Thursday, July 21, 2016
Down and Out?
Is there some kind of irony associated with reading Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London in a 5-star hotel in Pisa? Should I feel strange about enjoying the passages where he describes feeling so hungry after not eating anything for five plus days that he begins a descent into madness which includes hallucinating having a conversation with the cockroaches marching up his wall? Is it wrong to derive enjoyment from stories of scam after scam and endless pawnshop visits and sleeping on the floor of a friend's slum hotel with a coat wrapped around one's shoes as a pillow while you're drinking a fine Barolo accompanying salmon tartar with fresh burrata on an air-conditioned terrace? Would Orwell have been upset to know that his vivid descriptions of living amongst the destitute did little more than help me to feel hungry enough after both my primo and secondo to further enjoy a Dolce and Caffè? Perhaps more importantly, how did Orwell (or Blair) feel when he went to his aunt in Paris for financial help during this period? Similar to how I do now? Did it push him to empathize with his "true" down and out compatriots? Does it do something like that to me? Are there enough questions in this post? How about now?
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion
Or: My Trip to Munich through the eyes of Pemulis's brother, through the eyes of Pemulis, as he is imagined by the author (part 2)
It's now Monday morning and the changes I've felt within myself seem to not be fleeting. I feel healthier, more free, and again full of energy. I make a mental note to convince the wife and kids that we should move to Europe. Pemulis heads off to work for the Obama Administration (basically) and I'm left with nothing to do but make use of my quiet restlessness. I suit up in my running shorts, sweat band, and Beats Sports headphones, and head to the Nockherberg mountain to do repeats of the 93 or so steps up the hill. I run up the steps, run around the beer garden, run down the hill, and run up again until my lungs are full-on just burning. I feel a sweet metallic taste in my throat that pushes me to go harder until finally I collapse on the pavement below me. The sun burns fiercely high in the blue sky and the liberating of the toxins being sweat out from my body built up over the last several years working in an Asbestos-filled office in downtown Hamilton is more than simply cleansing. Seated on the sidewalk with the grandness of the city below, I take off my soaked-through T-shirt and yell from the animal within me towards nothing at all; my screams startle a murder of crows and they perform a beautiful flying dance as they escape the trees and set off into the summer morning. I finally make it back to the Pemulis and Family Abode and I'm still shocked at how young I all of a sudden seem. I look and feel amazing. I flex in the mirror and can swear that my arms have never looked so defined. I shower in as cold German water as I can stand and drink six espressos, two mixed with Ginseng. Joelle, Baby Helga, and I step out the front door to meet Pemulis in the alt stadt quarter of Lehel for a Bavarian lunch.
I have a hunger that I've not felt since my early 20's and at the traditional Bavarian Wirtshaus Tattenbach I order a Schweinshaxe, a potato salad, 8 Bratwurst, and a liter of Weißbier. Helga smiles at me for the entire three hour lunch as I order course after course; Käsespätzle and Sauerkraut, Weißwurst and Senf, Kaiserschmarrn, mashed potatoes, and all manner of Kellerbier. After lunch we make the short walk to the German/French café / patisserie Dukatz and drink thick delicious espressos. Pemulis returns to work, and Baby Helga, Joelle, and I walk along the Isar towards the city centre to look for Dirndls for my daughter and BMW toy cars for my son. We shop the Marienplatz and the Viktualienmarkt and already enough time has passed for Pemulis to have generated 100 billion euros or so in revenue for Malaria medicine and so we go to meet him to consume more consumables. We walk across the Praterinsel and past the Gasteig up the Rosenheimerstraße to the "best ice cream in Munich" at True&12. I've been highly lactose intolerant since the age of five but this ice cream is worth all the _____ in the world. The ice cream put me in such a state of bliss that I can't remember if we went back 2, 3, 10, or even 50 times for more. None of those numbers would surprise me in the slightest.
The rest of Monday is uneventful as the whole house is preparing both mentally and physically for the upcoming event of the week: Helga's Baby Swimming at the Michaelibad. Tuesday morning we wake up bright and early to ensure our admittance to one of the coveted 10 spots in the exclusive baby swim lesson. We arrive before 9 o'clock for the 9:30 lesson and begin Helga's preparation. Being the star of the class is something that comes naturally to her but that's not to say that keeping up the image that goes along with that status is easy or not-exhausting. The fact that she's a foreigner (in some sense) has its own associated set of problems that don't make being the star any easier for her or her entourage of three. The class gets underway with the standard welcome song Wir sind die Mäusekinder which Helga unsurprisingly executes flawlessly. Some of the baby-mom pairs leave early because it's clear that they just can't keep up. Helga does (the baby equivalent of) a 3,500 m interval workout including intense butterfly sprints and thigh crushing kick sets. When the class is finally over we race to exit the pool to get away from the media and autograph seekers and so that we can make the next BOB train to the Tegernsee and go hiking (end of part 2).
It's now Monday morning and the changes I've felt within myself seem to not be fleeting. I feel healthier, more free, and again full of energy. I make a mental note to convince the wife and kids that we should move to Europe. Pemulis heads off to work for the Obama Administration (basically) and I'm left with nothing to do but make use of my quiet restlessness. I suit up in my running shorts, sweat band, and Beats Sports headphones, and head to the Nockherberg mountain to do repeats of the 93 or so steps up the hill. I run up the steps, run around the beer garden, run down the hill, and run up again until my lungs are full-on just burning. I feel a sweet metallic taste in my throat that pushes me to go harder until finally I collapse on the pavement below me. The sun burns fiercely high in the blue sky and the liberating of the toxins being sweat out from my body built up over the last several years working in an Asbestos-filled office in downtown Hamilton is more than simply cleansing. Seated on the sidewalk with the grandness of the city below, I take off my soaked-through T-shirt and yell from the animal within me towards nothing at all; my screams startle a murder of crows and they perform a beautiful flying dance as they escape the trees and set off into the summer morning. I finally make it back to the Pemulis and Family Abode and I'm still shocked at how young I all of a sudden seem. I look and feel amazing. I flex in the mirror and can swear that my arms have never looked so defined. I shower in as cold German water as I can stand and drink six espressos, two mixed with Ginseng. Joelle, Baby Helga, and I step out the front door to meet Pemulis in the alt stadt quarter of Lehel for a Bavarian lunch.
I have a hunger that I've not felt since my early 20's and at the traditional Bavarian Wirtshaus Tattenbach I order a Schweinshaxe, a potato salad, 8 Bratwurst, and a liter of Weißbier. Helga smiles at me for the entire three hour lunch as I order course after course; Käsespätzle and Sauerkraut, Weißwurst and Senf, Kaiserschmarrn, mashed potatoes, and all manner of Kellerbier. After lunch we make the short walk to the German/French café / patisserie Dukatz and drink thick delicious espressos. Pemulis returns to work, and Baby Helga, Joelle, and I walk along the Isar towards the city centre to look for Dirndls for my daughter and BMW toy cars for my son. We shop the Marienplatz and the Viktualienmarkt and already enough time has passed for Pemulis to have generated 100 billion euros or so in revenue for Malaria medicine and so we go to meet him to consume more consumables. We walk across the Praterinsel and past the Gasteig up the Rosenheimerstraße to the "best ice cream in Munich" at True&12. I've been highly lactose intolerant since the age of five but this ice cream is worth all the _____ in the world. The ice cream put me in such a state of bliss that I can't remember if we went back 2, 3, 10, or even 50 times for more. None of those numbers would surprise me in the slightest.
The rest of Monday is uneventful as the whole house is preparing both mentally and physically for the upcoming event of the week: Helga's Baby Swimming at the Michaelibad. Tuesday morning we wake up bright and early to ensure our admittance to one of the coveted 10 spots in the exclusive baby swim lesson. We arrive before 9 o'clock for the 9:30 lesson and begin Helga's preparation. Being the star of the class is something that comes naturally to her but that's not to say that keeping up the image that goes along with that status is easy or not-exhausting. The fact that she's a foreigner (in some sense) has its own associated set of problems that don't make being the star any easier for her or her entourage of three. The class gets underway with the standard welcome song Wir sind die Mäusekinder which Helga unsurprisingly executes flawlessly. Some of the baby-mom pairs leave early because it's clear that they just can't keep up. Helga does (the baby equivalent of) a 3,500 m interval workout including intense butterfly sprints and thigh crushing kick sets. When the class is finally over we race to exit the pool to get away from the media and autograph seekers and so that we can make the next BOB train to the Tegernsee and go hiking (end of part 2).
Friday, July 15, 2016
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple
Or: My Trip to Munich through the eyes of Pemulis's brother, through the eyes of Pemulis, as he is imagined by the author (part 1)
As our sparklingly new 787 Dreamliner touches down on Warsaw soil I begin mentally preparing myself for the week that lies ahead. I will be sans children for the first time in at least 2000 days and every time I start breathing the European air I feel something that brings me back to my youth and not only energizes my body and soul but leaves me feeling ready to take on the world. I step on to the tarmac with the other tired and weary passengers but I feel disconnected from them; I've slept a luxurious 7 hours and my first deep breath electrifies my senses. I feel as I did in 2003 schwarzfahren the TGV from Venice to Rome, filling Pemulis's coke can with duty free Canadian Club. I'm envisioning beer halls, soccer hooligans, schnapps-fueled all-night parties on the Ludwigstraße, white sausage breakfasts beside an alpine hut with majestic mountain landscapes surrounding me. I'm thinking about girls in Dirndls holding 1L steins of beer as high as the ceiling; men dressed in Lederhosen carrying freshly-timbered logs from the Waldperlach; and gleaming shiny BMWs racing down the Autobahn at 200 km per.
After a brief sojourn in the Warsaw airport I'm finally bound directly for Munich. I relax into my Lufthansa city jet seat and sip a refreshing Bitburger as we calmly sail over Prague and whatever crap there might be between Łódź, Wrocław, and Walbrzych. When I finally step off the plane in Munich my energy levels still have yet to subside. I practically bound out of the airport luggage area eagerly awaiting my warm welcome from Pemulis and family. I particularly look forward to Baby Helga's smiling face holding a hand-drawn sign with "Onkel Tom" lovingly written upon. I scan the crowd and much to my dismay all I see is a solitary Pemulis looking older than ever. As a side note to myself I make a mental reminder to at some point in the future (if Pemulis gets over whatever it is that seems to be ailing him) upon re-seeing Pemulis to sing him my rendition of Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat and put particular emphasis on my favourite line "the last time I saw you, you looked so much older". But that will be for another day. For now, my smile turns to a frown and I, as innocently as possible and doing everything I can to hide my disappointment, ask "where's Helga?". When Pemulis explains that they simply ran out of time while getting ready to come to the airport and that if everyone had come they probably wouldn't even have yet left the Welfenhof, I take a step back (mentally, I mean), and realize that I would have had to be crazy to imagine that they all would have made it here on time. We're talking about Joelle and family here, people...
We take a short S-bahn ride into the city and upon our arrival, dang! Es schüttet wie aus Eimern! But no matter. Pemulis and I step into a local café and I indulge in my first European coffee break of 2016. Even with the El Niño rain (I'm assuming) coming down like the world is ending outside, there is still something special about sipping a cappuccino on a cobbled pedestrian street in a European city in July. Pemulis fills me in on his plans for the week, and to be honest I'm a little frightened. While my feelings stirred up by the plane ride were real, I'm now starting to remember how close to 40 I am and how drinking beer in the afternoon just makes me want to sleep. I start missing my kids and my wife and even, just a little, my Tim Horton's coffee, despite the ritualistic vomiting that it normally induces in the hours after its consumption. What is this joie de vivre I'm seeing on the faces around me? Do they not see that it's raining outside? Do they not remember that they're in Munich? Germany is dark, cold, and efficient! It's not where one sips surprisingly delicious coffee in a comfortable artfully decorated café staffed by cheerful young German girls. Ok, never mind.. I like it here.
The rain lets up a bit and we continue our journey home. We walk past all manner of Europeany stuff: statues, a few trams go by, I hear church bells 7 or 8 thousand times, people dressed nicely, squares with people actually just sitting around instead of rushing off somewhere as fast as they can go, old women on bicycles bringing their groceries home, more people on bicycles everywhere, places to walk that haven't been taken over by cars, and, not quite as nice, a lot of people smoking. Like a lot. But finally we make it home to Pemulis & Co.'s train-track-located abode. The apartment is nicer than I would have imagined. Compared to Pemulis's previous dwellings that I've visited it is bigger, cleaner (despite baby Helga's presence), and surprisingly well-decorated. Of course I'm sure this has zero to do with Pemulis and 100% to do with his lovely wife Joelle who I finally encounter when we make our way into the apartment. It's great to see her and all that, but at last the apple of my eye appears. The reason I made this trip in the first place. The one true hope for the Pemulis Darling Family. The proof that there is hope in this frightening world. The light that guides Pemulis home at the end of his long days slaving away for an American multi-national. The Princess, Queen, and God of the household: Baby Helga. She smiles at me and my heart melts into a mollified bundle of gooey gooey organ mass or whatever. Wow what a baby that Baby Helga. If the trip takes a major nosedive from this point forward and I'm forced to, for example, accompany my hosts to a real-estate open house out in the boonies of Munich, even as far as Waldperlach, for example, or vertical-death-march up a mountain by the Tegernsee only to descend and then re-ascend the other side, then the trip will still have been worth its weight in gold. Baby Helga, you are one hell of a baby.
It's Saturday and thanks to my ability to sleep well on the plane I'm ready for the evening's festivities: Germany's first elimination game at the Euro Cup, where they will take on the much-hated Team Italy. If there are two things that everyone in the world knows they are thus: (1) Italy is the most boring soccer team to watch in the world; and (2) Italy is the cheatingest soccer team in the world. As you no doubt know, the Germans almost gave it to the Italians with their new style of "Superman" play, but watching the game in the Paulaner Nockherberg biergarten, drinking a Maß of Helles in the evening twilight, surrounded by good people and good fun, the night is a great success. We make our way home and despite the vast quantity of beer that you are expected to drink whilst in the South of Germany, my jet-lag, and my near-40 age, I again feel the European air re-energize me. We even almost head out on the town to celebrate but quickly think better of it and go straight to bed.
Sunday morning greets me with warm healing rays shining from the sun and descending upon me in the Pemulis apartment. I hold Baby Helga close and am reminded of why life exists in the universe. Pemulis suggests we take a bike ride to "The French Bakery" up in Schwabing and I reluctantly agree. Soon my reluctance proves to have been a folly and we have great fun gliding through a sleepy Munich Sunday morning to the North of the city. We pass by parks and cafés (of course), and go by the consulates and the Bogenhausen villas (the "Munich Bridle Path"), and through the Englischgarten where Helga breathed her first breath, and past the Habsburgerplatz and across the Leopoldstraße and finally to the world-famous French Bakery. Pemulis tries to show off by speaking French to the boy at the counter but to me he kind of just looks like a douche. Sorry Pemmy. In any case we load up Joelle's Brompton-brand Carry Bag with crossants and pain-au-chocolats and baguette and set forth once more into the great unknown of the beautiful city. Pemulis leads us on a different return route past the river surfers of the Eisbach where the coolness of this city bowls me over all over again, and finally past his workplace where he serves the overlords of the American Military Industrial Complex. At home we fix espressos and cappuccinos and relax with our well-deserved French pastries and Italian coffee and I think to myself, can life really be so grand? I dare venture that it can.
<End of Part 1>
As our sparklingly new 787 Dreamliner touches down on Warsaw soil I begin mentally preparing myself for the week that lies ahead. I will be sans children for the first time in at least 2000 days and every time I start breathing the European air I feel something that brings me back to my youth and not only energizes my body and soul but leaves me feeling ready to take on the world. I step on to the tarmac with the other tired and weary passengers but I feel disconnected from them; I've slept a luxurious 7 hours and my first deep breath electrifies my senses. I feel as I did in 2003 schwarzfahren the TGV from Venice to Rome, filling Pemulis's coke can with duty free Canadian Club. I'm envisioning beer halls, soccer hooligans, schnapps-fueled all-night parties on the Ludwigstraße, white sausage breakfasts beside an alpine hut with majestic mountain landscapes surrounding me. I'm thinking about girls in Dirndls holding 1L steins of beer as high as the ceiling; men dressed in Lederhosen carrying freshly-timbered logs from the Waldperlach; and gleaming shiny BMWs racing down the Autobahn at 200 km per.
After a brief sojourn in the Warsaw airport I'm finally bound directly for Munich. I relax into my Lufthansa city jet seat and sip a refreshing Bitburger as we calmly sail over Prague and whatever crap there might be between Łódź, Wrocław, and Walbrzych. When I finally step off the plane in Munich my energy levels still have yet to subside. I practically bound out of the airport luggage area eagerly awaiting my warm welcome from Pemulis and family. I particularly look forward to Baby Helga's smiling face holding a hand-drawn sign with "Onkel Tom" lovingly written upon. I scan the crowd and much to my dismay all I see is a solitary Pemulis looking older than ever. As a side note to myself I make a mental reminder to at some point in the future (if Pemulis gets over whatever it is that seems to be ailing him) upon re-seeing Pemulis to sing him my rendition of Leonard Cohen's Famous Blue Raincoat and put particular emphasis on my favourite line "the last time I saw you, you looked so much older". But that will be for another day. For now, my smile turns to a frown and I, as innocently as possible and doing everything I can to hide my disappointment, ask "where's Helga?". When Pemulis explains that they simply ran out of time while getting ready to come to the airport and that if everyone had come they probably wouldn't even have yet left the Welfenhof, I take a step back (mentally, I mean), and realize that I would have had to be crazy to imagine that they all would have made it here on time. We're talking about Joelle and family here, people...
We take a short S-bahn ride into the city and upon our arrival, dang! Es schüttet wie aus Eimern! But no matter. Pemulis and I step into a local café and I indulge in my first European coffee break of 2016. Even with the El Niño rain (I'm assuming) coming down like the world is ending outside, there is still something special about sipping a cappuccino on a cobbled pedestrian street in a European city in July. Pemulis fills me in on his plans for the week, and to be honest I'm a little frightened. While my feelings stirred up by the plane ride were real, I'm now starting to remember how close to 40 I am and how drinking beer in the afternoon just makes me want to sleep. I start missing my kids and my wife and even, just a little, my Tim Horton's coffee, despite the ritualistic vomiting that it normally induces in the hours after its consumption. What is this joie de vivre I'm seeing on the faces around me? Do they not see that it's raining outside? Do they not remember that they're in Munich? Germany is dark, cold, and efficient! It's not where one sips surprisingly delicious coffee in a comfortable artfully decorated café staffed by cheerful young German girls. Ok, never mind.. I like it here.
The rain lets up a bit and we continue our journey home. We walk past all manner of Europeany stuff: statues, a few trams go by, I hear church bells 7 or 8 thousand times, people dressed nicely, squares with people actually just sitting around instead of rushing off somewhere as fast as they can go, old women on bicycles bringing their groceries home, more people on bicycles everywhere, places to walk that haven't been taken over by cars, and, not quite as nice, a lot of people smoking. Like a lot. But finally we make it home to Pemulis & Co.'s train-track-located abode. The apartment is nicer than I would have imagined. Compared to Pemulis's previous dwellings that I've visited it is bigger, cleaner (despite baby Helga's presence), and surprisingly well-decorated. Of course I'm sure this has zero to do with Pemulis and 100% to do with his lovely wife Joelle who I finally encounter when we make our way into the apartment. It's great to see her and all that, but at last the apple of my eye appears. The reason I made this trip in the first place. The one true hope for the Pemulis Darling Family. The proof that there is hope in this frightening world. The light that guides Pemulis home at the end of his long days slaving away for an American multi-national. The Princess, Queen, and God of the household: Baby Helga. She smiles at me and my heart melts into a mollified bundle of gooey gooey organ mass or whatever. Wow what a baby that Baby Helga. If the trip takes a major nosedive from this point forward and I'm forced to, for example, accompany my hosts to a real-estate open house out in the boonies of Munich, even as far as Waldperlach, for example, or vertical-death-march up a mountain by the Tegernsee only to descend and then re-ascend the other side, then the trip will still have been worth its weight in gold. Baby Helga, you are one hell of a baby.
It's Saturday and thanks to my ability to sleep well on the plane I'm ready for the evening's festivities: Germany's first elimination game at the Euro Cup, where they will take on the much-hated Team Italy. If there are two things that everyone in the world knows they are thus: (1) Italy is the most boring soccer team to watch in the world; and (2) Italy is the cheatingest soccer team in the world. As you no doubt know, the Germans almost gave it to the Italians with their new style of "Superman" play, but watching the game in the Paulaner Nockherberg biergarten, drinking a Maß of Helles in the evening twilight, surrounded by good people and good fun, the night is a great success. We make our way home and despite the vast quantity of beer that you are expected to drink whilst in the South of Germany, my jet-lag, and my near-40 age, I again feel the European air re-energize me. We even almost head out on the town to celebrate but quickly think better of it and go straight to bed.
Sunday morning greets me with warm healing rays shining from the sun and descending upon me in the Pemulis apartment. I hold Baby Helga close and am reminded of why life exists in the universe. Pemulis suggests we take a bike ride to "The French Bakery" up in Schwabing and I reluctantly agree. Soon my reluctance proves to have been a folly and we have great fun gliding through a sleepy Munich Sunday morning to the North of the city. We pass by parks and cafés (of course), and go by the consulates and the Bogenhausen villas (the "Munich Bridle Path"), and through the Englischgarten where Helga breathed her first breath, and past the Habsburgerplatz and across the Leopoldstraße and finally to the world-famous French Bakery. Pemulis tries to show off by speaking French to the boy at the counter but to me he kind of just looks like a douche. Sorry Pemmy. In any case we load up Joelle's Brompton-brand Carry Bag with crossants and pain-au-chocolats and baguette and set forth once more into the great unknown of the beautiful city. Pemulis leads us on a different return route past the river surfers of the Eisbach where the coolness of this city bowls me over all over again, and finally past his workplace where he serves the overlords of the American Military Industrial Complex. At home we fix espressos and cappuccinos and relax with our well-deserved French pastries and Italian coffee and I think to myself, can life really be so grand? I dare venture that it can.
<End of Part 1>
Friday, July 1, 2016
Old Fashioned Blog
In the style of old-world "blogging" where you talk about your day and your week and your month and all that, welcome to the latest installment of GWMD the July Edition. Most importantly: Happy Canada Day to all of our readers! On this fine first of July in the Central European Subcontinent we find ourselves enjoying sunny skies, partly cloudy, with a high in the environs of 26 degrees centigrade. The summer has finally gotten under way after an agonizingly stretched-out warm-up process that included, inter alia, ninety-four billion metric tons of rain falling in and around the Greater Munich Area along with seventeen EU-officially-recognized matters-of-record "severe" thunderstorm and/or wind-combined-with-heavy-rain-and-thunder/lightning events as codified in the EC 483.48 directive of the Warsaw Treaty of 2011.
Stuff in the news: Euro Cup (7 teams left; at the end of the weekend it will be 4, hopefully including Iceland and discluding Germany); Brexit (Leave Campaign really actually hoped to lose by about 52-48 instead of things going the other way around so that this whole thing that was meant as a crass political move could actually work out only as that but shit); Austria will vote again probably in the Fall after it seemed there were too many irregularities in the vote that saw the Greens just beat out the Neo-Nazis (seriously) by 30,000 votes (what a world); Tour de France (starts tomorrow! big names? Contador, Froome, Quintana -- it's gonna be big! But for the first time in quite a few years no Canadians will be on the starting line); and the major headline last: Hannah now officially has 2 teeth. Let the Champagne rain down...
Pemulis family news: we will be hosting Helga's favourite name-starting-with-a-T uncle as of the day after Canada Day; we have developing plans to go expose Helga's young skin to the Tuscan Sun as the Earth flies into the position that represents mid-July; what else? Helga-Mom will do what she can to make the family proud in September's world-famous Tegernseelauf as she races the 21.1 km distance through the Alpine foothills of the Bavarian hinterland (important side-note concerning said Tegernseelauf: "Mission accomplished: The Tegernseelauf 2015 was CO2 neutral" -- finally!).
Random innocuous tidbits of data (not necessarily "information"): no new apartment yet (project postponed); no running/cycling/swimming progress (project postponed); no world-famous bread recipes invented (project postponed); not yet vacuumed (project indefinitely postponed); apartment not yet "baby-proofed" (project postponed); GWMD blog "reboot" with fresh new writing and a daily dispatch from the field (project abandoned).
Stuff in the news: Euro Cup (7 teams left; at the end of the weekend it will be 4, hopefully including Iceland and discluding Germany); Brexit (Leave Campaign really actually hoped to lose by about 52-48 instead of things going the other way around so that this whole thing that was meant as a crass political move could actually work out only as that but shit); Austria will vote again probably in the Fall after it seemed there were too many irregularities in the vote that saw the Greens just beat out the Neo-Nazis (seriously) by 30,000 votes (what a world); Tour de France (starts tomorrow! big names? Contador, Froome, Quintana -- it's gonna be big! But for the first time in quite a few years no Canadians will be on the starting line); and the major headline last: Hannah now officially has 2 teeth. Let the Champagne rain down...
Pemulis family news: we will be hosting Helga's favourite name-starting-with-a-T uncle as of the day after Canada Day; we have developing plans to go expose Helga's young skin to the Tuscan Sun as the Earth flies into the position that represents mid-July; what else? Helga-Mom will do what she can to make the family proud in September's world-famous Tegernseelauf as she races the 21.1 km distance through the Alpine foothills of the Bavarian hinterland (important side-note concerning said Tegernseelauf: "Mission accomplished: The Tegernseelauf 2015 was CO2 neutral" -- finally!).
Random innocuous tidbits of data (not necessarily "information"): no new apartment yet (project postponed); no running/cycling/swimming progress (project postponed); no world-famous bread recipes invented (project postponed); not yet vacuumed (project indefinitely postponed); apartment not yet "baby-proofed" (project postponed); GWMD blog "reboot" with fresh new writing and a daily dispatch from the field (project abandoned).
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
On Brexit
The year is 1999 and Pemulis, as every young man should, goes to Paris. There's something in the air of France that does a young man good. He'd asked previously, "can I go to Paris?" and they told him "no, you're not French". "Well what does it matter?" Pemulis asked. It's just the ways things are. But he goes to Paris and he lives in a small apartment.
The year is 2003 and Pemulis goes to England. Ay, marry, was he sent to England? No he just wanted to go; he asked before, "can I go to England?" and they told him "no, you're not English". "Why does that matter?" Pemulis asked. It's best if we just stay where we come from. But anyways he goes to England and the people there don't seem so different.
Now it's 2012 and Pemulis goes to France. To the mountains. They said "you can't work in France, it's for French people". And he asked "why not?". They said "it's the law". But he goes to Grenoble and he visits the mountains and he goes to work. He travels through France and visits Spain. He goes to Switzerland and takes the train to Belgium. He drives to Italy. Everywhere people are different but the same. The food is different but it's also the same. The languages are different but the people understand each other. He takes a plane to Munich and Pemulis and Joelle decide to go live there.
And so it's 2013 and Pemulis and Joelle go to Germany. To the south. Again to the Alps. They said "but you don't speak German". And they said "we will learn". Then it's 2015 and a warm November and Helga arrives in the English Garden. One day she asks "Papa, can I go to Austria?". Pemulis tells her she can go wherever she wants. "But will the people be different?" she asks. "Everybody is different, but the same." "What does that mean?" "It means that being different is good, but we're never so different from each other that we can't live together and get along". "Good," she says, "because I was going to go anyways."
The year is 2003 and Pemulis goes to England. Ay, marry, was he sent to England? No he just wanted to go; he asked before, "can I go to England?" and they told him "no, you're not English". "Why does that matter?" Pemulis asked. It's best if we just stay where we come from. But anyways he goes to England and the people there don't seem so different.
Now it's 2012 and Pemulis goes to France. To the mountains. They said "you can't work in France, it's for French people". And he asked "why not?". They said "it's the law". But he goes to Grenoble and he visits the mountains and he goes to work. He travels through France and visits Spain. He goes to Switzerland and takes the train to Belgium. He drives to Italy. Everywhere people are different but the same. The food is different but it's also the same. The languages are different but the people understand each other. He takes a plane to Munich and Pemulis and Joelle decide to go live there.
And so it's 2013 and Pemulis and Joelle go to Germany. To the south. Again to the Alps. They said "but you don't speak German". And they said "we will learn". Then it's 2015 and a warm November and Helga arrives in the English Garden. One day she asks "Papa, can I go to Austria?". Pemulis tells her she can go wherever she wants. "But will the people be different?" she asks. "Everybody is different, but the same." "What does that mean?" "It means that being different is good, but we're never so different from each other that we can't live together and get along". "Good," she says, "because I was going to go anyways."
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Canadian Heat Wave [S1E3]
INT. RURAL FARM - DAY
The CAMERA TRACKS slowly down a dusty dirt road. The sun shines brightly and there is a light wind rustling the leaves in the trees and the overgrown grass on the sides of the road. What must be at least 40 FARM VEHICLES begin to appear on the horizon. Old trucks, new combines, tractors, ATVs, even a BIG BOAT sits in a modern-looking barn.
A parked PICKUP TRUCK comes into view in front of a HOUSE with a SHELBY MUSTANG GT-350 in the garage. We see hints of cats and there is a brand new BBQ in front of the garage. A BLACK DOG waits eagerly waging his tail.
CUT TO:
INT. SUBARU WAGON (MOVING)
The SUBARU is approaching the HOUSE. In the front seat are a WOMAN driving and a MAN sleeping in the passenger seat. The WOMAN is called GRANDMA S and the MAN is called PEMULIS. In the back there is a YOUNG WOMAN sitting next to a BABY in a car seat. The YOUNG WOMAN is JOELLE and the baby is HELGA. HELGA is sleeping and JOELLE is close to sleep herself. The trunk is filled with suitcases and it seems clear that PEMULIS, JOELLE, and HELGA have traveled to the farm.
The SUBARU comes to a stop and GRANDMA S kills the engine, silencing a 1960's Rock Opera. GRANDMA S looks relieved.
GRANDMA S
We're here!PEMULIS stirs and opens a single eyelid.
PEMULIS
Nice BBQ GRANDMA S!
GRANDMA S
Ya, K-FED built that for you when he was here yesterday. We're having NY steaks tonight with cold beer. I hope it's OK that the beer is ice cold?
PEMULIS
Fine by me.JOELLE snaps out of her almost-slumber and gazes lovingly up at PEMULIS in the front seat. She looks at HELGA who is still sleeping. Everyone starts getting out of the SUBARU. The DOG goes crazy.
CUT TO:
INT. HOUSE - STILL DAY
There is a man, GRANDPA S, sitting on the couch drinking a BEER and watching a CAR RACE. Inside the HOUSE it is clear that they are having some RENOVATIONS done; the WINDOW TRIM is not finished, and there is a giant SILO that could one day be a STAIR CASE and above it an additional room. The rest of the FAMILY enters from outside.
CUT TO:
CREDIT SEQUENCE:
"CANADIAN HEAT WAVE"
The song BUNKBEDS by HAYDEN is playing just because. This SCREENPLAY abruptly ends because it turns out that it takes forever to write like this.
The year when summer never arrived
In the year when summer never arrived we were living in a one-bedroom apartment beside the train tracks that looked across the trees to the cemetery. The leaves were vividly green from all the rain and the dust that we were used to seeing lifted up by the trains was only mud in the ruts of the railroad ties. Sometimes the sun would appear for moments at a time and the children would race outside to feel its warmth on their skin. One day a family set up a picnic table and a BBQ with cold beer for the parents and ice cream cones for the children. The rain never stopped that day and the men drank their beer on the terrace hiding from the rain while the children cried and, well, they mostly cried.
The shallow river, normally lazily running through the city, its banks spotted with sunbathers and young people playing games and enjoying the weather, dogs jumping in with children at their sides, smoke from hand-made grills wafting in the air, and smooth pebbles in the river bank shining brightly in the afternoon sun, was instead a deep, ravenous, white-water body hurrying its way angrily through the grey city, its banks devoid of life other than upset crows squawking at the never-ending rain. At times the rising waters would take another long-forgotten bicycle from the receding riverbank and swallow it whole.
The winds howled that year. It is said that a man was killed instantly when at his family's insistence he attempted to make his way through the rainstorm to the corner Rewe and purchase some Bratwurst to be boiled on the stove. Another man was wounded in hatred as he screamed to the skies demanding God to explain what he hath wrought. I knew a woman who lost her parents when against all reason they tried to go for a walk in the Ostpark. The floods had taken all the deer's food and the once-docile animals had seen only blood and survival in the last moments of the elderly couple's lives.
Offices and stores and businesses of all kind shuttered their doors and turned away their employees. The customers weren't arriving and the banks had been swallowed whole by the Earth itself, taking all the workers' pay down towards the depths of Hell where the weather for the season landing between Spring and Fall had been sent from in the year when summer never arrived. A small bird landed on my shoulder one day and suddenly viciously attacked my ear. Ever since that day I have no longer been able to hear the cries of my young daughter. So the year wasn't all bad...
The shallow river, normally lazily running through the city, its banks spotted with sunbathers and young people playing games and enjoying the weather, dogs jumping in with children at their sides, smoke from hand-made grills wafting in the air, and smooth pebbles in the river bank shining brightly in the afternoon sun, was instead a deep, ravenous, white-water body hurrying its way angrily through the grey city, its banks devoid of life other than upset crows squawking at the never-ending rain. At times the rising waters would take another long-forgotten bicycle from the receding riverbank and swallow it whole.
The winds howled that year. It is said that a man was killed instantly when at his family's insistence he attempted to make his way through the rainstorm to the corner Rewe and purchase some Bratwurst to be boiled on the stove. Another man was wounded in hatred as he screamed to the skies demanding God to explain what he hath wrought. I knew a woman who lost her parents when against all reason they tried to go for a walk in the Ostpark. The floods had taken all the deer's food and the once-docile animals had seen only blood and survival in the last moments of the elderly couple's lives.
Offices and stores and businesses of all kind shuttered their doors and turned away their employees. The customers weren't arriving and the banks had been swallowed whole by the Earth itself, taking all the workers' pay down towards the depths of Hell where the weather for the season landing between Spring and Fall had been sent from in the year when summer never arrived. A small bird landed on my shoulder one day and suddenly viciously attacked my ear. Ever since that day I have no longer been able to hear the cries of my young daughter. So the year wasn't all bad...
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