He smiled his way to the front of the line,
ordered a Double Whopper with double cheese
and plopped down at the table across from mine,
directly under happy pictures of him, Kruschev
and Clinton, all of them diehard fans
of big cigars behind closed doors.
He ate the same way he governed:
messy, loud and fully enjoying himself.
A pickle slid down the outside of his hand,
fell onto his left lapel,
next to another recent stain.
The fine print at the counter
said the beef was fresh from a ranch
just outside Saint Petersburg,
but rumor traced it back to
a formerly state-owned boat from Guatemala,
now in unknown hands --
all minor and insignificant details to a man
who was always a master at grasping the big picture
as firmly as the Mir-sized burger
disappearing at Sputnik-like speed
in his soft pink hands.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sunset Osaka
A ceramic pelican stands by the door,
the sign around its neck:
"Not on the menu."
I pause, amused, again --
glad we never left Hollywood
for a place where umbrellas reign.
"Sushi platter number two," you order,
as if Nanako didn't know.
She nods, polite, respectful,
turns to me, all lips and teeth,
"And for you, movie star!"
She knows who wields the plastic.
the sign around its neck:
"Not on the menu."
I pause, amused, again --
glad we never left Hollywood
for a place where umbrellas reign.
"Sushi platter number two," you order,
as if Nanako didn't know.
She nods, polite, respectful,
turns to me, all lips and teeth,
"And for you, movie star!"
She knows who wields the plastic.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Deja-voodoo
When it comes to my health, I've learned at work just to keep my mouth shut -- or at most to say I was struck by the flu, and then immediately to change the subject. Despite that, it's amazing how quickly the two streets named "Concern" and "Stupidity" intersect.
A little background: I'm over 50 years old. I've endured years of hospitalization due to an early childhood accident. And I can be considered within the realm of average intelligence. Plus, over the years, I have learned that I might as well mention the accident immediately when I take a new job just to get it out of the way. Besides, that information usually gives people something tangible to work with when it comes to trying to understand my sometimes weird behavior and to leave me in peace.
So, anytime I miss work because of illness, I just say I had the "flu" (which seems to be the same thing 99% of my colleagues always say about their absences as well).
Yet as soon as I get back to work, the questions start, and in this sequence:
"Are you feeling better?" (Answer: Yes, thanks for asking.)
"Did you go to the doctor." (Answer: Yes (even though I sometimes tell an untruth here, since this answer at least stops 50% of the work populace from continuing the inquisition).
But 50% just keep going:
"What did he say?"
My standard response to this is "It was a she." Yes, I sometimes lie about this as well, but it's a good enough tactic to stop another 50% of the questioners. Which leaves only 25% of the original questioners. So the questions continue:
"Oh. What did she say?"
I pause for a long second and then I say "That I'm now well enough to go back to work." And that stops another 50% of remaining nosies. So now I'm down to 12.5% of the original crowd. But now it start's getting really ridiculous.
"Are you sure?"
I then have to bite my tongue to prevent it from slashing "No. I'm 53 years old. I have absolutely no experience with being ill and going to doctors despite the fact that I spent half my life in hospitals all over North America." Yet, I do grab my tongue just in time and only allow it to say "Yup. Dead sure. But now my greatest worry is catching up on all my work. Just look at my desk."
That strategy knocks out another 50% of the remaining mindless, so now I'm down to ...just a moment, gotta calculate...6.25% of the original. Now these are the ultra-persistent. No game plan seems to knock them off their rails. Instead, they are only getting started, and ready to start feeding me with ever more helpful questions, such as (and I won't bother including my helpless responses since they seem not to work anyway.)
"Listen, I know a very good doctor. Do you want me to give you his name?"
"Did he give you a prescription?"
"What exactly did he prescribe?"
"Gee, that doesn't sound very effective. Did you ask him to give you X?"
"No? Well, my doctor would be glad to see you. Here, let me give you his name, Dr. ABC. After taking X for two days, you will feel much better. Are you sure that you don't want his number?"
At this point, I announce that I have to run to the men's room or to make an urgent phone call. This usually does the trick. No more questions. No more wonder cures. Yet, there's that tiny 0.5% who don't give up, a group I call the "criminally curious".
When I go to work the next day, they soon show up at my desk, full of concern:
"So, did you call Dr. ABC?"
A little background: I'm over 50 years old. I've endured years of hospitalization due to an early childhood accident. And I can be considered within the realm of average intelligence. Plus, over the years, I have learned that I might as well mention the accident immediately when I take a new job just to get it out of the way. Besides, that information usually gives people something tangible to work with when it comes to trying to understand my sometimes weird behavior and to leave me in peace.
So, anytime I miss work because of illness, I just say I had the "flu" (which seems to be the same thing 99% of my colleagues always say about their absences as well).
Yet as soon as I get back to work, the questions start, and in this sequence:
"Are you feeling better?" (Answer: Yes, thanks for asking.)
"Did you go to the doctor." (Answer: Yes (even though I sometimes tell an untruth here, since this answer at least stops 50% of the work populace from continuing the inquisition).
But 50% just keep going:
"What did he say?"
My standard response to this is "It was a she." Yes, I sometimes lie about this as well, but it's a good enough tactic to stop another 50% of the questioners. Which leaves only 25% of the original questioners. So the questions continue:
"Oh. What did she say?"
I pause for a long second and then I say "That I'm now well enough to go back to work." And that stops another 50% of remaining nosies. So now I'm down to 12.5% of the original crowd. But now it start's getting really ridiculous.
"Are you sure?"
I then have to bite my tongue to prevent it from slashing "No. I'm 53 years old. I have absolutely no experience with being ill and going to doctors despite the fact that I spent half my life in hospitals all over North America." Yet, I do grab my tongue just in time and only allow it to say "Yup. Dead sure. But now my greatest worry is catching up on all my work. Just look at my desk."
That strategy knocks out another 50% of the remaining mindless, so now I'm down to ...just a moment, gotta calculate...6.25% of the original. Now these are the ultra-persistent. No game plan seems to knock them off their rails. Instead, they are only getting started, and ready to start feeding me with ever more helpful questions, such as (and I won't bother including my helpless responses since they seem not to work anyway.)
"Listen, I know a very good doctor. Do you want me to give you his name?"
"Did he give you a prescription?"
"What exactly did he prescribe?"
"Gee, that doesn't sound very effective. Did you ask him to give you X?"
"No? Well, my doctor would be glad to see you. Here, let me give you his name, Dr. ABC. After taking X for two days, you will feel much better. Are you sure that you don't want his number?"
At this point, I announce that I have to run to the men's room or to make an urgent phone call. This usually does the trick. No more questions. No more wonder cures. Yet, there's that tiny 0.5% who don't give up, a group I call the "criminally curious".
When I go to work the next day, they soon show up at my desk, full of concern:
"So, did you call Dr. ABC?"
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Land of the Giant Chickens
The tunnel feels familiar
but still makes both of us uneasy –
dark, no lights, only wide enough
for single-lane traffic, the kind
that gives you a wait or go signal.
We emerge with all limbs and skulls in place.
When the untempered rays of July invade,
accentuate the grooves in our skin, our gray,
the driver eyes me in the rear-view mirror,
glances over his shoulder at Jumelle,
a smiler from a mother with a foible,
but no lasting gift, for foreign men.
We know the look.
"How long you marry?" he asks.
We grin, first at each other, then him.
"An eternity," we recite in unison.
He keeps silent the rest of the way.
A sign in front of the small building reads
La Tierra De Los Pollos Gigantes
¡Vea las huellas antiguas!
We buy our tickets, go inside.
A six-by-ten-foot plate of Plexiglas
in the middle of the floor covers
a slab of what could be limestone.
Two sets of footprints, a dozen in all,
march along side by side, each the length
of one and a half of my feet: three front toes,
one toward the rear – more archaeopteryx
than avian, I think.
A mural covering the back wall shows a meadow
with a rooster and hen, tall as the wall itself,
crafted in the pastels of a fetal dream.
Two sunrise-gold chicks the size of bean-bag chairs
and identical – at least, I figure, until the onset
of poultry puberty – stand near the hen.
A single eggshell cracked in half
lies beside a nest far in the background.
The rooster looks like he wants to flee,
fatherhood a demand he has no talent for.
Our eyes lock, night skies fooling in their pupils.
None of it seems real –
like most of the other things we've seen
since our hands were pulled apart
on the way out of the womb.
but still makes both of us uneasy –
dark, no lights, only wide enough
for single-lane traffic, the kind
that gives you a wait or go signal.
We emerge with all limbs and skulls in place.
When the untempered rays of July invade,
accentuate the grooves in our skin, our gray,
the driver eyes me in the rear-view mirror,
glances over his shoulder at Jumelle,
a smiler from a mother with a foible,
but no lasting gift, for foreign men.
We know the look.
"How long you marry?" he asks.
We grin, first at each other, then him.
"An eternity," we recite in unison.
He keeps silent the rest of the way.
A sign in front of the small building reads
La Tierra De Los Pollos Gigantes
¡Vea las huellas antiguas!
We buy our tickets, go inside.
A six-by-ten-foot plate of Plexiglas
in the middle of the floor covers
a slab of what could be limestone.
Two sets of footprints, a dozen in all,
march along side by side, each the length
of one and a half of my feet: three front toes,
one toward the rear – more archaeopteryx
than avian, I think.
A mural covering the back wall shows a meadow
with a rooster and hen, tall as the wall itself,
crafted in the pastels of a fetal dream.
Two sunrise-gold chicks the size of bean-bag chairs
and identical – at least, I figure, until the onset
of poultry puberty – stand near the hen.
A single eggshell cracked in half
lies beside a nest far in the background.
The rooster looks like he wants to flee,
fatherhood a demand he has no talent for.
Our eyes lock, night skies fooling in their pupils.
None of it seems real –
like most of the other things we've seen
since our hands were pulled apart
on the way out of the womb.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
No, No Nessie
There's no doubt. None whatsoever. There IS a Nessie. She's just a very slick character. As soon as she sees the next set of adventurers getting their equipment together to come search for her, she swims to the other end of the lake in the dark, looks left and right, and when all is clear, climbs out of the lake, dashes over the hills, and jumps into the lake on the other side. She then waits there for a few days until all has quieted down on the home front, and she slips back into her main lake ("loch" for you purists).
She's been doing this for centuries. Somehow, no one has caught her in the trick, well, no one but me, and I promised that I wouldn't let the cat out of the bag. But Nessie is not always a lady, and she recently irked me with one of her antics. See, she knows that I walk with a pigeon-toed limp, and one day when she was walking behind me, I spun around quickly and spotted her imitating my walk.
That's just the way she is, all nice to your face and all nasty behind it, sort of a Joan Collins character. Still, I have to hand it to her: Those smarts of hers have enabled her to stay off camera for as long as Kodak has been in business. Except for the occasional "sighting" of course. I take it that you've noticed that none of those are very conclusive. Well, that's another one of her tricks. She stays away far away from the crowds until things start quieting down, and then she pulls her trick. She swipes up one of the numerous boats that have sunk to the bottom of the lake when she has "accidentally bumped" them (her words) and thrown all the passengers into the water (although she denies ever having eaten any of those onlookers).
So she grabs her boat of choice off the bottom, swims with it over to where all the tourists are staring out across the lack. She pushes the boat up out of the water and swims a lap across the lake. As soon as she hears the "OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE THAT???!!!"s from the spectators on shore, she drops the boat and swims off to the other end of the lake, snickering all the way.
Now that you know her tricks, you are probably ready to rush off on an expedition to catch her. Well, forget it. She's had centuries and centuries of experience at being evasive, so she will always be several steps ahead of you no matter what your IQ. And did I mention that her middle name is "Roswell". Figures.
She's been doing this for centuries. Somehow, no one has caught her in the trick, well, no one but me, and I promised that I wouldn't let the cat out of the bag. But Nessie is not always a lady, and she recently irked me with one of her antics. See, she knows that I walk with a pigeon-toed limp, and one day when she was walking behind me, I spun around quickly and spotted her imitating my walk.
That's just the way she is, all nice to your face and all nasty behind it, sort of a Joan Collins character. Still, I have to hand it to her: Those smarts of hers have enabled her to stay off camera for as long as Kodak has been in business. Except for the occasional "sighting" of course. I take it that you've noticed that none of those are very conclusive. Well, that's another one of her tricks. She stays away far away from the crowds until things start quieting down, and then she pulls her trick. She swipes up one of the numerous boats that have sunk to the bottom of the lake when she has "accidentally bumped" them (her words) and thrown all the passengers into the water (although she denies ever having eaten any of those onlookers).
So she grabs her boat of choice off the bottom, swims with it over to where all the tourists are staring out across the lack. She pushes the boat up out of the water and swims a lap across the lake. As soon as she hears the "OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE THAT???!!!"s from the spectators on shore, she drops the boat and swims off to the other end of the lake, snickering all the way.
Now that you know her tricks, you are probably ready to rush off on an expedition to catch her. Well, forget it. She's had centuries and centuries of experience at being evasive, so she will always be several steps ahead of you no matter what your IQ. And did I mention that her middle name is "Roswell". Figures.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
the pain of pale blue
I've never given much thought to shoes. To me, they've always been sort of like underwear: you just put 'em on and forget about them, as long as they are black and don't malfunction. And, despite me writing about them here, that's not about to change. But that of course only applies to MY shoes.
When it comes to other people's shoes, however, I am again and again horrified, especially here in Munich. When I lived in Hamburg, people seemed to know how to wear the right shoes, and especially not to wear some confusing color that has nothing to do with the rest of what they have on. Munich women, and some men as well, are Wunderkinder at wearing a dark outfit with white or pastel shoes. The men seem to have a penchant for wearing grey suits with BROWN shoes. It is mind-boggling. Or maybe I should say mind-bloggling. Whatever.
When these uninformed folks happen by, I see nothing but shoes. No legs, no torso, no head. Just shoes, very wrong shoes. It is honestly painful, and all the more so since they seem to be fully oblivious to it all. They just strut right along, happy as they can be in their bad, faulty shoes. It leaves me in despair. Gallons of despair. So many unresolved questions pop into my brain that they trip over each other. How did that person get to be that age and yet never learn about the power of shoes, and particularly the very negative power of the incorrect shoes? Did no one ever tell them the truth? Did they hear truth but simply refuse to ignore it? Do they lack the money to buy the right shoes? Did their mother wear the wrong shoes her entire life as well? Is it a genetic flaw? Is it beyond cure? Is it such a high heel to climb (forgive me)?
Oh me. I just close my eyes and hope for the best, hope that those feet will take those shoes beyond my eyesight by the time I count to 10. Hope that the next pair that comes along fits my eyes.
When it comes to other people's shoes, however, I am again and again horrified, especially here in Munich. When I lived in Hamburg, people seemed to know how to wear the right shoes, and especially not to wear some confusing color that has nothing to do with the rest of what they have on. Munich women, and some men as well, are Wunderkinder at wearing a dark outfit with white or pastel shoes. The men seem to have a penchant for wearing grey suits with BROWN shoes. It is mind-boggling. Or maybe I should say mind-bloggling. Whatever.
When these uninformed folks happen by, I see nothing but shoes. No legs, no torso, no head. Just shoes, very wrong shoes. It is honestly painful, and all the more so since they seem to be fully oblivious to it all. They just strut right along, happy as they can be in their bad, faulty shoes. It leaves me in despair. Gallons of despair. So many unresolved questions pop into my brain that they trip over each other. How did that person get to be that age and yet never learn about the power of shoes, and particularly the very negative power of the incorrect shoes? Did no one ever tell them the truth? Did they hear truth but simply refuse to ignore it? Do they lack the money to buy the right shoes? Did their mother wear the wrong shoes her entire life as well? Is it a genetic flaw? Is it beyond cure? Is it such a high heel to climb (forgive me)?
Oh me. I just close my eyes and hope for the best, hope that those feet will take those shoes beyond my eyesight by the time I count to 10. Hope that the next pair that comes along fits my eyes.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
jungle of lips
the rain has been heavy lately,
drenching me with all the body parts
I've lost through the years,
some tart and seedy as pomegranates
I take off my shirt, wring it out,
tiptoe through whispers
drifting up, down around me,
poisoned dandelions
that can do nothing to me,
do everything to me
before me, behind me,
left, right, overhead, under my feet,
monkey faces tell me all
their long, snaking tongues sip at my air,
lick it out of my nose,
steal away the promise of dust,
my secrets the fruit so ripe in their trees
drenching me with all the body parts
I've lost through the years,
some tart and seedy as pomegranates
I take off my shirt, wring it out,
tiptoe through whispers
drifting up, down around me,
poisoned dandelions
that can do nothing to me,
do everything to me
before me, behind me,
left, right, overhead, under my feet,
monkey faces tell me all
their long, snaking tongues sip at my air,
lick it out of my nose,
steal away the promise of dust,
my secrets the fruit so ripe in their trees
downsizing
To be honest, I have given up on seeing the big picture. There must surely be people out there who have conquered this challenge, though I'm not sure that I have ever encountered one. If so, they didn't let me know. Perhaps they were just being kind, as they stood by and watched me spin round and round in my own tiny picture, fully aware that I'd never get it even if it were spelled out for me.
So, I've decided to focus on the little picture. Doing so leaves me a lot more content at the end of the day. Just knowing that the four sides I see border in everything I need to concern myself with. Getting out bed in the morning, switching on the TV, deciding whether to drink tea or coffee, showing up at work, sitting at my desk the entire day, coming home, watching some TV after dinner, climbing into bed, switching off the light, dream and snore. There. It's indeed all that simple. No woulda, shoulda, coulda. Just did, did, did.
So, I've decided to focus on the little picture. Doing so leaves me a lot more content at the end of the day. Just knowing that the four sides I see border in everything I need to concern myself with. Getting out bed in the morning, switching on the TV, deciding whether to drink tea or coffee, showing up at work, sitting at my desk the entire day, coming home, watching some TV after dinner, climbing into bed, switching off the light, dream and snore. There. It's indeed all that simple. No woulda, shoulda, coulda. Just did, did, did.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Cavitatus
My dentist recently introduced me to inter-tooth brushes. I have now become addicted to them. There's something very fundamentally satisfying about the sensation of brushing not only the front and back of my teeth, but the space between as well. I carry the tiny brushes with me everywhere. They are a great way to pass time such as when waiting for the bus (see "No. 144" below) or when waiting for the next sentence here to coagulate inside my brain. The same dentist also introduced me to "Tooth Mousse," which is equally addictive. And I fully rejoice these two inventions. Good to see that very low tech still has a place in this world.
Friday, July 04, 2008
No. 144
O wail. It looks like Marat crumbled again. Mebbe next year. In the meantime...
I've really been enjoying riding the bus lately. Not having driven a vehicle for almost ten years now, I have developed a great liking and appreciation for public transportation. Just sitting there waiting becomes a moment of...hmmm, meditation is not quite the word...but perhaps relaxation and calmness. Maybe the bus will be on time, maybe it won't. Maybe it will show up 30 minutes late. So I just sit there and watch people walk by, study the buildings around me, or close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I could always take a cab if I wanted, but I can never rationalize the expense. Why all the rush? Why not just wait? Wait, wait, and wait. Eventually, the bus does show up, always (unless there's a strike). Learning to wait takes time. It takes reprioritization skills. They take time to master. The more I try to learn them, the further away I get from ever learning them. So I just forget about them, and wait. I close my eyes...and wait.
I've really been enjoying riding the bus lately. Not having driven a vehicle for almost ten years now, I have developed a great liking and appreciation for public transportation. Just sitting there waiting becomes a moment of...hmmm, meditation is not quite the word...but perhaps relaxation and calmness. Maybe the bus will be on time, maybe it won't. Maybe it will show up 30 minutes late. So I just sit there and watch people walk by, study the buildings around me, or close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I could always take a cab if I wanted, but I can never rationalize the expense. Why all the rush? Why not just wait? Wait, wait, and wait. Eventually, the bus does show up, always (unless there's a strike). Learning to wait takes time. It takes reprioritization skills. They take time to master. The more I try to learn them, the further away I get from ever learning them. So I just forget about them, and wait. I close my eyes...and wait.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Advantage Marat
Ahhhhh, the wonderful weeks of Wimbledon are here. This year has turned out to be something special. Venus and Serena are once again facing each other on the world's primiere tennis stage. I concede that the two of them never play their best tennis when competing against one another, but I was beginning to fear that I would never see it happen again. Both of them have now reached the age where most female tennis players start seriously thinking about retirement. Yet, they've pulled it off at least one last time for those of us who have followed their careers from way back when.
And on the men's side, things are shaping up with a few nice twists in the semi-finals. It's no surprise that Federer and Nadal made it this far. It is somewhat of a surprise that Schüttler did, even though his chances of making it into the final are low, low, lower. Then there's that other guy -- Safin. He's probably one of the few men on circuit who could give Federer and Nadal some trouble. Sure, he's erratic. You never know whether he's going to leave the court as a train wreck or as a giant killer. On the few occasions where he manages to get his mind and body on the court at the same time, neither Fed, nor Rafa, nor Joki can get pass him. He's got the game, the skill, the talent, the power, and the height to thump them all. Rarely do all of those parameters fall neatly into place, but when they do, Safin puts on a show that no one else can equal. The Fed-Rafa rivalry is always spellbinding, and I will definitely watch it if the two of them end up in the final. But if Safin can keep it together until the end, me and the entire tennis world will get to see just how amazing a sport it can actually be. Deuce.
And on the men's side, things are shaping up with a few nice twists in the semi-finals. It's no surprise that Federer and Nadal made it this far. It is somewhat of a surprise that Schüttler did, even though his chances of making it into the final are low, low, lower. Then there's that other guy -- Safin. He's probably one of the few men on circuit who could give Federer and Nadal some trouble. Sure, he's erratic. You never know whether he's going to leave the court as a train wreck or as a giant killer. On the few occasions where he manages to get his mind and body on the court at the same time, neither Fed, nor Rafa, nor Joki can get pass him. He's got the game, the skill, the talent, the power, and the height to thump them all. Rarely do all of those parameters fall neatly into place, but when they do, Safin puts on a show that no one else can equal. The Fed-Rafa rivalry is always spellbinding, and I will definitely watch it if the two of them end up in the final. But if Safin can keep it together until the end, me and the entire tennis world will get to see just how amazing a sport it can actually be. Deuce.
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