Traveling With a Monkey

Grotesque Italian Septuagenarians

2010-05-15T03:34:00.000+02:00

Brin the Croatian found a job in a hostel on an Adriatic island.
His ex-girlfriend, Nema, currently works with me, and is translating and sharing selected excerpts of his diary. I edit and post these screeds. This young man, whom I have never met, will help you get a sense of the journey that leads to a life of living and working in a hostel.

And Daniel?

Much like Brin, I’m in Croatia, working at a hostel.

“Hey! Isn’t this that old thing where you go to the doctor and say, ‘uh. I’ve got this friend who is having trouble peeing…’”

Well think about it. I mean, have you heard about when a bear breaks into the village convenience store?

I am saturating the brain with esoteric, homebrewed walnut and rosemary liqueurs.

I wear an oxygen mask attached to a shisha, and in this way I feel the lungs flapping like a gleaming trout, gasping in the bilge of the aluminum fishing boat near the black boots of some sadistic off-duty cop named Arlen out fishing with his dad who smokes through a stoma while tremblingly clutching a limp and bait-less rod.

For me, hygiene has been reduced to occasional immersions in the sea.

All grammar has descended into monosyllabic grunts, barely intelligible in written form.

The closest I will be to writing will be seeking the proper place on the keyboard to place my sluggish, trembling fingers. Hopefully my jerky, stroke-victimish trembles will correspond to what Nema is telling me: I can promise nothing more than this.

Well from Brin to Nema to me to you:

In Split we cross the bridge and soon we follow the tracks of the train. And then we walk, next to the sea, on our way to a club.

From Pula to Split, I spent the whole day, stuck in the seat of a bus. The drivers pull over every two hours to smoke out front by the door.

I have met up with an old friend, who lives in the city alone.

editor’s note:
I made a similar trek from Rovinj to Split and soon found myself within the walls of Diocletian’s palace. I stumbled into an alcove, and caught an a cappella group in the act of singing. Grotesque Italian septuagenarians penned the singers in against the rounded back wall. It seemed as if the singers were about to be executed by a senior firing squad. I made a short, covert video in the hopes of documenting this before wandering, disappointed, towards the repellently named, “Booze and Snooze Hostel.

Victor stays with his tiny old mother in a nice apartment in Split. I left my things in his room next to his bed on the floor. We made our way into the night lit by the light of the moon.

editor’s note:
At this point, Nema has insisted I make record of the fact that she has always suspected Brin and Victor to be raging homosexuals, and that at this very moment, they are probably somewhere in Romania, “broke-packing it,” to use her term.

After one beer, I took Victor’s keys, and left for some burek and strudel. Victor and I were hugging goodbye, and I decided to lift him and twirl.

Victor let out a bit of a squeal as I hoisted him up and began a slow spin. It seemed funny, to do at the time, but the bar was a tight-packed space.

Victor’s right side made contact with a couple, also engaged in some hoisting (drinks, not bodies). They let out a cry and they found themselves soaked. The guy in his pivo, the girl in her gemist.

editor’s note:
Pivo means beer. Gemist is water plus wine; it means mixed. Also, I find it relevant to point out that “the drinks, not bodies,” comment was actually in there. I believe that this is the first evidence of wit from this Brin guy.

Nema is being elusive as to what he looks like, but up till now, I picture him as one of those guys on the brink of becoming fat, a little socially awkward and shy: pudgy in everything. In America, he’d probably dress like he was always about to go play basketball. We‘ll see.

As for the couple with the spilled drinks, no doubt this was another one of those massive Dalmatians stuffed into a putrid Ben Sherman shirt, dragging an awkward, long-limbed girlfriend into the stench of the clubs. I’ve seen this quite often, and it is really getting to be a major source of annoyance. Some of these girls look like they were stretched on the rack. I mean, I’ve been known to like an occasional tall chick, but for some of these elongated-Gumby-types, their length does not always translate into beauty.

The woman whose gemist I had spilled, soon began to shout. Her boyfriend realized that he was wet too, so soon he was yelling as well. I said I was sorry to the girl and the guy, but they just would not calm down. I have learned not to make much response when people are yelling like this. Instead, for some reason, I just nod and watch how they move. My passivity makes them angrier at times, but I’ve never quite learned to get mad. Somehow it becomes like weathering a storm. It’s raining and you are no longer dry, but you must keep walking through the rain, and after a while, you accept that you are wet.

editor’s note:
I found this section of particular interest. The guy seems a bit strained in his attempts at stoicism, doesn’t he? I appreciate his outlook on one level, but I know that when I’m yelling at some underling, peon or entry-level-incompetent, it makes me extremely-fucking-angrier if they don’t show some indication that I am wounding them. So I just end up going all out and unleash a litany of grievances and accusations, and fuck burning the bridge I am strafing their villages with everything I have and there are no people left alive to cross that bridge probably anywhere in a massive radius, say 500 miles, and now, fifty years later, the unused bridge has covered itself meekly in mosses, lichens, and grasses to blend with the encroachment of the wild, and the parts that are nearest to the water have realized that no one is near and have stripped away their paint so that in total privacy they may enjoy fully exposing themselves to the water and the sun.

I finally have my burek with meso, and my strudel with cherry inside. I have a table alone in the back, and I feel myself beginning to breathe. I usually am rather reflective on transitional nights like these.

editor‘s note:
On my first night in Spit, trundling with beers in both back pockets and both hands, I make my way to some late-night hole serving pizza. The lighting is frantic and the place is tinged with the odor of feet. Just as I begin daubing at the excess grease on my slice at a corner table, some American enters and begins talking loudly. About eighty-percent of Americans that I meet on the road are fucking obnoxious and just basically serve as jarring reminders of why I left. This American is a giant black man in a camel-colored puffy-jacket with a faux-fur lined hood. He reeks of the cheapest of colognes, old cigarettes and the stale, dried beer smell specific to urinals in heavily trafficked bars. He does not sit squarely at his table, which means he is too close to me. Now he stands up, while talking loudly, and removes his monstrous coat. He is either oblivious or unconcerned or both, with the fact that the worn, black-stained bottoms of this coat brush my arm and leg as he places it on the back of his chair. He does not acknowledge my presence. I need something stronger than inebriation if I must eat here. A quick scan of my pockets reveals nothing stronger. I finish my pizza in the streets by a dead fountain.

2010-05-14T03:37:00.001+02:00

2010-05-13T03:34:00.001+02:00

Picture of the Day

2010-05-12T03:22:00.001+02:00

2010-05-11T03:18:00.001+02:00

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2010-05-10T03:15:00.001+02:00

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2010-05-07T03:02:00.001+02:00

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2010-05-06T02:59:00.001+02:00

How to Find Work in a Hostel

2010-05-05T18:51:00.001+02:00

Ohh! I have a treat for you!

I have insights from Brin. Last year, he found a job in a hostel on an Adriatic island. His ex-girlfriend, Nema, currently works with me, and is translating and sharing excerpts of his diary. This way you get a sense of life working in a hostel.

Me?

I’m still in Croatia, about to begin working in a hostel. Since many of you would question this and say,

“Hey! Isn’t this that old thing where you go to the doctor and say, ‘uh. I’ve got this friend who is having trouble peeing…’”

Just so you know that this is legitimate, imagine me in a hostel: have you heard about when a bear breaks into the village convenience store?

I will be saturating the brain with esoteric, homebrewed walnut and rosemary liqueurs.
I have attached an oxygen mask to the shisha, so that I might feel the lungs flapping like a gleaming trout, gasping in the muddy water at the bottom of the aluminum fishing boat, before being tossed harshly into the stern by some sadistic off-duty cop named Arlen, out fishing with his dad who smokes through a stoma while tremblingly clutching a limp rod with no bait.

Again, a big thank you to my friend Nema- (ti si lijepa! velika gemist za vas, mala sova!). Well, you read it here. My parenthetical note to Nema is the last of my month long study of Croatian. Those fragile, budding flowers of linguistic knowledge will be the first ones to die in the coming sunless days.

Hygiene will be reduced to an occasional swim in the sea.

All grammar will be monosyllabic grunts, barely intelligible in written form.

Hopefully I can sit up from my drooling, decaying state in order that I may faithfully transcribe at least something for you.

Hopefully I can work through my self-imposed incapacitation, Nema’s thick Croatian accent, and the translated, masturbatory musings of a guy named Brin, probably a douche-bag, I don't know. I hope I can find something of value in all of this for you. In any case, I won’t remember. We’ll all find out what happened when it’s done.

Do ja ja then!

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My best friend had her birthday on the 27th, and maybe she will be a pilot soon.

Happy birthday, JK!

I always thought of her as one of those large flightless birds. She walks bird-like with an oversized big-toe. She is a balanced avian beauty, combining the fearsome demeanor of the cassowary with the femininity of the ostrich.

The femininity of the ostrich, I get from cartoons where the feathers of the ostrich become the skirt of the French maid. Also, my friend does love to clean! The fearsomeness of the cassowary I get because they disembowel people in the forested areas of Australia, and she has a real strength to her (editor’s note: if I were writing this, I would have mentioned the probability that before a victim is disemboweled, the bird has probably employed the visual tactic of scaring the literal shit out of the victim by exposing them to the unbearable sight of an unnaturally-blue fin protruding from the black-feathered skull. What I imagine, is some bogan in knee-high socks catatonic and trembling with fright, lowering slightly into a defecatory stance while the bird waits patiently for the emptying of the bowels, therefore enjoying the disemboweling process as a surprisingly hygienic affair, as far as the cassowary is concerned). Well, I hope her birthday goes well, she really is a dear friend of mine.

This is the beginning of a new adventure for me, dear diary. I am headed to an island called, Brac (pronounced, “Bratch”) off the coast of Split, Croatia. I will record some of my notes here so that it may be of some use to future (editor’s note: this guy's writing bores me to fucking death, this guy Brin, and Nema thinks I am writing what she is translating, but I am smiling and nodding and instead writing this. I have the oxygen mask connected to the shisha, and am wearing this and surviving only on whatever oxygen manages to pass through the dense smoke of the strawberry-flavored tobacco "blend." How presumptuous is she, anyway, to read to me from some thick-headed naïf’s diary that she is still clearly in love with. Look, I’ll save you the boring translation: go stay at a hostel, and treat every employee as your new best friend, and soon you will find out about opportunities because all of these people know each other. If it is meant to be, soon you will find a hostel job. Also, try to travel during off-seasons, or slow-seasons, and you can find easier work. Make contacts. Build a list of potential places to stay. You see? Hostels are full of a wealth of information if you find a good one. If you are in a bad one, it is like spending the night in a cafeteria. Oh- hey, look up the name Nema- her parents were quite funny).

Picture of the Day

2010-05-05T13:36:00.001+02:00

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2010-05-04T20:26:00.000+02:00

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2010-05-03T20:26:00.000+02:00

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2010-05-02T22:32:00.000+02:00

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2010-04-30T15:43:00.001+02:00

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2010-04-29T12:05:00.001+02:00

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2010-04-28T12:02:00.002+02:00

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2010-04-27T11:59:00.001+02:00

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2010-04-26T11:56:00.001+02:00

Francisco de Goya y Lucientes (Follow the "Tauromaquia" Sheet 24: The same Ceballos encounters on another bull riding, throwing spears at the Arena in Madrid) Black Wood-Mounted Art Poster Print - 13" X 19"

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2010-04-25T21:36:00.001+02:00

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2010-04-24T21:33:00.000+02:00

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2010-04-23T21:29:00.001+02:00

Picture of the Day: dedicated to Stephen Kaskade

2010-04-22T19:16:00.001+02:00

Lisbon: I think you recall...

Career Suicide (part IV)

2010-04-22T18:34:00.001+02:00

Scarecrow: Webster's Timeline History, 1590 - 2007

Mrs. Brady is standing, head bowed, cleaning the grime from Mr. Brady‘s glasses. She rubs them on the corner of her towel with a determined, squirrel-like intensity.

She freezes.

She hands the glasses to Mr. Brady.

She stumbles towards the couch. She drops heavily into the cushions. Somehow she is able to keep her towel on.

We reveal then, in the midst of this near-faint, the back story on how and why Mrs. Brady became Mrs. Brady:

The screen flashes back to a slightly younger, soon-to-be Mrs. Brady. We see her strolling along a sunlit suburban sidewalk. She has spent the afternoon helping out an elderly, but ‘still-sharp-as-ever’ neighbor.

Something is wrong at the home.

A shotgun is recessed within the manicured front lawn.

The gun is pointing towards the foyer.

A wicker-topped chair from the kitchen table is there.

The chair has fallen towards the house. The camera holds on this image of pointing gun and fallen kitchen chair, both embedded within the lawn.

Now we pull back and see the future Mrs. Brady

poignantly gripping the hunter-green mailbox.

She is immobilized by the scene.

The flag is still up: the mail hasn’t arrived yet.

You recommended that the scene be set up so that just the legs of the tipped chair are visible over her left arm; the arm that clutches the mailbox.

The camera will pull back further to reveal her, small and motionless at the mailbox- a mailbox identical to fifty others in this suburban neighborhood.

Powerful, stark-suburbia’s façade of uniform okay-ness is shattered!

And then the comedic masterpiece- the camera zooms in jarringly on the body.

Oh no!

Wait.

The body is a straw-filled dummy (referred to in the contracted way of the common vernacular as, “scarecrow,” a word justified with the argument that: “Weel. It skurs crows, so we say skurcrow.”).

There is a note, safety-pinned at all four corners, to the chest of this scarecrow.

Mrs. Brady moves to the scarecrow. She bends stiffly from the waist and pulls the note into her hands.

All four safety pins retain a corner from the note.

Perhaps we have the camera zoom in to show these paper fibers, raw, exposed and roughly torn.

Viewed close up, they are rags impaled by steel, melodramatically correlating with the state of this woman’s heart.

She reads the note aloud:

“Every day with you is like this. I’m heading to LA. Hopefully soon, I will write for TV. It’d be really groovy if we could pretend we never met. The kids are yours; my gift to you. Ciao.”

School bus approaches.

Pneumatic door whooshes.

A flash of pigtails:

“What’s that, mommy?”

“Mommy, it’s not Halloween yet,“

“She knows. Mommy is practicing.“

End of flashback.

________________________

This spec script did little, at first, to pull you from the ranks of hacks writing jokes for those stand-up comedians relegated to performing at strip-clubs, frat parties and ‘blue,’ venues. In fact, you began losing work as you transitioned into your new career focus.

“…So maybe you’ll like this. It’s in-line with that whole trend towards, “it’s funny because it’s true:

Now what’s the deal with these people killing themselves. Don’t they know that someone’s gotta clean that shit up?”

“Not funny. Not like your old stuff. C’mon. Jokes about poop- something everyone loves.”

says Raleigh of, The Lost Dove Bar.

“In poor taste, and brutishly insensitive,”

says Tomas, visiting Raleigh from Tijuana.

“But,”

you argue,

“All I’m advocating is that they just do it so that nobody has to, as I say, “clean that shit up. Discussing the social etiquette of suicide. New comedic territory, guys.”

Tomas stands up and crosses his arms.

“Is that supposed to be intimidating?”

Raleigh stops leaning on the bar and crosses his arms.

“Look. My little cousin killed herself over a boy. You think that’s funny?”

“More like ridiculous. I- I just think it’s important to see how there is humor- in, in, well, like the fact that you tattooed tear drops under your eye and that is supposed to signify toughness.”

They both step towards you.

You retreat from the low-lit dive.

__________________

More still to come. Also, I'm heading to the island of Brac- I'll keep you updated.

Picture of the Day

2010-04-21T19:12:00.001+02:00