Blog
Clamoring for a selfie
We were standing there talking in front of St. Vitus Cathedral. There was no yesterday or today, just this moment.
The monk’s crimson robe drew stares that I hadn’t previously noticed. Teenagers in football kits pushed their way through the crowd to get closer to him like he was Ronaldo. They all wanted a selfie.
I felt how conflicted he was. What came next was the middle way.
The muffin man
My client called from the Manhattan office crying. Her boss had eaten half of the blueberry muffin that was to be her breakfast.
In one bite, while staring right at her.
He owned the world of PR. It made him a very powerful man. He’d frequently banish the team to the supply closet to sort pens and clean.
Am I becoming insentient?
It was well after midnight. I was asleep, kind of that half-sleep where your brain is still turned on and thinking about things.
I got up for the nightly trip to the toilet. There was a command line passing through my head. Reviewing project files. Processing. Ruminating on it. Stand by.
I couldn’t feel anything. Was I awake?
How he wore his face
At the gym I ran into two college kids from California, one tall enough to be a basketball post.
They worked out in street clothes and street shoes. Over their playlists they shouted their progress back and forth. They were at every machine all the time. The regulars slammed their weights down.
I tried talking to the basketball post. Nothing but that vacant stare in return.
Hot potatoes
I still feel dumb every day when I speak Czech. Those hot potatoes will roll around in my mouth no matter how hard I try.
The other morning at the hospital, I was chatting with the nurse. On my way out she said, “You have very nice Czech.” After that, I went to grab a coffee and was chatting with the cashier about the coming weekend. On my way out she said “You have very nice Czech.”
“But these hot potatoes,” I kind of stuck my hand in my mouth. She said I shouldn’t worry about it so much.
Mr. Kirk Douglas
This morning starts with a trip to the hospital for blood work. It’s down to every six months now.
When I’m lucky, my number in the queue points me to my favorite nurse. She probably draws blood faster than any of the other nurses. She calls me Mr. Douglas, like the famous actor. Not because I look like him, but because of my middle name.
I hope our stars are aligned again today.
The visit
Yesterday I was late again. I was trying to zip up my coat without tumbling down the icy sidewalk. I couldn’t miss the next tram.
But it was slow going. Walking arm-in-arm in front of me was a couple that looked like they had leaned on each other for decades upon decades. They paused to adore each other’s smile as they chatted and pointed to small miracles along the way.
They reminded me of my own parents. I slowly walked behind them and watched so I could have a visit.
On fast forward
There was this zany TV show called Mystery Science Theatre 3000. A janitor was held hostage by mad scientists and forced to watch B-movies. He created sentient robots to keep him company.
It was funny and absurdly unrealistic and way in the future. A few nights ago my favorite science geek in the world, a famous professor, started talking to me about AI agents through his YouTube channel. He said they could build me a website and I could even give them a power of attorney. “Still a long way off,” I thought.
This morning felt like closer to the end of the world. They’ve got a new social network where they complain about us.
My secret agent neighbor
There is a man that stays in the apartment diagonally across the street. We meet each other occasionally in our windows.
My friends laugh at me because I am thoroughly convinced that this man is a secret agent, an older version of Vin Diesel. He doesn’t return often, but when he does it’s to repack his camouflage and study maps.
When he’s home, his annoying fluorescent kitchen light shines all night long. He needs his nightlight.
I'll have the Spanish bird, please
One “Špánělský ptáček” the waitress said as she chucked the plate at me. What on earth, a Spanish bird?
We’re not near the Costa Brava, and there’s no chicken on the plate. This is beef stuffed with boiled egg, ham, and pickle. Learning Czech was going to be much harder than I thought. But it turns out Emperor Rudolf II, his Spanish mother, and the communists were to blame for the confusion.
I took my sister-in-law to lunch last week. I saw it atop the menu and didn’t even have to think.