href="http://theaccidenttwins.blogspot.com/">http://theaccidenttwins.blogspot.com</a><br /><br />First scene already in the can; new scenes posted every Thursday. Enjoy.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-58180338653885128632007-06-29T15:28:00.000+03:302007-06-29T15:31:42.305+03:30Summer updateHi folks. For the three of you that haven't given up on me despite my absence of nearly half a year, all's okay with me. A quick and dirty update: I'm still publishing the magazine (for the moment, anyway), I've played in a bunch of shows with the two bands I'm now in, I'm producing a DVD of one of said concert (actually a festival with several other groups), am chasing scriptwriting or other producing gigs with varying levels of potential, and I'm still on track to go to the States in mid-September. And oh yah, I got married. More later.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1167783613411319282007-01-03T03:15:00.000+03:302007-01-03T05:50:01.920+03:30Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present....The Sellouts!I had a stray weird idea tonight which might just be...hold your breath...GOOD. See, when I return to the States, assuming I have enough money, time and musical energy, I'll try to form a rough punky sorta band called the Sellouts. The avowed intention, aim and desire of The Sellouts will be to...yeep...SELL OUT. Their only goal will be to improve themselves to the point where they can make very radio and MTV-friendly music and grow incredibly rich. Forget all that anti-corporate, angry young rock attitude...these guys want to make money and have big houses and swimming pools. Look, back in my embryonic rock and roll days (1992 or so) EVERY young band in my vicinity seemed to Hate. The. Evil. Music. Companies. That kind of attitude gets tiring if everybody feels that way. It's a business after all, so hell, why don't we all make a little coin? Leave the "we're-such-dedicated-artists poor hurt us" feelings to somebody else.<br /><br />The Sellouts will want to be big. Huge. Obese. They will want to play baseball stadiums and Donald Trump birthday parties. They'll do a special gig for the crazy investment banker who budgeted half a million bucks for his kid's bar mitzvah. They'll mug on MTV interviews as if their careers depend on it...which, in fact, they will. They'll do their utmost to cultivate Bill Clinton as a fan. They will issue new albums as often as people change shoes. They will play acoustic covers of U2 songs and throw spent drumsticks to 15-year old girls in the audience. They will do any photo op Paris Hilton asks them to. Every album will contain at least one weepy ballad, if not three. Autographs? Sure, man, anytime. $5 if we mail it to you.<br /><br />This could all be very, very funny if done the right way and with the correct amount of irony.<br /><br />I can picture it, too. Horrifying 1980s touches like spandex - for no reason at all - and obligatory guitar solos. Bad videos featuring plenty of explosions. Bass guitars colored pink and 15 kinds of tom tom on the drum kit. A wireless mike for the singer so he can climb an amp stack while singing and look really cool. Anything and everything connected with The Sellouts would be completely ridiculous.<br /><br />I'm not entirely kidding. It's late and maybe I'm not thinking 100% straight but in the right pair of hands it could work. Maybe it won't be me forming this project, maybe somebody else better located and with more energy...any takers? Go ahead and try. Just remember to thank me in the CD insert when the album comes out. And give me a discount on those autographs, willya?ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1162992189916613222006-11-08T15:48:00.000+03:302006-11-08T18:39:16.250+03:30Happy toilet boyHow well can a person know a city? Some people can tell you where you can find the best coffee places, Thai restaurants or techno clubs in their chosen municipality. Others can bore you with the history of the local castle, stretching back a few hundred years. And there's always the guy who's on a back-slapping basis with, seemingly, everyone in a strategic downtown bar or restaurant. Let's also not forgot those Rain Man types that have somehow memorized the name of every city street and alleyway.<br /><br />But for me, probably the key barometer of city knowledge is a person's ability to locate free toilets. All that other stuff isn't particularly useful if you can't quickly locate a convenient place to piss. And this is deep, deep knowledge. Not only do the toilet kings have a feel for the streets and structures of a city, they have experienced them on an intimate basis. Their knowledge is as inside as it gets.<br /><br />And I'm not counting the easy places - everybody knows (or should), for example, that fast food restaurants almost always have open-bathroom door policies. But what about that second-floor movie theater, for example, or the basement restaurant with toilets just inside the entrance, away from the spying eyes of wait staff and management? Those are the locales permanently fixed in the psychic street index of the true toilet king. The places where no one notices or cares enough to say no; the places that don't charge a few crowns for the privilege of relieving yourself. The places where you can void peacefully and keep your pocket change.<br /><br />I'll never be Super Prague Experienced Street Guy, but I'm proud to say I've developed a fair degree of local toilet expertise. Try me. The Wenceslas Square area? No sweat. The Marks & Spencer flagship store, second floor, discreetly tucked away behind the top-floor cafe. The Lucerna complex's Cerny kun restaurant, one of those magic places where the bathrooms are closer to the entrance than to the diners. Boulevard, the sandwich place on Vodickova, a busy joint with bathrooms downstairs, although it's a f--- of a long walk to get there (but we can't be picky when it's free, eh?).<br /><br />For the tourists: the Old Town Square area. Bohemia Bagel on Masna, loose, casual, not particularly mindful of toilet access. On the opposite side, La Bodeguita on Kaprova, too cool and busy to watch out for bathroom interlopers. The Coffee Heaven branch on Parizska, delivering us from incontinent Hell with WCs at the foot of the basement stairs.<br /><br />Na Prikope street, Prague's shopping core. All that traipsing around and bag lugging makes a bladder full and a change purse empty. What to do? Well, there are the public toilets half-hidden and unadvertised in the courtyard of Slovansky dum shopping center (on the right as you enter, a few doors past the sushi place). Obecni dum, in addition to being a breathtakingly beautiful example of rare Art Nouveau architecture and design, is also a magnificent place to urinate. Walk in the ground floor bistro, look like you're meeting someone, and sail right into the bathrooms to do your thing.<br /><br />It has to be said that Praguers are generally pretty nonchalant about toilet needs. Most of the time, if asked where their toilets are and whether they can be used, they'll point in the right direction and shrug a yes. But that ruins the fun and accomplishment of discovery, doesn't it?<br /><br />I probably have some way to go towards full toilet coverage, or to put it another way, there are chunks of the downtown area where I have little or no idea where an accessible WC might be. Additionally, my knowledge of some of the downtown satellite districts - my current home of Karlin, New Town, and even to some degree my fixed address of Vinohrady - is still lacking. So if anybody knows about quality bathrooms in these 'hoods, do drop me a line. I'll let you in on a few more locales of my own.<br /><br />In London, aspiring black cab drivers spend months, if not years, riding around on scooters and studying street maps to gain "The Knowledge" of their city. When they get their cabs, they are familiar with any street you'd care to name.<br /><br />That's an accomplishment, but I have to say I'd be more impressed if they could just as easily answer the following question, no matter the location:<br /><br />"Where's the best free toilet in this neighborhood?"ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1158943170826448002006-09-22T19:06:00.000+03:302007-01-03T04:18:00.433+03:30ListomaniaWow, I haven't pasted anything on this blog in more than TWO MONTHS. Why? Outside of the usual general laziness, in that span of time I got a promotion at work, prepared for the evennnnntttttuaaaal start of the renovation of my apartment, and made plans to move back to the States next spring. Plus, I had some really cool DVDs to watch.<br /><br />The second-to-last item is significant, because six (or so) months before the fact I'm already getting twitches of nostalgia. So in that vein, and since it's Friday and a good day for light reading anyway, here's my personal best, worst and studiously neutral of Prague. Enjoy.<br /><br />BEST<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pint o' brew</span> Damned if I know. I'm one of the few foreigners living here who doesn't claim some kind of expertise in Czech beer. It all tastes pretty good, as far as I'm concerned.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Beer garden</span> Letensky zamecek, Prague 7. Two options here - the public picnic benches and kiosk for the cheap, or the restaurant's patio for the bigger spenders. Grilled meats at the latter, mmmmm. Conveniently, a five-minute walk from my office.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Movie theater</span> Cinema City, Flora Mall. Eight halls full of well-padded seats, complete with drink/popcorn bucket holders. And the country's only IMAX theater, which inexcusably I've been to only once, and I didn't even see the 3D movie on at the time. Shame on me. It also helps greatly that this place is a five minute walk from my home. Are you sensing a pattern here?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Local English language media</span> Finance New Europe, of course. But saying that is part of my job.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rock band</span> I haven't ever heard one, though Support Lesbiens come close. Please alert me if anything quality creeps up on the horizon.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Place to hear live music </span> Akropolis, one of the top clubs in the city. A thumping subterranean space that feels like a scooped-out old movie theater. Amazingly convenient; only a few minutes from my apartment.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Place to play live music </span> Lucerna Music Bar, dead in the center of Prague. Big, big, BIG stage for all your cool rock star moves, PLUS a few dressing rooms underneath, PLUS pneumatic system for raising said stage. A crappy place to watch a band, but that's someone else's problem when you're the entertainment.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mexican restaurant </span> Piccante, because it's cheap, good quality, cheerful and...ah, a ten-minute walk down the hill from work.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mexican</span> Fernando Feria. A cool, interesting MexiNew Yorker who works in film. Also happened to be the host of the party where I met my future wife.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Computer shop</span> Alzasoft. Good prices, wide selection, fast online ordering and customer service that actually exists and isn't hostile, a rare combination for Prague.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">TV channel</span> CT 2, because they have a "movie club" every few days programmed by people with very good taste.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">DVD rental outlet</span> PlanetDVD. Check 'em out - www.planetdvd.cz.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dolly Buster movie</span> Don't know; I've never seen one. Which is a pity because I'm curious - for those who don't know, Dolly Buster is a Prague porn star from the early 90s with tits the size of your family.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shoe millionaire </span>Tom Bat'a, currently suing this country in the EU Court of Human Rights for taking his assets away after WWII and inventing reasons why he couldn't get them back. Go, Tom!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Holiday</span> Well, there are only something like 5 to choose from, so I'll pick Cyril & Methodius Day. Because it's obscure and followed immediately by ANOTHER holiday (Jan Hus Day, in case you're curious).<br /><br /><br />WORST<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pub</span> - U Zpevacku circa 1994. A nasty hole if there ever was one, located nearly in the heart of downtown Prague. Hopeless alcoholics on all-night binges and lakes of piss in the men's bathroom. Thankfully, there were something like 300 other pubs in the immediate area.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excuse for not meeting me for a date</span> Ivana, the girl who claimed that she couldn't get together because that morning she contracted meningitis - a potentially fatal illness necessitating an immediate hospital stay.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Long-term musical trend</span> 80s music on the radio and 80s nights at the clubs. Is there any reason why anyone needs to hear Ultravox at least twice a week? Or Laura Branigan? And watching the "Final Countdown" video stopped being funny and ironic after about the 40th time they played it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Local government office</span> Pretty much all of them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Harmful bacteria</span> E coli. Watch that spinach, kids!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Use of city location in a major film</span> Namesti miru, in "The Omen" remake. Prague plays London in the movie, but a crucial scene shows a car speeding by a building with a sign that reads "Mestska cast Praha 2" (Prague 2 city district). Time to get a better second unit director, thinks I.<br /><br />STUDIOUSLY NEUTRAL<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Czech newspaper/magazine</span> Although I've lived here for 12 years, I've never bothered to raise my fluency to the level where I could effectively consume local media. Bad, huh?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nudie bar</span> I've been to Goldfingers for bachelor party reasons and basically enjoyed it, but in the end going to strip clubs makes me feel like a loser. So I avoid them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mineral water</span> It's WATER, for frog's sake. What's the difference? I still drink it from the tap anyway.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Expat hangout</span> I've bought books and coffee at The Globe, enjoyed burritos n' brunch at Jama, spent the occasional lunchtime at Fraktal and once upon a time risked whiplash to watch The Simpsons on the Sports Bar's ceiling-level TVs. But I never got the point of spending a lot of time in a foreign country in places full of people from mine, so I generally give these joints a miss.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1151421032502321982006-06-27T18:07:00.000+03:302006-06-27T19:05:22.686+03:30Whining in the heatThe English are fond of complaining that their fellow countrymen are fond of complaining about the weather. They should come to Prague sometime. Few varieties of human being in the world beat Praguers at bitching about the temperature and conditions outside.<br /><br />Like most weather-whining nations, Czechs have solid reasons for being annoyed about what Mother Nature serves up. Our typical winter is six months or even longer, meaning it eats up half the year in the best instances. Otherwise, the damn thing can grind on straight through the early growing season. Adding to this woe is the near-absence of spring and fall, easily the most atmospheric times of the year.<br /><br />So that leaves us effectively whip-sawing from the bite of winter to the lethargy of summer and back again. Nobody likes gray, dark cold and fewer enjoy the heavy and damp summers we get almost immediately after. So for many, they never get the porridge at exactly the right temperature. That'll make a person bitch, oh yes it will.<br /><br />Nevertheless, it always gets wearying to hear, yet again, in early April people moaning miserably about how cold they are and how much time they've been forced to spend inside since September. Relief comes in the form of spring/summer a few weeks later, when they get exactly the weather they're dreaming of...but they squander this by complaining for the rest of the season how oppressively hot it is. The October freeze comes, and they switch to I Hate Bastard Winter mode again.<br /><br />I can take or leave 'em both, really. The older I get, the more of a stay-at-home I become, so six+ months burrowing inside is not going to make me feel deprived. My body temperature seems to be higher than that of normal people, so even the muggiest of summers don't bother me. The only weather-bitching I'm tempted to do is about that shoulder season problem - but hey, it's a free country and no one's stopping me from hopping over to say, France, to take advantage of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Paris au printemps</span> one of these springs.<br /><br />Besides, unlike many people in this city, I don't feel compelled to take advantage of the rare and limited hours of heat and sunshine. A handful of outdoor days and the occasional trip to mountains/woods/beach is enough for me to feel I've done enough to properly capture the season. Traditional Praguers, on the other hand, seem to feel obligated to hang out in the beer garden or spend yet another weekend at the <span style="font-style: italic;">chata </span>every time the sun pops through the clouds and the mercury crosses 20C.<br /><br />But at least they're going somewhere and doing something...and not complaining about how much they hate the weather.<br /><br />Until the next round of cold and wet, that is.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1150155104560182442006-06-13T02:17:00.000+03:302006-06-13T03:09:03.706+03:30The local jukeboxI like computers. A lot. Think of the many tools I use on the machine these words have been written on. My main email connection to the rest of the world. A word processor I've written at least 60% of my freelance articles on. A specialist word processor through which I produced half a dozen screenplays (but never managed to sell a single one, ha ha). Fully loaded Skype should I need to call someone in Tucson (I won't, but it's nice to know I have the option). Various flavors of video players for the TV shows I...eh...borrow from the Internet.<br /><br />I have to say, though, that the most consistent use I get from the thing must be as a jukebox. Computers make the best music machines. Think of it - even a limited-space hard drive these days gives you 40 gigs. That's something like, ah I dunno, 5,000 songs. Correct me if I'm wrong.<br /><br />I'm nowhere near that. At the moment, I'm at something like - let me check...<br /><br />...shee-it, nearly 1,200 songs. There's Bad Religion and Buzzcocks and (but why?) Pat frickin' Boone, early Led Zeppelin, late Nirvana, Neil Young from all eras. The complete Police, including predecessor Strontium 90 (worth checking out). There are a few unknown classics ("Homosapien," Pete Shelley. "That's Too Bad," Gary Numan - now playing as I write this. "Don't Talk to Me," G.G. Allin before the mental illness set in). There are survivors like Pop, Iggy and Deep Purple. One or two of the recently deceased - hello, or, uh, goodbye, Desmond Dekker. A couple of long-dead favorites long moldering in their coffins: Presley, Elvis, Thunders, Johnny/Heartbreakers for example. Many obscurities. Songs that fall under the "guilty pleasure" category that I'd NEVER admit to listening to. Okay, maybe I would - "Kids in America," Kim Wilde, "Hungry Like the Wolf," Duran Duran, far too much Donovan and...ah, that's enough for now. Music that I actually helped make. Stuff I was never able to play and probably won't figure out anytime soon ("Wrathchild", Iron Maiden, "Come on Baby, Let's Go Downtown," Neil Young and Crazy Horse). There's a traditional American folk song in there somewhere ("A Man of Constant Sorrow"), a Baroque German classical piece (Pachelbel's Canon) and naturally, a Finnish string quartet covering a Metallica song. I even spent the time and effort to compile a folder named "The Best of Hey Joe" which contains 33 - yes, 33, that's not a typo - versions of the title song (the best: Willy DeVille's bizarre mutant combination of HJ and Cuban standby "Guantanamera").<br /><br />Where am I going with that gun in my hand? Ha. The problem with any music collection, of course, is that no matter how big it is, the owner always gets bored with listening to the same stuff. I usually find myself hunting for some song, any song, I haven't listened to at least forty times since I planted it on the hard drive. Theoretically, since I have more songs than number of days in three or so years, that shouldn't be a challenge. But I never seem to find something fresh enough.<br /><br />Luckily, if I have the time, patience and nothing more important to do, I can find something good, interesting and new by popping open the browser and hunting for a few minutes/hours. While listening, of course, to something already on the PC. Hmmm, what to play? There's Blacks Flag and Sabbath, Specials and Special AKA, The Dead Kennedys and Live, The Big Bopper and Little Richard...ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1145028132913824242006-04-14T18:01:00.000+03:302006-04-14T19:03:23.490+03:30Random thoughts on a Good FridayWow. It's been nearly two months since I've posted. What the hell? There's no real point in having a blog if you're only going to contribute to it an average of six times a year. So I guess I'd better get back on the exercise bike or risk turning into a literary potato.<br /><br />I have no topic today. Many people in Prague don't. It's raining again, a cold gray wash that is a remnant of the long winter we just endured. Despite the looming holiday, people in the streets seem downcast and not particularly happy to be there. Meanwhile, the magazine I edit is in the middle stages of being laid out, which is tricky because we're simultaneously carrying out a redesign of the entire thing. Our target date for printing is a little over a week away. Will we make it? Bets can be placed at your local lottery office; odds seem to be around 3 to 1. Meanwhile, the reporters have their assignments for the next issue, save for a freelancer or two I'd like to keep contributing, so I get a little bit of a rest. For now. Mmmmm.<br /><br />I'm renovating my apartment, as most of you probably don't know. My neighbors sure do; in this country, it's necessary to obtain a signed "souhlas majitelu" (agreement of owners), i.e. a statement from the co-inhabitants of your building that they have no objection to your reconstruction project. So we submitted the thing and it turns out that...the neighbors DO have an objection to our project, namely the fact that we want to plant a toilet on a narrower-than-comfortable old waste pipe (and boy, isn't THAT a lovely image to get your weekend started). It's heartening that the neighbors care so much about my toilet arrangements, but what this means for myself and girlfriend/architect Marija is more negotiations, more paperwork, more time and more effort. Or maybe we can just piss from the side of the balcony. That would solve the pipe issue quite elegantly. Sorry, Mr. Cihelka. Was that your dog we just hit?<br /><br />Hmmm. Jesus Died for My Sins, they tell me. Guess I shouldn't be talking about toilet pipes and gambling. I'm not Christian, though, so I think I can get away with it. But if anyone happens to talk to The Son of God this special weekend please don't tell him, just in case.<br /><br />He's got a lot on his mind anyway. Did you read the news? Turns out Judas was his favorite apostle after all, and Jesus ASKED him to turn him in to the Romans. Of course, this is all based on a second-hand account 200 years or so after the fact. Which is, uh, actually what the New Testament is, too. Ah. Hmmm.<br /><br />Meeting a friend for dinner tonight at a new Indian restaurant in Zizkov, the ex-working class district of Prague just down the hill from where I live. Once upon a long time ago (okay, the mid-1990s), you were lucky to find ANY restaurant in Zizkov. Now you can have your choice of Pakistani, Greek, Mexican, Thai, Japanese or even Hare Krishna vegetarian, among numerous other cuisines. What happened? Damned if I know. I was too busy worrying about toilet pipes.<br /><br />Zizkov is an interesting area. The largest equestrian statue in Europe (or maybe the world; it depends on which account you read) is there. Also, back in the bad old days, the "first working-class" (i.e., communist) President, Klement Gottwald, was interred in the Vitkov Hill mausoleum set aside for Czech leaders. Not only that; the Party wise men tried to preserve his corpse and put it on display, like Lenin. Problem was, their crude freezing techniques didn't work and despite a massive effort, old Klement rotted away piece by piece. They finally gave up in the early 60s. However, if you're lucky, resourceful or good at bribery, you can get someone to show you the rooms where Klem was frozen and watched. Yes, watched. Constantly, in shifts, by Party loyalists. Not only that; the instruments doing the monitoring were installed in PAIRS, in case one of them broke. The Vitkov cryogeny rooms get my vote, hands down, for the weirdest historical attraction in Prague. And in a city with this much history, that's saying something.<br /><br />My mixed-religion family did, in fact, celebrate Easter when I was a kid. I remember a few Easter Egg hunts on the front yard with the neighbor kids when I was little. At some point, my dad wrote little riddles on index cards to guide us to the eggs. Maybe I even won a hunt or two, I don't know. Better than that was Easter Sunday's trip to Nana's (my grandma; dad's mom). She used to buy us these big milk chocolate eggs, which opened to reveal more sweets inside - jelly beans, foil-wrapped mini-chocolate eggs, marshmallow bunnies. Packed with strips of green plastic "grass." My mom, who always made great efforts to keep us away from sweets, probably had a heart attack every year when she saw those big eggs. Poor woman. She knew we 'd be working on them for another week.<br /><br />Funny what the mind remembers 25 years after. Nana and mom are in their graves, the chocolate eggs a distant memory. I probably won't do much this Easter save for keeping dry and figuring out a negotiation strategy for dealing with the neighbors. Ah, adulthood. But I wouldn't have it any other way. So much more interesting. Ain't that right, Jesus?ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1140700266912468572006-02-23T15:53:00.000+03:302006-02-23T16:41:06.970+03:30Unlocking PraguePrague is a city of keys. Big keys, little keys, folding keys (really; I own one), big Medieval bastards that unlock thick cellar doors, front door keys, courtyard keys, mailbox keys...it's a miracle that Praguers don't jangle when they walk, because most of them carry around at least ten clumsy hunks of metal all the time.<br /><br />Czechs aren't trusting people by nature, so they tend to lock everything in sight. This even penetrates weird places in the home - the box with photos of grandma, for example, or the kitchen door. And offices, forget about it. The place I work now, in a district above the Vltava river called Holesovice, requires the use of FIVE keys before you can get in the door. Front building door, initial gate on the first staircase, second gate protecting office door (requiring two keys, just in case) and finally, office door. If I want to avail myself of the toilet on the upper floor, that's an additional key for the SECOND gate on the uppper part of the stairs. Thank God I don't need to access the broom closet.<br /><br />Meanwhile, my office set features one more key, for one of two rooms on the upper floor we don't need and rarely use. I never bothered to grab a key for the other one. Are you losing count already? I know I am. That's a grand total of EIGHT keys for one little company.<br /><br />Many people in this city have the habit of looping all of their keys - home, office, country home (common for Praguers) - into one scary, chaotic tangle. "Just a second, I'll get the door..." they say as they grow old combing through the mess. Is it the long key, the slightly shorter one, or the one hanging by itself on a separate loop? Office, home or garage?<br /><br />What sells pretty well here are the colored little plastic covers that go over the heads of the keys. These really aren't an option - after all, no one wants to spend an hour a day testing the hundreds of choices on a jailhouse ring just to get into the apartment. These covers, like the keys they tag, come in a whole range of styles. Full ones for complete coverage. Outer edge only. Colored with little sparkly bits for the romantic (for a few crowns extra, of course). Black or white for the minimalists.<br /><br />With the multitude of locking devices available, it's also wise to vary the color of the key itself. Your local Prague locksmith - and there's one on pretty much every street and shopping mall - can copy a whole spectrum of tints for the discerning keyholder. You can have a veritable rainbow explosion of color in your pocket if you want.<br /><br />But sometimes, even the handy local locksmith isn't around or available. In my previous job, they worried a lot about the keys, so they changed them more than once. In one of the exchanges, I remember getting a set of three shiny new ones. They were very pretty, granted, but far too similar. I still had a few hours to go at my desk and had already had lunch, so didn't really have a good chance go down the street and get a key While You Wait. But dammit, I wanted to MARK THOSE KEYS. So I got an orange highlighter and attempted a homemade tint job on one of them. Failure! Key metal is cheap stuff, but tough enough to resist wimpy highlighter. Most of the color came off in my hands over the next few days. My next move was to wrap that universal solution - duct tape - around the head, popping a hole in the middle where the loop should go. Success! The tape wound itself off eventually, coming off in a sticky wad in my pocket, but it lasted for months. And that ugly little thing was instantly distinguishable from the millions of other keys circulating around the city. Eventually, though, I had to give it up when I quit the job.<br /><br />But it wasn't much of a loss. I had a gangload of locking devices for my apartment and building to keep me company, so I didn't miss the office ones I surrendered. And the ones I own are more than enough to be faithful companions forever. Let's see, there's front building key, front door key, deadlock key, mailbox key, courtyard key, basment key...ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1138898317843553832006-02-02T19:29:00.000+03:302006-02-07T23:44:19.646+03:30Rock of the agedMy band played a wedding this past weekend. Like most of our gigs, we got it through our lead singer, an energetic Englishman named Gary. In the workaday world, Gary sells offshore banking products, meaning that a reassuring number of his clients are rich Brits. This comes in handy when they engage in onshore activities like getting married, because another product Gary can sell is RePlay, his and my cover band.<br /><br />The gig took place at a horrifying pile of a hotel just south of Prague called Dum Atis, a place that looked as if its architect had taken some bad acid while thumbing through the collected works of Gaudi. Regardless, the happy couple (or their families) had spent enough on the decorations to make the interior look nice, white and wedding-like, and the event felt properly Grand and Important. We came on about an hour after the best man gave his speech, immediately following a weak set from the hired DJ.<br /><br />Wedding gigs? A best man and a boring DJ for openers? Applauding the lucky girl who caught the bouquet?<br /><br />Adulthood happened to me at some point in my life, because as a musician you don't get much more adult than playing in a wedding band. When I was young and still had a little fire and vision, I hated the idea of wedding gigs, hated the idea of cover bands, hated the idea of selling out. Anyone with any talent at all should try their hardest to pour that ability into an enterprise that was fresh and original, thought I. Does the world really need another cover of "Satisfaction"?<br /><br />Actually, it does. Music, after all, is entertainment and fun, and if someone's idea of entertainment and fun is to hear "You Can't Always Get What You Want" for the 900th time, then dammit, go ahead and play it for them. People whose hobby is music can and will sniff out the different, new and original. There's always enough of that stuff around. For all the other times in life, there are bands like RePlay. After all, think about it: when you throw on an old CD at home, is it always something you discovered last week on the radio? No, it's usually one of the albums you've been listening to for years.<br /><br />It's nice to finally come to terms with Cover Bandage, because it means I can relax and simply have fun playing in a group...as opposed to worrying about its musical direction or whether the bridge I wrote is long enough. With RePlay, we rehearse a little (ideally) then I show up and play a gig. These songs are now familiar enough that my fingers find most of the right notes without too much struggle, and I only occasionally have to glance at the well-notated cheat book while playing. Meanwhile, I get the satisfaction of people moving their asses to my bass and Henri's drums, and singing along to what I'm playing. Not to mention hearing the sweet noise of rising applause as the audience demands an encore (this actually happens. Honest).<br /><br />Besides, I'm not gifted enough to carve out my own unique niche in the world of music. I'm at best a collaborator, an idea guy, the skinny bass man with a good riff or two. I was never destined to set the earth on fire with my instrument as a player or a composer. My talent, such as it is, reached a plateau years ago. These days I'm just happy to be there, playing someone else's music and giving the crowd what they want.<br /><br />And man, I sure like those encores.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1137437632476556462006-01-16T21:55:00.000+03:302006-02-02T20:24:13.696+03:30The initiative problemIt's 7:20 pm. Do you know where your magazine is? I wish I knew the answer to that question. Two weeks ago (about), I took over as editor of a financial glossy based here in Prague. The previous management - who myself and comrade Andrew replaced - was, shall we say, perhaps a bit lax in dealing with administrative and editorial matters. One thing they were lax about was hiring a DTP (desktop publishing) person, i.e. a skilled worker who designs, lays out and prettifies the magazine's pages using software tools like Quark Xpress, Pagemaker, etc. For any professional magazine, DTP is an essential, indisposable element of the workforce, but somehow our predecessors just sort of...never got around...to hiring such a person.<br /><br />Instead, in their wisdom they decided to outsource any and all DTP to a downtown Prague company. Now outsourcing is a good and useful idea if it a) saves you money and b) reduces hassle, but in our case, we get None of the Above. I don't know how much we pay for this service, but it can't be cost-effective enough against hiring a person who sits here in this office. And worse than that, we have to rely on some people we can't manage ourselves. Another degree worse than <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>, the editor of our publication (me, in other words) has to spend hours, days sitting at the outsourcing company's studio making sure the magazine to be published looks good and won't end up as garbage hanging on the newsstands.<br /><br />And the stinky icing on this very shitty cake is that the person responsible for our account at the DTP company isn't, well, all that responsible. Not that he's bad at his work, oh no. He can lay out pages just fine, thank you. The problem is, that's about all he does, unless someone specifically orders him to do something else. Get the plates formed to send to the printers? That's another phone call. Get a page map from said printers so he knows what form to send the pages in? Whoops, better get in touch again.<br /><br />I was told I'd see final pages Friday afternoon. It's now Monday night, and nothing. Supposedly, they're coming by courier, but so far my phone hasn't stirred and the email inbox is empty. So I guess I'll be calling the DTP guy again.<br /><br />Initiative just isn't very strong in this part of the world. It's amazing. People, even very bright people, will often not move a finger unless they're ordered to, asked to, called late at night or yelled at. I can't even remember how many stories I've heard - or personally experienced - from "service" people in Prague that have to be babysat through every little stage of what you're paying them to do. Once upon a time, in an apartment I used to rent, the landlord sent some workers to replace the old, dysfuntional plastic toilet I had to cope with. Nice of the landlord to do so, but the poor guy had to do extra work on top of hiring the knuckleheads who did the job. Why? Well, they took the toilet and...after one day, two, they still hadn't gotten around to replacing it. As the lack of a toilet is a tremendous inconvenience, to say the least, I called Jiri to complain in no uncertain terms. Resignedly, as if he had had this problem many, many times, he said he'd take care of it. And he did...after three or four phone calls, I later learned. The next day, when I came home from work, there was a sparkling new toilet there. Now why did someone have to make half a dozen phone calls for that?<br /><br />Surprise, surprise. Our great DTP guy has left the office. No answer on the mobile phone either. Whoops, guess it's time to call his boss. Maybe a little authority will light a fire under him. Nothing else seems to.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1135000992967962062005-12-19T16:10:00.001+03:302006-02-02T20:23:34.700+03:30King of kingsNo, not Jesus (although we should all wish Mr. C a very happy birthday this Sunday regardless). King Kong, of course, that majestic, 3-story tall tragic ape of a hero. I saw Peter Jackson's version of it last night, and was very happy I did. It's an excellent movie, the best epic I've seen since...well, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Lord of the Rings</span> (also directed by Jackson; this is getting to be a habit).<br /><br />Jackson could have easily gone the route of Cheesy, Expensive Blockbuster by doing a pale remake of the original. He could have loaded it with knowing references to the first movie, to show how hip he was that he knew it cold. With a 200+ million dollar budget, final cut rights and complete freedom to do whatever he wanted, nobody would have stopped him from packing the movie with big stars and lazily updating it to the present day (like in the bad 1976 remake).<br /><br />He did none of these things; instead, he delivered a fun version of a great story, with enough character development and plot tweaks to make it fresh and interesting. Jackson wisely set the movie in 1933 New York, and the flavor and look of the city add a lot to the story, since Kong's fate is so strongly tied to the location of his final battle. Additionally, the urban maze that the big ape runs through at the end of the movie contrasts nicely with the jungle of his native habitat.<br /><br />And the current version gets the trickiest element of the story right - the development of the relationship between Ann and Kong. It evolves sensibly, from terrified captive/angry guard, to grudging familiarity and finally genuine friendship and affection, without seeming forced, phony or abrupt. Every stage is believable, and their final scene together (where Kong holds Ann and playfully glides on a frozen Central Park lake) is a heartbreaker, since we all know what's about to happen to him.<br /><br />Character development was obviously a priority for Jackson, which is one reason this version of the story is over three hours long (as compared to one and a half for the original). The New York opening gives us plenty of back story with director Denham and leading lady Ann, which makes it abundantly clear how they fall into their respective predicaments. Once on the <span style="font-style: italic;">Venture</span>, we stay there for an hour or so and meet writer/hero Jack, captain Engelhorn, first mate Hayes and cabin boy Jimmy. The story bogs down in the leaky holds of the ship, since this is an epic and all we really want to see, after all, is the big ape. You can only develop the characters so far, and the ship scenes don't do much to get us to identify with them more. By the time all the principals get on board, we've already met and gotten to know the important ones - Denham, Ann, Jack, and for comic relief, Denham's vain leading man Rex. The sailors aren't particularly interesting, and getting acquainted with the crew (especially Jimmy) doesn't really move the story along or build sympathy in the right direction. Besides, when we return to New York for the final act, they're no longer part of the movie anyway.<br /><br />But that's a quibble. The key characters are strong, sympathetic (even Denham) and well-acted - including, most critically, Kong, thanks to the magic of CGI and the skill of Andy Serkis, rapidly going down in history as the first and best CGI foundation actor in the business. Naomi Watts, in a difficult role, acts terrified without being over the top about it, and shows her growing affection for Kong convincingly.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the key element we all expect from any <span style="font-style: italic;">King Kong</span> - the action - is tense and exciting. Jackson puts a few imaginative and unexpected spins on the Kong set pieces we know and love. The ape's capture on Skull Island, for example, when he (temporarily) escapes the trap the sailors set for him. Or, especially, the final battle on top of the Empire State building, which is much longer and played out than the same scene in the original. It's an epic scene, fitting for the wider scope and longer length of Jackson's version.<br /><br />One thing I rarely like in movies and TV is references, in-jokes that only the initiated get and the smug insert. Jackson admirably avoids this, but given the quality of this movie and his overall restraint we can forgive him and allow for a few in the final battle - the pilots and gunners of the Army Air Force planes are all moviemakers, most of whom are connected to Kong one way or another. Jackson himself plays a gunner, as does director Frank Darabont (maker of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Shawshank Redemption</span>). Meanwhile, one of the pilots is played by makeup ace Rick Baker, who played Kong in a gorilla suit (!) in the 1976 version.<br /><br />'Twas beauty killed the beast, as the famous line goes. And in this case, it's worth the time and effort to see how. King Kong is one of the best movies of this year, and a hell of a remake. Go take a look.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1133892579761908882005-12-06T20:34:00.000+03:302005-12-06T21:41:09.936+03:30Call of the West<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1719/1054/1600/DSC02081.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1719/1054/320/DSC02081.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Well, it's been two weeks since the end of our California trip. Two weeks that seem like a year; the slate-gray skies and below-zero temperatures of December Prague are a planet away from Sunny C. We had the benefit of that most American of machines, a car, for our trip, which allowed us to see a lot of the state, from San Diego near the Mexican border to the more obscure corners of the wine country north of San Francisco. Between those two points, we also saw LA, Manhattan and Long Beaches, Malibu, Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Carmel, Big Sur, Monterey, San Francisco, etc. etc. etc. Oh, and we made a what-the-hell road trip to Las Vegas for a quick overnight.<br /><br />But that's a travelogue or three for another time. For the moment, it's best to offer a bite-sized initial impression of the West, a part of the US I had never previously experienced (the furthest I'd gotten in that direction was Champaign, Illinois). Typical for a New Yorker, huh? Many of us natives consider ourselves worldly if we make it to Boston.<br /><br />Perhaps it comes from growing up in one of the Original Thirteen (American colonial states, that is). Or maybe it's a product of living for 11 years in an European capital older than a Millennium. But to me, it feels like much of the Western US was built yesterday. As if it sprang up in some crazy post-WWII migratory spread. Hey Frank, the war's over, let's go to Hollywood!<br /><br />You feel this most strongly in Los Angeles. LA has a bad reputation for being phony and soulless. I didn't find it that way necessarily, but it does have that temporary, just-landed-on -this coast-impression. A lot of it seems improvised. Big, fancy houses dominate the lawns in Beverly Hills and Bel Air, but most of them look like they were built when I was in college. Downtown LA, the commercial center, is home to a cluster of skyscrapers, a showy Frank Gehry-designed concert hall and a newish sports arena with a corporate name tag. All this stuff is handsome, well-polished and pleasing to the eye...thing is, Downtown is far away and hard to reach from most other LA neighborhoods, so it feels like an island. It's as if someone decided that, what the hell, right HERE would be a fine place for the business district. Almost nothing about it feels natural or evolved.<br /><br />And I couldn't escape the impression that a lot of the West is flimsier than it should be. San Francisco - conveniently located near a fault line - is home to possibly the world's largest collection of wooden buildings. It's as if the Gold Rush came, then a settlement was built and evolved only a little over time. You never quite escape the impression that the earth might crack open again and swallow the place whole.<br /><br />And Las Vegas. Vegas! Only in America would somebody look at a small desert settlement and think of building casinos and hotels there. You have to admire the boundless optimism that sees such huge potential in a plot of sand...and the clever sales job that brings tourists in by the millions and money by the planeload. Driving into Vegas is a funny experience; after several hundred miles of scrub brush desert, broken by the occasional town or outlet mall, Vegas just...<span style="font-style: italic;">explodes</span>...from the ground. They came out here, picked a place to build - and presto! new city.<br /><br />What's interesting about all this - assuming you're not worried about San Francisco disappearing in the next big natural disaster - is the sense of visiting the result of an adventure. Once upon a time, Americans were imaginative, optimistic and just plain crazy enough to abandon their lives, come to the West and build something out of virtually nothing. A little recklessness once in a while is a good thing, it seems.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1131398298081610032005-11-08T00:17:00.000+03:302006-01-23T19:43:55.893+03:30Back in Huntington, part XXIIIAnother year, another visit to my home town. In the old days (circa 1995 or so), I tried to come back every November for an annual visit. The idea was to coincide the trip with good autumn weather and Thanksgiving, one of the better American holidays. Recent years have seen this skewed a bit, with my mom's death two years ago and the sale of our house the following September.<br /><br />But now that there's no deep family tragedy or real estate sale to deal with, I seem to be getting back on schedule. We arrived in New York City this past Thursday, did two days of quick sightseeing, and are now in The Town Where It All Began For Our Friend Eric for another quickie, an overnight stay.<br /><br />But now it's different. Huntington is no longer Home with a capital "H". The house is gone, sold to a yuppie couple with a nice car, a dog, and a tandem swing on the front yard (we passed by the place quickly in the rental car this afternoon). Mom's "not with us anymore", sis lives in Manhattan, Dad's on marriage #4 in Massachussetts and nearly all of my friends have moved away. I'm a visitor now, almost a tourist.<br /><br />Like much of the US and the more developed chunks of Planet Earth, Huntington got rich while I was away. You don't see many wheezy old cars here anymore; everyone seems to be driving shiny new ones like the Tandem Swingers that bought our house. The buildings are clean and well-reconstructed, the streets lined with fresh red brick and nearly free of filth. The Huntington of my childhood was always a little gritty and worn down. Huntington 2005 looks like it won the lottery.<br /><br />I'm not one of these boring people who moan about how The Old Days Were So Much Better. They weren't. My home town looks more attractive and feels more comfortable than it ever did. But it's funny and a little sad how the two of us have grown apart. Every block has some cutesy store selling little pottery things or frilly stationery or "native American artifacts." When did that start? Out of the hundreds of faces I see on the sidewalks and in the stores, only one or two look familiar. It might as well be Fairbanks, Alaska.<br /><br />I'm glad I'm here, though. I like being in this place, whether as visitor, resident or conquering alien. In a way I can't explain and don't fully understand, it's good to be back and it feels right. I look forward to stopping in at least once a year, even if it is for just over a single calendar day. Tomorrow we leave again on the next stop of our American tour - back to Manhattan, then the following day (early! Dammit!) to Newark airport for our California flight. I'm looking forward to exploring a coast I've never seen...but I'm happy I could pass some time on the scrap of ground I know best.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1130406948790178052005-10-27T13:18:00.000+03:302005-10-27T13:26:46.606+03:30And now for a storyIt's almost the end of the week, so how about a little entertainment? Below is "Diablo Time", a short story I wrote a few years ago for a writing contest in Britain. The theme was "Czech-British relations", and the sponsors were broad-minded enough to accept entries of any type of writing - essays, poetry, stories, etc. They weren't, however, broad-minded enough to give me a prize. Oh well. Enjoy, anyway...<br /><br /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: times new roman;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">DIABLO TIME</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Simon Farrow looked like he’d just seen combat.<span style=""> </span>His eyes stared far into some imaginary distance, his hair was unkempt, he was dressed in clothes from last night, he smelled a bit. He rang the buzzer.<span style=""> </span>Though it was the headquarters of a newspaper, the receptionists never bothered with what were supposed to be the proper security precautions - asking name of visitor and purpose of visit. They simply buzzed him in.<o:p></o:p><br />He’d been there a few times already, working, so the receptionist gave him a “Hello!” in that cheerful young receptionist kind of way.<o:p></o:p><br />Simon barely noticed, but he was English after all, and courtesy came almost automatically to him. “Right,” he managed to croak.<o:p></o:p><br />He lumbered down the hall. The Sentinel was billed as “Central Europe’s First English-Language Newspaper”, but it was dead last in terms of comfort and warmth. It was 1994 and the building was several years away from its Communist past as a state-run housing agency, but the office had never shed its dirty gray carpet, gray telephones and gray desks, all straight from central planning. The walls, last whitewashed during some forgotten five-year plan back in the 1960s, were taking on a somber, funereal shade of gray. It was as if every color in the place was degenerating towards that same hopeless shade.<o:p></o:p><br />If moods were colors, Simon would have been ash gray, perfect camouflage for the walls and desks. Or possibly even a dull shade of black, such was his state of mind.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p><br /> He turned the corner of the L-shaped corridor.<o:p></o:p><br />This was Editorial, the section of the paper where the content was written and most of the interviewing done. At the end of the L was the largest space on the premises, the newsroom. Simon, had he been inclined to listen, might have heard the chattering of an editor, one or two reporters and the Sentinel’s translator as they phoned or wrote or scratched notes on pieces of paper.<o:p></o:p><br />Somehow, an obscure corner of his brain - possibly the one that moved his legs without him giving too much thought to the process, or made sure his food was chewed properly - guided him towards the lounge. This was a niche halfway up the long part of the L hosting an ugly brown couch. <o:p></o:p><br /> Simon sat on the couch. He stared at the gray wall opposite. Suzy, Suzy...<o:p></o:p><br />There was a door across the hall from the niche, and from this little room, which served as the office for the paper’s business section, emerged a young woman. A.J. Martinelli was a small, dark-haired American, chatty and smart. A.J. was the second person Simon had met at the Sentinel. Actually, she was the second person, full stop, Simon had met in Prague since arriving six days ago. To be really technical about it, A.J. was only the second person he had ever had a conversation with outside of England.<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""> </span>She saw Simon and stopped.<o:p></o:p><br /> “Simon?” she asked, as one would inquire of a man who appeared dead before checking for a pulse.<o:p></o:p><br /> Simon didn’t answer. He was busy looking at the wall.<o:p></o:p><br /> A.J. inched closer. “Simon? You all right?”<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p><br />He nodded. Well, half-nodded. He sort of shook his head a little up, a little down, a little right, a little left. At least he was alive, thought A.J.<o:p></o:p><br /> She wasn’t a shy girl, this American. She came over, stood in front of him. “Simon?”<o:p></o:p><br /> Nod, shake. Up, down, left right. What the hell did that mean?<o:p></o:p><br /> “Siiiiimon. Come in, Simon. This is Houston calling, do you copy?”<span style=""> </span>A.J. waved her hand in front of his face.<o:p></o:p><br /> This at least broke the silence. “Oh,” he answered, as if his cat had just wandered in. “Hullo, A.J.”<o:p></o:p><br /> “Hullo yourself. Are you okay?”<o:p></o:p><br /> “Er, ah...yeah. I’m ah...ah...” He drew a deep breath. “I’m...fine...” He nodded and shook some more. “How are you?”<o:p></o:p><br /> “I’m okay, but you don’t look so hot, dude. Did something happen?”<o:p></o:p><br /> Simon moved his head up and down. He was getting more consistent with the gestures, at least. “Ah, my...my...”<o:p></o:p><br /> Heroin problem? Grandmother died? Car got towed? A.J. wondered what was coming next.<o:p></o:p><br /> “...<i style="">girlfriend</i>”<span style=""> </span>Simon finally managed.<o:p></o:p><br /> “Girlfriend?”<span style=""> </span>A.J. asked back. “You mean she broke up with you?”<o:p></o:p><br /> Simon continued nodding. In a voice as thin as paper, he answered, “yes.”<o:p></o:p><br /> “Your girlfriend ditched you? Jesus, I thought it was something serious!”<span style=""> </span>A.J. answered.<o:p></o:p><br /> For the first time that day, Simon stared at something besides a wall. He looked, hard, at A.J.<o:p></o:p><br /> Who backed down. “Sorry. Sorry, man, I just thought...ah, that’s pretty tough. I’m sorry.”<o:p></o:p><br />Their discussion was jarred by a booming American voice in the hallway. “...MONSTER tits, man. Like freakin' GODZILLA in a dress. Big ones, real pointy. DEFINITELY D cup territory.” <o:p></o:p><br />The owner of the voice strode down the long part of the L. He had been talking, or shouting, to someone in the newsroom. As he walked, he turned his head forwards and noticed A.J. And Simon.<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""> </span>“Yo Simon, my man. Happenin', buddy?” he asked.<o:p></o:p><br />Cutting off the beginnings of sentences was one of many odd habits possessed by Frank Conine. Frank was the newspaper's political reporter, a big, pot-bellied American whose 42 years made him nearly twice as old as much of the rest of the staff. A.J., for instance, was 24, while Frank's boss, news editor Josh Weinrib, was still several years shy of 30. Simon was all of 23. Chip Hathaway, the paper's largely absentee owner, had just turned 27.<o:p></o:p><br />Old Frank had met Simon only briefly, but he liked him. This was possibly because Frank had managed to mooch several cigarettes from him during that meeting.<o:p></o:p><br /> “Look so good, man,” Frank said to Simon, chopping a perfectly good sentence nearly in half. “Something wrong?”<o:p></o:p><br /> Simon sighed again, shook his head. He said nothing, so A.J. broke the news. <o:p></o:p><br /> “His girlfriend broke up with him,” she said.<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""> </span>“Girlfriend? JESUS, THAT'S IT? Looked like something serious.”<o:p></o:p><br /> Simon moaned. It wasn't even a good moan, more a low, hopeless “oooohhhhhh...” He dropped his head in his hands.<o:p></o:p><br /> “He's pretty broken up about it, dude,” said A.J., stating the painfully obvious.<o:p></o:p><br />"I see," Frank said, nodding his head. He hoped Simon wouldn’t cry. Comforting weeping men was not something Frank could have done well.<o:p></o:p><br />Nevertheless, he tried to help. “You know, I got these guys, these Ukrainians, take care of her for ya. They got baseball bats, they got Uzis, they got rocket-propelled grenades...”<o:p></o:p><br /> Simon lifted his head from his hands. Frank and A.J. looked at each other. A.J. shrugged.<o:p></o:p><br />Frank was being paged, which at the Sentinel meant that someone was desperately shouting at him from the newsroom. “Frankie! Hey Frankie!” barked Milan Vesely, the paper's translator. “We got the fax back from the ministry! I think you has to see it...where are you? ”<o:p></o:p><br /> “Lounge, Milan,” came the answer.<o:p></o:p><br />Milan footed it down the hall. He was another one of the Sentinel's youth brigade, like Simon a fresh university graduate. With blond dreadlocks, Milan looked as if a mad scientist had blended Bob Marley’s DNA with that of a pale, skinny Eastern European student in a petrie dish and grown a person from it. <o:p></o:p><br /> The Sentinel was Milan’s first job.<o:p></o:p><br />He was almost out of breath. He noticed Simon. “Hey, Simon. What is up?” Simon didn't notice. Not very much was headed up in his life just then, anyway.<o:p></o:p><br /> “He okay?” Milan asked his co-workers. He looked concerned. “Simon, do you hear me? What is wrong?”<o:p></o:p><br /> A.J. shook her head. Frank answered, “Girlfriend ditched him. Fuckin’ bitch.”<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""> </span>“Oh, that's it?” said Milan, relaxing a little. “I thought it was something ser...” <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""> </span>“Shhhh!” ordered A.J. and Frank at the same time.<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""></span><span style=""> </span>Milan didn’t know quite what to say. To do something, anything, he handed the fax paper to Frank.<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""></span> “This boy needs comforting,” said A.J. after a moment of thought. “Should we do the usual?”<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""></span> She looked at Frank and Milan, raised her eyebrows a few times. After a few seconds, the two men got it.<o:p></o:p><br /><span style=""></span> Almost at once, A.J. and Frank announced, “Pizza Diablo!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Along with revolution, democracy and free speech, the early 1990s brought pizza culture to Prague. At best an uncommon fast food during Communism, thanks to its low cost and ease of manufacture it was quickly becoming the Cool Thing in Czech restaurants in 1994. </span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> The Sentinel was a beneficiary of this trend, as nearly across the street was the famous Pizza No Problem. The specialty of the house was Pizza Diablo, a hellish blend of red and green peppers, onions, garlic and spicy Hungarian salami. Some at the Sentinel had discovered that, when consumed the right way, the Diablo could be very therapeutic.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> A third beer had been placed in front of Simon when he was near the halfway point of finishing his Diablo. A.J., Frank and Milan watched him, comforted by the fact that he was going through at least a few glasses of alcohol. That, after all, was the point of ordering a Pizza Diablo.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> In another good sign, Simon had at least started to speak in complete sentences. Even though they all seemed to center on one topic:</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Suzy. Suzy who had cruelly dumped him only two nights before. The very Suzy who, as the three had heard already when they first met Simon, was to move to Prague to study Slavic languages. The beloved woman whom Simon was to stay with during her studies, as he took a break following graduation from university to figure out what to do in life. The sweetheart who had been Simon’s first and thus far only serious girlfriend, for almost three years. The woman whose hand he was planning to ask in marriage in the immediate future. The bitch who decided to stay in England and build a full and satisfying life without him. </span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Perhaps due to his upbringing as the son of a policeman, Simon didn’t consume drugs and generally stayed away from booze.</span></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Which meant that the beer went to his head alarmingly fast.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Simon drained his third mug, tilting his head back far. Recoiling from the swig, he realized his balance was unsteady.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “Er, I think I’m getting drunk,” he said to those assembled. All three smiled surreptitiously.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">“Prosim vas! Prosim vas, pane!” cried Milan to a waiter, immediately after Simon slapped his empty mug down on the table. The beer waiter, a harried, sweaty fat man with a mustache, came over, already with several full mugs circling around a meaty fist. This was typical for Prague: pour the beer, walk around with it, and impose it on the customers before they even had a chance to order. “Jeste jedno, jenom pro pana,” ordered Milan, pointing to Simon as he did so. The fat man, grunting, grabbed the empty mug, replaced it with a full one, and with his free hand scratched another tick on the handwritten bill. He left as soon as he came.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Simon went through two more beers before the Diablo was finished. He left the crusts, which Frank quickly descended upon and ate.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “I don’ understand...whh...whyyy she did it. Din’t she love me? A.J., din’ she </span><i style="font-family: times new roman;">love</i><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> me?” Simon asked, really sloshing his words around now.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “Sure, Simon, sure. Do you want another beer?” she asked.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Simon waved his hand, knocking over the empty pizza tin. It fell to the floor with a clang. “Wh-hoooops, I’m sorry,” he said, blearily staring at the tin on the ground. “What’s for dessert?”</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> They ordered Simon another mug, but by that point it wasn’t necessary. He finished a few sips, announced, “I’m jus’ going to have a bit – a bit – of a lie-down. Don’ mind me,” then folded his arms on the table, placed his head on them, and promptly fell asleep.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “Time is it, Milan?” Frank asked his young colleague.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “Time to get a watch, you big freeloader,” came the answer.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “His bedtime,” said A.J., pointing at the comatose Simon. “What are we going to do with him?” </span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> She looked at Milan and he pointed to Frank, who was busy picking his way through the rest of the complimentary bread rolls. “Me? Why you looking at me?” Frank asked.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “You’re the one with the big apartment, the couch, and the absent fiancé,” said A.J. “Looks like you’re the one’s gonna be hosting him this evening.”</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> “Awright, awright. Lemme just work on these rolls,” Frank said. “Milan, can you call a taxi?” </span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Milan nodded, and left the table for a pay phone. A.J. looked over at Simon, who was sleeping peacefully.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> The peacefulness wouldn’t last. Tomorrow would bring sobriety, and the realization that he was still a bachelor.</span><o:p style="font-family: times new roman;"></o:p><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> But that pain would fade, as it always did, and in this city he would build an entirely new life, with new women. A.J. continued to look at Simon, passed out and oblivious.</span><br /> <span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Just like magic, she thought. Good old Pizza Diablo.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p>ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1130101051044242002005-10-23T23:05:00.000+03:302005-10-24T00:33:48.966+03:30A shot of MoraviaA few hours ago, I got back from an overnighter in Lednice, a pleasant little agricultural town in the southeastern corner of the country. Myself and two Czech friends stayed with a Dutch/Czech couple we know; more precisely, we were guests at the vacation house of the Czech half's parents.<br /><br />Lednice is a green, sleepy place and we did the usual weekend-at-the-cottage activities: walking around the woods, visiting the local attraction (in this case, a pretty old chateau) and, for the early risers this morning, engaging in low-impact exercise (i.e. ping-pong).<br /><br />And drinking. Oh yeah, the drinking. To tank up during a weekend trip to the country is almost a requirement in a <span style="font-style: italic;">chata </span>visit. Being a moderate, I limited myself to a pair of beers at the pub during the many hours we spent there last night, and only slowly drank the <span style="font-style: italic;">burcak </span>(young, sweet wine) offered to me at the house before and after the pub trip.<br /><br />But in the end, I couldn't escape what was waiting for me in the basement. In the afternoon, the three of us, packed and ready to leave, were standing on the small front yard of the house, several minutes away from saying goodbye and taking off in the car. Mr. Borov, our host, turned to me and asked, "so, do you want a shot of merunkovice"?<br /><br />I didn't want a shot of anything. We were about to road-trip for two and a half hours back to Prague in a car. This is not usually a circumstance for which I need a few drinks.<br /><br />But Mr. Borov was our host and he was proud of the various alcohols fermenting in his cellar. So an invitation like his was more of a summons. I probably didn't have much of a choice. He led me down into what he called - with an alarming chuckle - his "office." Basically the cellar belonged pretty much to him. The little rooms were either workplaces (he's a diesel mechanic) or storage spaces for food and drink.<br /><br />Accent on the drink. There was a cluster of big glass vessels in one room, half-man sized jugs filled with various shades of red and white wine and burcak. The room was tiny, and those massive things nearly crowded out the two of us when he brought me in during the tour.<br /><br />The merunkovice (literally, "apricot brandy") was across the hall in the pantry. The shelves, stocked with fruit compote and vegetables picked from the backyard garden, competed for floor space with yet more wine jugs, which looked to be threatening to take over the room.<br /><br />Perhaps worried that there wasn't enough alcohol in the tiny space, Mr. Borov had stashed several bottles of brandy on the shelves as well. He produced a pair of shot glasses (what <span style="font-weight: bold;">didn't</span> he have on those shelves?), and poured drinks for he and I. "To your health!", went the usual Czech toast. Yeah, try telling that to my liver.<br /><br />"52 percent!" he said proudly, reciting the alcohol content of what we just drank. "Do you want another one?"<br /><br />Whew. Noooo.<br /><br />"How about a little wine?"<br /><br />Uhhhmmm. Again, that hospitality thing. This was the man's hobby, and he had just let us crash in his house overnight. Accepting offers of alcohol was a key task in the job of Good Guest, like rolling up the sleeping bag in the morning or not burping at the table.<br /><br />"Sure," I said.<br /><br />His jolly red Santa face glowed as he fetched a hose to siphon some liquid from one of the vessels. We went into the jug room. "Red or white?" he asked. Anything, pal, as long as it's not 104 proof brandy. I opted for white.<br /><br />He filled a half-pint glass with the vino and gave it to me. He didn't take any himself. Instead, he told me stories of his life as an amateur vinter and his experiences building the chata I was getting plastered in. I noticed he was paying sly attention to my consumption of the wine, determining whether I genuinely liked it or not. I did, but I was worried that I'd end up cross-eyed by the time I finished it. That glass looked big, man.<br /><br />Venda, our driver on this expedition, came down into the basement looking for me, perhaps worried that he'd have to drag my unconcious body upstairs into the car and somehow unload me in Prague. He needed to get back for a meeting with a friend in the city, and Mr. Borov and myself weren't helping matters with our little domestic pub crawl. "We have to go," said Venda accurately. I hurried with the rest of the wine, finishing it in a few clumsy gulps. Luckily, the stuff my host imposed on me was well made, fresh and natural. My buzz was surprisingly mild, I didn't feel dizzy or sick, and I was easy on my feet. I'd survived a round of Moravian homemade liquor sampling and didn't pass out. Yay!<br /><br />We went outside, said our goodbyes, and took off. Mr. Borov said more farewells than the others. The last one, if I remember correctly (and it's very possible I don't) was something like, "come back some day. We'll drink more!". Whew, okay, but I think I'll stick to that two-drink limit next time.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1129751213438947482005-10-19T22:11:00.000+03:302005-10-19T23:16:53.463+03:30Czech realityAs I type this, the action is getting hotter on TV Prima. Bad guy Vladko, quite possibly the next person to be eliminated from "VyVoleni", is snapping at his roommates for various transgressions, real and imagined. They are giving it back to him just as hard. Vladko's bitchy mood is understandable - he's been selected for elimination in a vote conducted among the remaining residents of the VyVoleni house. He is now to go to the weekly "duel", the final stage of the elimination round, in which the selected victim chooses another resident to debate live on TV. The loser, elected by a phone-in vote among the viewership, is banished from the house and forfeits his/her chance at the big, 11 million crown prize.<br />Meanwhile, one channel away on TV Nova, tomorrow during the evening hours will feature the resiliently popular "Big Brother Uncensored", which lately has been dominated by heavy nudity n' sex among the closeted residents of the Big Brother House.<br /><br />It's a little late, but the Czechs have finally, inevitably, gotten their first dose of reality TV. And a lot of it. The two private terrestrial channels, Prima and Nova, both introduced their respective shows at roughly the same time earlier this autumn. Both are wildly popular, as are the connected Web sites that let viewers peeping tom (for a price) throughout the two houses during non-broadcasting hours.<br /><br />VyVoleni has generally been the more popular of the two, scoring the highest Czech TV viewership rating ever in a recent broadcast. Its edge seems to be blunting, though, as the Big Brother residence - more of a closeted hothouse than its counterpart - has been the scene of several small-scale orgies among the contestants late at night. TV Nova happily broadcasts the highlights of these adventures on its "Uncensored" broadcasts, the audiences for which, not surprisingly, have been growing.<br /><br />On the surface, there is nothing particularly Czech about either show. "Big Brother", of course, is the latest franchise of the well-travelled Dutch export. VyVoleni basically sticks to the same successful formula; trap a group of people in a house, have them scheme and manipulate to be the last one remaining in order to claim the final prize, put elimination to a public vote, broadcast the results and watch the fun.<br /><br />But the two have several enormous advantages in this country, which have helped move them out of the realm of simple TV to a common subject of office, tram and pub conversation. First of all, there are only four free TV stations in the country, two of which are state-owned and - theoretically - reserved for public-interest programming (CT 1 and 2 are based on BBC 1 and 2 in the UK). The broadcasts on both CTs aren't bad, but they can't compete with the marketing, flash and sex appeal of Prima and Nova, both of which are operated by deep-pocketed foreign companies.<br /><br />Another great edge both shows have is the very relaxed attitude Czechs have towards flesh and sin in general. Nudity isn't that big a deal here. Families swim and sunbathe nude on lakes together, topless women serve beer on selected nights in "nahore bez" pubs. No one seems to mind. On a darker note, infidelity is more common and casual in this country than it is elsewhere. Both "VyVoleni" and "Big Brother" have gotten slap-on-the-wrist fines from the TV watchdog agency for "indecent" programming, but those amounts are a drop in the ocean compared to how much the broadcasters are raking in from the advertising.<br /><br />I don't watch either of the two shows much, to be truthful. I don't call the 900 numbers to vote, either. I take a look once in a while, around elimination time, or, er, when "Big Brother" gets uncensored. But this reality wave, currently receding West of here, isn't close to cresting here yet. I have plenty of time to take a look.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1129051385442657512005-10-11T20:52:00.000+03:302005-10-17T14:26:45.026+03:30Movin' on upI was going to help a friend move today. Not to lug boxes around or to help clear a way for the new sofa or anything like that. Rather, Carron was to pick up the keys and take a look at the place, making sure what she was getting was what she signed for in the contract. I was there to communicate with her landlord-to-be, who apparently spoke no English. So during the 10-minute walk there, I rehearsed some likely Czech apartment-inspection phrases. "Prosim vas, kde je toaleta?" (excuse me, where is the toilet?), "To najem vcetne topeni a elektrina, ze jo?" (the rent includes heat and electricity, right?) and that old favorite, just in case, "jiste, platila zalohu" (of course she paid the deposit).<br /><br />We rang the doorbell, and were told to come down to the basement. Uh-oh, the basement. Damp and dark, good place for a mugging...but no, this was respectable Vinohrady, so instead of a mugging we were shown the cramped offices of a real estate company. Eventually, we met the woman who would be handing Carron the keys and letting her in...a friendly young Italian who spoke servicable English. My assistance no longer required, I left Carron to be helped by the professionals and returned to my apartment.<br /><br />Landladies who spoke English? Courtesy? Professionals in offices? This wasn't like the old days. When I first came to Prague in the mid-1990s, finding any of the above was a rare and beautiful thing. Apartments were usually in the hands of older Praguers, cranky and distrustful types who didn't like the idea of strangers - particularly of the foreign variety - occupying their living space. On top of that, most renting was done illegally, as the landlords usually either a) weren't owners in the first place, rather occupants of low-rent, state-owned flats, b) renters of the apartment themselves or c) owners who didn't much like the idea of paying taxes on their extra income. This meant that many of these people were skirting the law, which always makes one a little jumpy. On top of <span style="font-weight: bold;">that</span>, Prague society back then was fresh out of communism, so the general unease around People You Don't Know was still fresh in the air. After all, this was a country where around 10 percent of the population was estimated to have some kind of relationship with the StB, the beloved secret police. Given that, how could you ever know if Bob the Happy Foreigner was really a spy renting your place to bug the phones?<br /><br />It was typical back in those dark days to suffer "visits" at least once in a while from landlords. They'd just, you know, uh, drop by to see...see if you had fresh milk in the refrigerator. Or maybe they were checking the fuses. Yeah, there was just...something...they needed to take a look at in your room. You don't mind, do you?<br /><br />It was common for tenants to pay a lot of money for a place and be spied on in the process. My friend Tim's landlady felt the need to stop by occassionally to poke around in the kitchen and God knows where else. Another pal, Alex, would sometimes be greeted Saturday mornings by his landlord and the landlord's wife, who would let themselves in and inspect the living room while Alex was sleeping. My own landlord, Lubos, a skinny, scared middle-aged man, would once in a while find it necessary to go into my room "to do your laundry". At the time, I was in my mid-twenties, didn't have much money and had very little in Prague except for some clothes, a few cassette tapes and a couple of books. What in the world was he hoping to discover?<br /><br />These days, my living situation is miles better and I don't have to deal with a guy like Lubos poking his way through my stuff anymore. Tim just bought a house on his own and Alex is in the US somewhere, undoubtedly having a properly distanced relationship with his renters, if he has any. And most of the foreign Praguers I know live (more or less) trouble-free in apartments with (more or less) absentee landlords, who usually show their face only when rent time comes around. I don't hear too many apartment horror stories these days, and the domestic spies seem to have melted away, replaced by a more professional class with better things to do than root around in refrigerators and underwear drawers.<br /><br />This is undeniably a great development. But I have to admit, I kinda miss the days when Lubos did my laundry.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12434648.post-1114470828173115102005-04-26T03:12:00.000+04:302005-04-26T16:07:10.603+04:30Baby steps on the blog floorEh. Ah. Hmmm. I didn't actually mean to post anything; what I simply wanted to do was arrange my settings for this site. So I chose a nice green frame, typed in a name for the optional part of the URL, wrote an introductory non-description of what this blog will be about...then I got dumped without warning into the "post" page. Well, you don't ride a bike the first time without getting pushed, so here goes.<br /><br />I'm American, I'm 35, I'm male, I write and edit for a living, I occupy an 80-year old apartment with high ceilings and East German gas heating units. I live in a neighborhood in Prague called Vinohrady, which means "Vineyards" in Czech. I wish I was a more talented guitar player. I like movies, rock and roll, people who laugh easily, technology that works well, writing that reads smoothly and vegetable-free meals. I am unmarried. I was once in North Korea for five minutes. I used to live in the first house on a dead end street. I typically vote Democrat, but not always. I grew up in Long Island, New York, and spent a lot of time as a kid pretending to fight the Wehrmacht with my friends. I tried smoking when I was thirteen and didn't like it. I almost graduated from college.<br /><br />My name is Eric Volkman, if you don't already know me. If you do, good to see you here. Either way, thanks for tuning in.<br /><br />This blog won't be about anything in particular. I do want to talk a lot about music and movies, and this funny city I live in. I'll try not to be too heavy. I promise not to write much about politics.<br /><br />And I'm serious about that money-back guarantee.ERIC VOLKMANhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02875645617522701079noreply@blogger.com1