Lapte si miere

Anita Goes to Happy Valley

-          a gwailo novel–

Good-bye. Aufwiedersehn

Anita? Where are you going, girl?

I already told you… horse race. Wanna come?

I think you chose to go there at the wrong time. Eight o’clock is late o’clock.

No, no, no…We cannot be late.

I’m telling you… Don’t complain afterwards.

Cris, shut up! Okay, we will not be late, you will see, tell me the number.

Lucky number eight…

I had a despairing affinity for this number. Eight. It is as widespread as a flu in this city – from the wealthy locals that welcome you to their vast penthouses on the eight or 28 or 58 floor, to Typhoon signal no.8. Even the Oyster card equivalent, the ba da tong is based on number eight. They say “sei tùng baat daaht” means “rechargeable in all directions”, and since there are 8 directions – voila! the eight stylized symbol of the infinity on each Octopus card makes you go round. Eight is what my friend Graham had in mind. He was swallowing doubt on his way to the filthy tattoo place in Mong Kok. It was a week later he was analyzing his Ba Gua with high precision, as if his eyes were shooting a read beam of laser light so that the hole of the ba gua could transcend the silent perfection. What do you say, Cristiano? I really love my ba gua! I wanted to say that it resembles the Korean flag, but instead I wisely chose to shut up. We were in China, and this was no place for copy cats. Surely the Chinese invented the 4 gua that lie on the Korean flag. It is also a fact that the Chinese invented the fork and at the same time, the chopsticks, this marvel of human evolutionary science. “Yo,… Graham, are u crazy dude, you’re demolishing the window, frame, man…” Let me show you how it’s done. I learned this trick from Mr Wong, the owner of the Gwailo-known Mr Wong’s restaurant in Yau Ma Tei. I took a chopstick, and I tried pushing with my right palm. “Fucking shit!..” As I was sucking the blood from my left middle finger, I tried again. This time it worked just fine. The cap of Harbin ejected elliptically into the sink.

With the chop sticks, with the chop sticks, when we do it, we do it right… With the chop sticks! This was the Chinese fun. The kid who performed the cover of that catchy song called “Like a G6” was ten times more intelligent and inspiring than the writer of the original piece of Lan Kuai Fong.

Eight is money. But not too many people are really interested in numerology. They’d rather know what Justin Bieber or Lady Gaga have done in the past week. Welcome to the Bieber mania, the kitch society with no real values. Value the 1000HKD bill and you’re smart. If you don’t value money, then you’re living in the wrong city, my friend. You look around and you cannot even see the 9 peaks that made Kowloon so pittoresque – the giants are gone. Erected on their tired backs, lie the 40 storey buildings that are part of what the locals call redevelopment – a cultural revolution of city life.

Opposed to eight is number four, associated with death simply because death and four are pronounced slightly the same in Cantonese. Only the tones vary, but which grail can get those tones right? I ultimately prefer not to pronounce any Cantonese word. But I sometimes like to make people laugh. What you have to do is easy – just pronounce these weird words as you hear them, and the locals will laugh their asses off at you straight away.

Enough about laughter. Anita?… Can I use your computer?

Why?

I want to listen to songs on YouTube.

There came that German pitch. Nein Nein Nein…

Damn…Please, I won’t do anything stupid like stealing your passwords…Please?

But no… she close the lid so firmly. No wonder she is using this black rugged Facebook war machine.

Cred ca e o premiera in brandingul afacerilor in Romania. In politica s-a folosit atat in cazul casei regale, ceea ce e de inteles, dar si pentru a pune partidul lui Gabriel Oprea la adapostul crestinismului si a acvilei unitatii nationale. Intre timp, acvila cu cruce in cioc s-a transformat intr-o acvila CFR-ista. Parerea mea e ca ambele idei sunt proaste, iar daca intentia lor a fost sa faca ceva in genul siglei PRM, le trebuia mai multa inteligenta si imaginatie.

Revenind la Tiriac – compania, nu e vorba de un logo obisnuit care a reunit 4 simboluri, ci o stema in toata regula. Care sa fie oare motivul? Imperiul lui Tiriac nu se limiteaza numai la importul de masini. Pe cale de consecinta, nu poti crea o imagine de brand care sa-ti reprezinte cu succes numele, cata vreme ai afaceri in mai multe domenii. O cale fireasca ar fi sa ai mai multe branduri sub aceeasi umbrela.

Dincolo de cele 4 simboluri (leu, albina, stea si turn) si de cele trei culori (de care nimeni n-a amintit in presa mare, duuuh!), observam si crucea, caci nu-i asa, cu voia Domnului facem profit si dainuim peste generatii. Cat despre generatii, nu se stie cat timp va fi pastrat acest logo. Intr-o zi un Tiriac il va privi de jos si va spune: “E depasit!”

S’au introdus cursele de noapte.

Vinderea pe nimic a aurului si minereului ramas in RO a reintrat in linie dreapta. Cum pretul aurului a atins un nivel record, de 1600 dolari/ uncie, baietii de RMGC si-au trimis PR_istii de serviciu la TV. Intre timp, ministrul ungur al culturii romane, Kelemen Hunor, a semnat pe sest niste hartii importante, iar Borbely, cel care a refuzat sa dea avize de mediu, a fost inhatat de ANI. Maine se anunta proteste, dar societatea romaneasca e apatica, si n-o sa iasa cine stie ce. Nu ma astept sa fie vreun reportaj/ vreo stire pe la televiziunile de stiri (cumparate demult si ele). Cel mult o sa fie buzz in presa scrisa pe net.

In lupta cu fortele raului, Funeratorul e pregatit. Inarmat pana’n dinti cu aparatura anti frauda, are o misiune imposibila: sa duca Romania pe calea cea dreapta. Va reusi oare? Nu ratati noile aventuri cu Funerathorul.

in lupta cu fortele raului

Saracul Marian s’a poticnit iar in limba romana, si atat in direct, cat si in reluare a zis’o p’asta: “psd buc. nu poate fi condus de un pampalau. Daca nu te pricepi, te ejaculeaza”. Noroc cu maestrul Cristoiu care l’a corectat cu zambetul pe buze ( “ejecteaza”), in vreme ce adolescentul Turcescu se prapadea de ras pe sub masa.

Marian vanghelie in almanahe

The director decided to name us Iliya and Latcu. He said he has done extensive research on RO names, but none of them is common nowadays…

To tell the truth, I don’t remember whether I’m Latcu or Iliya. But I think I can still remember the lines :)

This is the synopsis that Carl 3 in 1 (director, writer, producer) wrote.

“The story follows the drug addict Collin, and the deep shit he has gotten himself into when he accidentally kills the main drug runner for one of Hong Kong’s drug gangs.

Now he must say goodbye to his loved ones, but chasing him is not only the Romanian drug gang, but also the law.”

No return from Carl Nenzén Lovén on Vimeo.

No return. Short film

He started his directing career in 04, with “Gay in Amsterdam”, a film that scored 2.9 on imdb. It must have been terribly bad, and my guess is only the production team and their friends were there to watch it. Probably an amateur video of a gay parade, a voice over and any decent script would have pulled it off better.

In 09, Mr director went beyond sick movies like Audition (2000) by Takashi Miike – by deciding to produce really sick movies for a targeted audience: the sick. Therefore I won’t tell you what the title of the disgusting piece of crap is. The now-completed sequel has been banned in the UK, and there are plans for a 3rd part (jeez!). I was so enraged over the director’s ideas, that it took me a quite a while to settle down:

Filmmaker no SIX.

Horror spills on yellow pages as the binary machine rages
Memories long gone, gusts of winds, his titles once stood high
The guillotine waits in the public square, heavy dust and a theatre of eager eyes
It’s about time somebody digitally dies in pain, figures made of sand
Are ready to stand still until the very end, screechy brakes
Curiously take a rest. Those who drive the words and images into the maze of art
Open the doors of their freezing underworld, they gaze at his shiny 3d glasses
Black owl with no vision, the crowd is directing the bleak trailer of his seclusion
His never-to-be-rated flick flashes and the very last script collapses
Under the heavy weight of capital letters DEATH.

- o varianta alternativa a inceputului povestii de aici

Povestea ceasului desteptator

Soarele era sus pe cer, acelasi soare care nu tine cont de crize economice, de boxx-office-ul ultimelor remake-uri, de bataia pe resurse din nordul Africii.

Linii luminoase subtiri, strecurate printre jaluzelele albe prafuite, ajungeau pana la raftul cu cesti, cescute, parahare de cinzeaca, si alte obiecte nemiscate de multa vreme. Praful se asternuse glorios peste tet, Un ceas rotund, banal, cu doua picioare si urechi mari, cromate, se trezi la viata. Oare cat timp trecuse de cand adormise? Poate ani intregi… Totul, in jur parea schimbat. Disparuse masa si scaunele, cuptorul cu microunde, mixerul, disparuse si prietenul lui, radioul. O stare de anxietate acuta puse stapanire pe bietul ceas. Ii era clar ca toate obiectele cat de cat inteligente disparusera fara urma. Daca va fi luat si el? Unde va fi dus? In toata viata lui de ceas cunoscuse mai multe locuri – sufrageria, dormitorul, la un moment dar zacuse pentru cateva zile intr-o cutie plina cu surubelnite, telefoane stricate, cabluri USB si alte nimicuri. Ii era oarecum clar ca il vor arunca. Pana la urma nu mai fusese intors demult, iar  ticaitul slab se va opri inevitabil cat de curand. O alta resuscitare nu mai poate avea loc – asta fusese o exceptionala tresarire neasteptata. Va trebui ca cineva sa-l intoarca, sa-i puna rotitele in miscare. Or, dupa cum se prezinta lucrurile, e de rau! Casa e pustie de ceva vreme.

Dupa cateva minute, un zgomot puternic tulbura linistea deplina Cineva parea ca inceasca sa deschida usa. Cheia magnetica parea ca nu da rezultate. Nu e nimic logic in a incerca in disperare aceeasi metoda, de a introduce catela si a apasa clanta. Cine stie ce s-o fi intaplat? Vreun hot? Sau s-o fi stricat mecanismul. Dupa un minut de injuraturi continue, persoana din spatele usii recurse la solutia de rezerva, o cheie traditionala, si usa se deschise. Imediat fu deschisa si usa de la bucatarie, usa de la balcon si geamul de la balcon, iar curentul creat zbura o mare parte din praful de pe fata ceasului. Era fericit, vedea viata. Venise proprietarul apartamentului, capul familiei, cel care adesea avea grija ca seara, ceasul sa fie intors pentru o noua zi de viata.

Barbatul se aseza cu fundul pe o cutie de carton aflata alaturi de altele mai mici, chiar in locul in care odata era masa. “Baga-mi-as **** in ea de baterie. Te **** pe ea de tehnologie… Alo… Vezi ca nu mai merge cheia magnetica, Trebuie inlocuta bateria… Pai unde e? Bine, hai ca te astept!”

Drumul unei cutii de bere din frigider pana in cosul de gunoi fu scurt – trei minute si 25 de secunde. Omul dadu drumul la apa, isi spala fata si, odata ce inchise robinetul isi fixa privirea pe ceas. Ceasul incremeni. O secunda trecu ca un minut. Omul isi privi ceasul de la mana, iar ceasul de pe raft vazu cum o mana din ce in ce mai mare il apuca de fata. Il prinse bine si il puse intr-una dintre cutii.  ”Pacat ca nu-i mai merge alarma…” Atatea vorbe mai auzi, si usa trantindu-se, inainte ca timpul sa se opreasca, zece minute mai incolo, inexact, la ora 14,minutul 35, secunda 40. “Pacat ca nu-i mai merge…” se auzi parca un ecou trist.

Era adevarul crud. Ceasul avea 30 de ani. Functionase de minune pana la venerabila varsta de 29 de ani, cand bucata de metal ce-i batea in urechi nu mai raspundea la instructiunea limbii aurii. Ulterior a fost mutat din sufragerie in bucatarie. Ultima secventa pe care a vazult-o la TV a fost cu Basescu, luand in primire o noua masina – Dacia Duster. Apoi urmase intalnirea cu radioul, cu aparat negru si urat, cu o antena indoita si cu rotite buclucase. Adesea, omul casei ii mai dadea cate o palma, ca sa-si revina. Adio emisiuni cu Vadim Tudor si filme cu Daniel Craig.

Tocmai aceasta amintire, a dificultatilor de receptie a bietului aparat, il purta cu gandul la copilarie. Era anul 1981. Multe patratele, in diverse nuante de gri, formand un patrat incadrat intr-un cerc. Purecii se plimbau in voie pe tot ecranul televizorului pe lampi, iar uneri ceasul chiar se gandea de ce Liviu, ca asa il chema pe om, nu face nimic pentru a-i scoate dinauntru. Inuntrul patratului era scris TVR Bucuresti, apoi in locul lui aparea o harta, apoi in locul hartii aparea un triunghi si incepea sa se auda o melodie plictisitoare, iar apoi urma cel mai bun moment al serii. Un ceas, care batea inspre opt. Asa ii crestea inima si ceasului nostru, stiind ca arata ora exacta. “TELEJURNAL”