The Flying of the Bulls

I expected to have a similar experience as Kafka, which he recorded in his story Aeroplanes in Brescia, but there were two problems. First, I don’t know what it was because I didn’t read the story, and second, there was no Red Bull in 1909. Of course, I’m talking about going to an Air Race event on Sunday.

Officially, it was called Red Bull Air Race Duel, and a duel it was indeed. Two pilots, a guy from Austria and a guy from Hungary (I think), flying between giant inflatable cones built up on pontoon platforms on Mozart’s Blue Danube. (Only the river’s sort of green/brown and anything but beautiful.) It was a timed race, and the idea was to fly the course faster than the other guy. Well, obviously. But instead of watching this race, I got to see other things that in their own way were even more interesting than two blue planes performing death-defying acrobatics under the Bratislava castle hill.

I went with my sister, who was mostly interested in taking pictures of the race, not the race itself. I pretended to be completely uninterested, only there as company, but I was actually going in hopes of seeing some cool flying and maybe a plane crash killing thousands. So there we were, getting off the bus at the bridge off-ramp and walking to the desperately crowded river bank. The organizers said a hundred K would attend, but I, never being good at guessing the number of people in a crowd, thought it was a lot more.

We decided to walk back to the bridge, onto the actual road, as did many other people. Maybe not the safest thing, but who cares, it was an adrenaline sports event. We walked up a grassy knoll leading to the asphalt-topped two lanes our bus covered just minutes ago. It was no place for lone gunmen, as someone decided to use the steep hill as a toilet, and the few meters of hiking were a test of the senses: the smell, the even worse sight of the shit-covered napkin. What a great day to be a fan of dangerous flying.

Merging with ongoing traffic may be pretty risky for two people, but since a rather large mob already decided to do so before us, the cars and semis, or their drivers to be precise, were alert and went by slowly. Our view of the river was OK, but the inflatable cones, the important part of the river, were blocked by trees on the river bank. We did see a plane fly through the obstacles a few times and do some wacky stuff, but our position was less than ideal for observing and practically useless for taking pictures. Also, leaning over the railing was anything but pleasant. We were on the part of the bridge that wasn’t above water, but it was still a pretty nasty fall down to all the people on the ground.

Speaking of people, I did have the chance to observe some pretty interesting stuff. First, on the bridge there was a couple of Russians standing all around me and the sis. To be honest, I only assumed they were Russian based on their looks, but I was unable to distinguish any words, so maybe they were speaking Ukrainian or whatever. But there was one guy with them who had the looks of a mobster on vacation from the underbelly of Moscow or Yekaterinburg. He had the shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest, the golden chain and big golden watch, the rascally, rugged looks, and the cool sunglasses. You know, a Russian.

Down under us, the people I was afraid I would crush as I’d fall on them, they were mingling among parked cars of the Red Bull people. There was this shiny new Hummer, the kind (and color) they have on CSI Miami, which is exactly what we both told ourselves, probably because the car is the only memorable thing about that catastrophe of a show. And this being Europe, and not exactly the rich part of it, big cars like this are rather rare, so a few people were taking pictures with it; something I found pretty stupid. Later I made my sister take a picture of me standing in front of an old Soviet car we found in a different parking lot, just to privately parody the hillbillies with the H2.

Of course, we soon abandoned our position on the bridge, not just because it was no good, but also because two metro cops were attempting to crowd control us all off the road. I though the two of them would make a wonderful couple on a TV show. One really thin and short, the other so fat you’d think he ate the small guy’s family for breakfast. But before we departed, we had the honor of hearing a man from the crowd argue with the cops in a very disrespectful manner. It had me thinking how cool it would be if the two cops called in a SWAT team and arrested our collective ass for slowing down traffic or something.

The plane we just barely saw from the bridge, that was just one of the pilots doing a test run and then flying back to a small airport which I didn’t even know existed before. Now, as we climbed back down the grassy knoll and didn’t shoot anyone, as we merged with the masses on the river bank and failed to be awestruck by Horatio’s truck, four planes flew above our heads, making people look up and stare straight into the shining sun. My parents’ daughter took some pictures, the shutter clicking rapidly to the sound of the four engines. The planes, by the way, reminded me of all the WWII movies I never enjoyed; their motors sounding the same as all those Junkers Stukas and Messerschmidts. If only they released bombs instead of the green smoke trailing their every complicated spinning move. Now that would’ve gotten the adrenaline flowing.

We did see the planes flying overhead, but from our position on the river bank, the inflated cones were now completely hidden behind the same trees that were in the way when we were back on the bridge. There was no chance of moving closer to Mozart’s muse, there were just too many people. Small children and everything. But, naturally, I had a plan. The bridge is not just the road. It also has a walkway for us regular pedestrians, and I wanted to go up there, but it was crowded as well. We tried anyway, but all we saw was a kid sitting on a bench in the shade and gasping for air. He was the nerdy metalist type. Long hair and concert T-shirt, but also glasses and outdated slacks. Then, more people everywhere, and no planes to be seen through either more tress, the bridge’s pillars, heads of other people, or lack of trying hard enough.

Anyway, it was a hot day and I couldn’t blame the nerdy metalist for almost fainting. The only refreshment available to the masses was a Red Bull stand selling (or giving away, I don’t know which since we couldn’t get near it) cans of their sugary beverage. In a more developed country, or a more fierce capitalistic society, there’d be Pakistanis and Gooks selling lemonade all over the place. This once again being the lamer part of Europe, where everyone‘s still so used to not being able to get anything they want (a thing we had here under the big red star and hammer and sickle), nobody thought of complaining or opening their own refreshments stand. They all brought their own water, everyone but us. My sister, the poor thing so used to better services from the time she spent in England, didn’t want to bring our own water, thinking we could buy some there. Here. But no. We were thirsty the whole time.

There was a dark blue chopper filming the whole thing, probably a Red Bull company copter documenting this promotional happening for the suits back in wherever’s their HQ. Naturally, it wasn’t in the air all the time, because neither were the planes. It landed in a field behind some more trees, where no one would stand even if there weren’t any fences closing it off. We decided to walk over there, giving up on seeing any of the stunts and the whole race, mostly because the sister of my nonexistent brother wanted to take pictures of the chopper landing. I admit it’s a pretty cool thing to see, and it was always my dream to fly (in) one of those things. Maybe a Huey cruising above the rice fields of southern ‘Nam. But this Bell they had here would do, too.

Probably because this just wasn’t our day, we missed the landing, but at least we got close enough for the wind from the rotor to cool us off. Then it went back to action, and my genetic double got the money shot done. We walked back to the mob under, on, and above the bridge, and this is when I posed with the ancient Lada Samara, a car named after the creepy girl in the creepy Japanese movie. Or, more likely, a car with absolutely no relation to the creepy girl from The Ring, or Ring-u if you will. This is also when my sister complained about the lack of political immigrants selling soda, and so we decided to walk to the nearby mall and buy bottled water suitable for infants. Not that I’m particularly picky when it comes to water, but that’s what they were selling. Evian or pool water, it all comes from the same source.

The mall and the subsequent bus stop on our way home were both filled with people who, most likely, gave up on seeing any airborne action just as we did. But it wasn’t all a useless waste of time, I suppose. I got to see crappy police work, crappy organization of a public event, and even someone’s old dried up crap. And at the end of the day, I got to wonder. All the people who had the good spots and saw everything, they probably had to arrive hours before the thing started, and they baked in the hot Sun we’ve come to hate and fear so much, because it kills the glaciers and causes cancer. So were the two planes flying between four cones worth all the trouble? Probably not.

Grave New Awakening

It’s funny how the mornings never change. Sure, there are small differences, but as a whole it’s always the same. These painful mornings after were the reason I never used to understand why people drink. Why go through all the trouble? Of course, I used to wonder about this before I started drinking myself.

In a way, this is similar to smoking. One always says, as a child first trying it out, after a few minutes of coughing and spitting, that he or she will never smoke. But, come the right age and the wrong friends, there we all are. Smoking.

So these mornings I never used to understand, they go like this.

And this is the worst case scenario.

Well, no. It could get worse. But anyway.

After opening my eyes, there’s the split second of Who the hell am I and what’s going on? and then my brain reboots. Now I know my name, and after looking around, I know I’m in my bed in my room. The inevitable question follows: How the hell did I get here?

A few times I woke up at a friend’s place, and then that question was preceded by Where the hell am I? and succeeded by Seriously, how did I get here?

It’s always such a mystery, getting home. Walking, taking a bus or a cab, whatever it is, I just never remember going form A to B. B being bed, of course. It’s like my brain is still somehow capable of picking up stuff when I’m not moving, but when I want to go somewhere, all the nervous system resources go into limb coordination, and my memory is fried. Not that I remember everything that went on when I was sitting on my ass, but at least there’s more.

Blackout syndrome, I suppose, is a perfect name. The bits and pieces of the evening always start with a fade-in and end with a fade-out. Everything engulfed in a darkness of having no clue. Hence, blackout. And apparently, this syndrome works something like this: Alcohol impairs the brain’s ability to transform information from short term to long term memory, so everything you do you only remember for maybe seven minutes. Tops.

By repetition, it is possible to get some things through to the long term section. I guess that means that if I remember throwing up, I probably did so a couple of times. But how ‘bout I skip this part.

After not remembering how I got home, more questions arise. My favorite one being Where’s my cell phone? It always turns out to be either still in my pants somewhere in the corner, or on the shelf right next to my head. With weak, trembling hands I take it and check outgoing calls.

God forbid I called someone and don’t remember it. Well, it would be OK with friends but a little awkward with relatives. Hey, grandpa, come on out and partayyy..!

Another fun thing to do is check the photos I might’ve taken. Usually there’s either nothing or just one blurry image of nothing in particular. Sometimes, however, I surprise myself with the level of artistry me and my cell phone managed to produce. Well, to be fair, it’s me, my cell phone, and my intoxication. Together, we do the great shots of hammered friends and tired bus drivers and cops in pursuit.

If I do find a new photo in the gallery menu, I tend to wonder how it got there. More often than not, the pictures tell me nothing. Only once did a slightly out-of-focus shot of two guys fighting help enlighten the previous evening and how the blood got on my shoes. Enough shock value for one morning?

I wish.

The hardest part comes next. Getting out of bed. As I try to sit up, the taste in my mouth hits me hard. The taste, and the dryness. When my feet are finally on solid ground, I swear for the umpteenth time that I’ll never dink again. And I hope everyone else from the party is also having such a great time right now.

The real oh for fuck’s sake moment comes when I find my wallet and it’s once again empty. Always the same story with this. I don’t take too much cash, because I figure the less I take the less I spend, which translates into the less I spend the less I drink and the more I remember afterwards. What usually happens is I either take extra cash just in case or I spend the little I take and then have a date with the ATM. In both cases the results never vary.

Grunting about being broke, I stumble and wobble and limp around the house. Pointlessly moving to shake off the dizziness of still being a little bit drunk. Pointlessly hoping the headache will, pretty please, go away soon.

But really, I don’t drink that much. I might actually drink a lot less than I give myself credit for. It’s just that when I do, I like to do it big time. And writing about it is so much fun, because everyone can relate to it. I myself have read and heard tons of stories and accounts like this, and I must say I always found a piece of me in them. Someone might tell me about how they found a mitten in their pocket and don’t know where it came from, and I’m thinking Yes, I hear ya, brother.

Everywhere, these stories keep coming up because everyone keeps drinking. Young people, old people, business men, doctors, mothers, fathers, sailors, soldiers, hobos, and bums. Even priests and old ladies receiving the blood of Christ. Wine used to be safer to drink than water. It’s not just a socially given, traditional kind of thing, it’s in the very nature of people. And I want to believe that everyone hates the morning after.

After I drain the rest of the poison out of my system and manage to eat something, I start to look forward to meeting the people involved in yesterday’s session again. The conversation we have the following day always tends to consist of the same sentences.

Great time we had yesterday. Yeah, but can you tell me what happened after, say, eleven o’clock? Oh crap, I was going to ask you the same thing. We never remember anything! You bet. But I think we’re missing on a lot of fun this way. Uh huh. There’s always this line and we never fail to cross it. Not just cross it, we fucking jump over it and never look back. Yeah, but remember when you tripped over that chair? No way, so that’s why my foot hurts. Ha, wait till you see my knee…

And on and on until we set the date for the next gentlemen’s meeting.

Oh, the shots and chasers, the music and jokes and musings about years past. Funny how I always can’t wait, completely forgetting what a grave new awakening will follow. Funny how we always all end up in the same situation. I guess one day we’ll do this so many times we’ll remember everything.

You know how the old memory saying goes: Repetition makes perfect!

Dogs that lick and dogs that bite, hounds that howl through the night

So polio and small pox and rabies are supposedly practically non-existent in our age of penicillin and whatnot. But if FDR were to rise from his grave, you wouldn’t want him coughing in your face, never mind the fact there’s a dead president around. And if a poor Russian immigrant with suspicious spots were to sit next to you on the bus, germ warfare is the first thing running through your head, even though the Cold War is over. So when a dog bit me, who could possibly blame me for freaking out? All these diseases, genetic, viral, bacterial, fairytale, they still exist somewhere on the planet, no matter what other people from WHO tell you. And it is my belief that they all exist in the filthy mouths of dogs.

Take my street for example: dogs of all shapes and sizes in all the gardens and on every sidewalk, doing their business, their owner thinking that if they fertilize it enough, the pavement just might bare fruit one day. I see dogs of all the popular sorts: Golden Retrievers and Lab puppies and crime-fighting Nazi Shepherds and sanctified Bernards with little barrels attached to their collar, in case there’s an avalanche in the suburbs of this the Capital City. And then there are the old women dogs. The small, fluffy, cute little dusters with legs. And lets not forget the dangerous hounds. The big Boxer and Doberman and Bulldog and Pitbull and Cerberus. Because in a neighborhood built in the 1950s and still mostly inhabited by the original owners, you really need these Baskervillians to guard you from uncanny old ladies and their grandchildren.

But not everyone has a dog. Some people have two. This one guy, died a few years back, used to live a few houses upstreet from us, he had four four-legged best friends. That’s sixteen legs in the house that don’t do any valuable, money-earning legwork.

My house, or rather,, ma parent’s house, or even my grandma’s house, come to think of it, well our house is one of the maybe five or six properties on the long street that are K-9-less. And I dare say it always will be that way, because our failure to succumb to the general feeling of fondness towards dogs is genetic.

In reality, there are no cat people and dog people. There are just dog people and normal people. Feel free to leave the cats out of the equation, because what are cats if not just smaller dogs that don’t want to be in a committed relationship? You have to wash them, feed them, love them, and clean up after them the same way you do with dogs, only cats don’t give a rat’s ass about you and leave whenever they want wherever they want. So my point is, my family’s not a bunch of cat people. We’re a bunch of normal people. (Normal, of course, only when it comes to this K-9 issue.) And just as we hate dogs, we hate their owners.

Pretentious assholes might not be the correct term, but it sure as hell sounds right. Your typical dog owner will do one of three things: talk about their pet all the time, make you pet their pet even if you don’t want to, and stick it in your face that they are part of a special community. Dog owners are not regular people. Despite popular belief, they might not even be people at all. Maybe some kind of missing link between man and dog. Werewolf is what I think it’s called.

A typical dog owner, member of this just slightly obnoxious and annoying community, is completely blind to the fact that not everyone likes dogs. They think you don’t mind when it sniffs around your ass and licks your fingers and jumps on you and tears your wind pipe out. How could you mind? It’s so adorable and cute and here doggy, good doggy. A person with a dog will typically socialize with another person with a dog very easily. You know, because they “get it” and you don’t. They have a dog for barking out loud, and the dogless just have no idea.

When I was out with a bunch of friends once, one of them brought her adorable little bitch, and it was just impossible to talk her (the person), because any kind of conversation would be 25% you talking, 25% you waiting for an answer while she was watching her dog 25% her saying “yes, you’re a good doggy” instead of talking to you, and then finally the 25% of distracted answers would come. And what’s even worse than your friend with the dog is your other friends interacting with the dog. It’s incredible how people known to use harsh language and drugs turn into people saying “Here boy!” to a female animal and throwing sticks instead of throwing parties.

Yes, I would say I’m oppressed. I probably wouldn’t complain about it to a black person or a Jew, but still I think I’m being discriminated against. Walking home means watching big barking beasts running towards me and just barely being stopped by the fences holding them in. Beware of dog signs were the first thing I learned to read and it will be the last thing I’ll read as well. And the best part is the dog huggers actually think they are the minority that should complain about discrimination. They complain about having to put up those beware of dog signs and buying leashes and vaccinating their dogs. Because to them, Planet of the Dogs would be the ideal world. A place where everyone gets to step in dog shit and get licked and barked at and bitten and be happy about it. They think it’s normal to walk behind their pets with plastic bags, hunting for their turds. They think it’s OK to feed dog chow to animals that once used to be scavengers and predators and can very easily be those things again.

But I wouldn’t want to go on a rant here, so let me get back to those diseases. Why did I mention those? Because every night, and especially during the warm months (lately I noticed those are all year round), I am forced to listen to the insufferable howling of these domesticated beasts. All around me, on my street and the parallel streets and the perpendicular streets, from every direction, dogs yell and scream and bitch and moan all night. And it’s not the full Moon, and they are not being tortured and they are not lonely, so I figure the only reason this cacophony of howls is on air all night every night is because all those dogs are sick. Flees, worms, rabies, polio… heck, even TBC and the plague and Tourette syndrome and Guillain-Barré and cancer, these dogs must have it all, or if you don’t think so, then tell me why won’t they shut up and let me sleep?