Edvard Munch: Happy birthday, honey. Anything special you’d like to do for your day of days?
Mrs. Munch: Where are my flowers? I asked for nothing but a simple bouquet of flowers once a week.
Edvard Munch: Eh, I figured so many people would be giving you flowers today, I’d wait a couple days, you know, until those wilted and stuff before I started…
Mrs. Munch: Right.
Edvard Munch: Don’t get mad, honey.

Continue reading →

Don’t go at the same time Kofi Annan is visiting.

Sheesh.

OTOH, now I have this story to tell*: finally get in, really have to pee on account of drinking bottled mineral water all morning and then the cold outside/warm car interior/cold outside/warm UN interior changes; head for nearest restroom. Guy comes in, takes urinal next to me.
Being the kind of person who ignores other guys in the restroom, I ignore him. But I can feel he’s looking at me.
“Mig, right?” he says. So I have to look over at him. It’s Kofi “F*cking” Annan.
“Mr. Annan? How do you know me?”
“I read your blog,” he says.
“You’re joking,” I say. Must not look at Mr. Annan’s johnson, I think. Which, of course, makes it harder more difficult not to. See, I once took a whiz next to Boris Yeltsin in a men’s room at the Moscow Airport, and the one thing everyone asks me when I tell them that story is, So, Boris have a big one?
“Turtle doing okay?” Kofi Annan asks.
“Greek land tortoise,” I say. “Yeah, she’s fine.”
“I liked the post about her and the harp,” he says.
“I admire your, uh, work,” I finally say.
He just chuckled a deep chuckle.
I couldn’t stand it any more and looked. I wish I hadn’t.
He followed my gaze, and shrugged. “Don’t be dismayed,” he said. “I do represent the African continent, after all,” he said.
“It’s very big,” I said.
“I call him my Peacemaker,” he said.
“That’s a better nickname than Blue Helmet, I suppose,” I said.
He chuckled again, shook off his Peacemaker, and left.
I mean, of course he tucked it back into his pants, too, and zipped up, and washed his hands. How much detail do you want?

______________________
*I have this story to tell because the security arrangements for Mr. Annan’s visit inspired it, not because it really happened.

I have a date with a pretty 14-year-old girl this evening.
Someone remind me before 17.00 Central European Time, so I don’t drive home and leave my daughter standing in front of the Sex Shop on the Mariahilferstrasse where all the junkies congregate, wondering where the hell dad is.
I forgot my cell phone today, so it’s just me and my memory against, you know, entropy and obliviousness. Tag-teaming. Battle Royale in The Cage.

Announcer: [fixes toupee] It looks bad for Mig, folks. Entropy has him in a propellor spin. Ready for takeoff… ouch!
Entropy: Yawn.
Mig: Oof. Eh. Feel so sleepy.
Announcer: Uh-oh, Entropy is tagging his partner, Oblivion! Here comes Oblivion, and he doesn’t look happy!
Memory: [on the sidelines] Mig! Are you there? Tag me, man!
Mig: Something is nagging me, at the back of my head, around the corners of my consciousness.
Memory: Shit, dude! Helloooo!
Announcer: Oblivion is erecting his impenetrable Wall of Silence and ennui! There’s no way out! This is what sent The Rock to Hollywood, if you remember! And that governor guy! And El Diablo!
Entropy: Give up, Mig. Memory, you stay where you are, he didn’t tag you. Give up, give up, I always win! The belt is mine!
Mig: What the hell was it? I see a sex shop. Why am I thinking about a sex shop.
Entropy: That’s not fair, Memory! He didn’t tag you!
Announcer: He’s struggling back! And now for a word from our sponsor.
[INSERT COMMERCIAL FOR FIAT DOBLO. The Spice Girls all pile into an orange Doblo at the beach. They are wearing bikinis. Sporty Spice says, "back when I was slim, I could ride in anything. Now that I've packed it on, I need a Doblo! This is great!" Spice Girls in unison: "In a Doblo, we're the Space Girls!"]
Announcer: Welcome back, folks. Sorry you missed the climactic bit where Mig remembered what he was forgetting. Here it is in slow-motion:
Mig: HHHHHhhhhrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmm. OOOOOhhhhhhhhhh yyyyyeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhhh.
Entropy: Dang.
Oblivion: How’d he get past the Wall? Dang.
Mig: Eh, Beta’s gonna be pissed. Better hurry.
Memory: [squirts ionic energized oxygen drink all over Mig's head] Atta boy.

RileyDog’s back.

Haruki Murakami’s latest novel, Kafka on the Shore, seems to have just hit the bookstores here in Austria (in German). I saw it in the window of every book store I passed on my lunch break, out walking around, accidentally following women (you know that? Where you’re apparently heading the same place they are, for blocks and blocks, until you start feeling bad and hoping you’re not creeping them out?) and jonesing for this electric cello in the window of the music score.
However, I would prefer to read it in English.
However, it is out of stock at Amazon.com. Tons and tons of shitty books they have in stock, but not this one. All the disgruntled books of revelations by disgruntled Bush insiders, but not a poetic masterpiece (I assume) by Haruki Murakami, my favorite famous living writer, more or less.