So, he walks into the questioning room, sits down with a sigh, places his papers on the table, and blinds me with the lamp.

– You see, Radoo, it’s nothing personal. But you’ve been on this trip through half of Europe and we just need to ask you a bunch of questions. You realise at this stage you are denied the right to any legal representative. Is that OK with you?
– Sir, as much as I love my country, which I don’t, except for its people, rivers, mountains, Sibiu, UBB, the dorms in the campus, the friends I’ve got here and quite a million other stuff, like my family and the really really cheap beer, I do believe this inquiry to be useless. I did not expose any national secrets, ask for political asylum or any such shit.
– Let’s start with the very beginning, Mr Bazavan, aka “Groparu”, as some of your friends like to call you. And I would really appreaciate if you dropped any colloquialism from your language… you see, us here at the Intelligence Service do not take kindly to the likes of you, foul-speakers. You started off to… Amsterdam, if I recall, is that right?

Gee, it seemed almost real! 2 weeks off work, paid leave, a whole European map to scour with Amsterdam as the G-spot, a reliable (yeah, right) car with decent consumption (just 14 litres/100km, at times of ~70USD/oil barril), some cash to dispose of, nice sidewalks, expensive beer, a page ripped off Josh’s passport, the rest of us Europeans with Romanian passports… Yes, it almost seemed real. Now I realize it was just in my imagination.

Day 0. Where the #$%^&*() is my passport?????
It’s 4 o’clock in the morning and I can’t seem to find my passport, after a desperate 4 hours’ search through my socks supply, stash of CDs, google… whatever. Am I going to Amsterdam, after all? I haven’s been so pissed in a looong time. Eventually it turns out the American dude has it. Long hours of waiting, he’s not answering the phone to confirm.

Day 1. Take off
Found my passport. We set off 6 hours later than originally planned. Tibby’s front seat is busting my knee caps, and he does not understand plain Romanian when I tell him to pull it forward. We have no jack for the car in case we have a flat tyre, no tool box, not  even a screwdriver, and when I myself pull Tibby’s seat forward to make more room for my long legs (for he does not understand Romanian, again) Josh exclaims “Wow, we have a first aid kit!” with reference to the black box sliding from underneath the seat. Dunno why, but I’m growing anxious with this trip. We arrive at the border. The guard frowns at our passports (gee, that’s new! never seen a bordergurd frown before in my life.) He then asks: where’s the page? Bribe, I think, greedy bastard! bribe. And I have no change, and I bet the others don’t have it either. Josh grins: ah, ze page? Here it is! And he miraculously extracts from his wallet a page that had been ripped off from his American passport, and he hands it to the guard. Hmmm, I see, pursues the borderguard. I do see. Duuuude, we rage at him and the machine, why didn’t you tell us you had a ripped page from your passport? It wouldn’t have changed anything, he says. We was still going in the trip no matter what! And besides, that’s an American official business Romanians should never get involved into. Capiche?

So we drive on, cross the Hungarian frontier uneventfully and finally feel at home, in the heart of Greater Romania. We drive on, and on, and on, and dawn cracks. And since Tibby is always hungry, we have breakfast at a Hungarian petrol station (home-made sandwiches from the trunk) and eveybody is staring at us like we were Romanians having breakfast in a petrol station (home-made sandwiches from the trunk.) And we couldn’t care less, since we had a whole Europe to scour. And then we drive on, and we get lost. And seeing how stupid we looked, an indigen walks to us and says something in Hungarian. We say “Nie panimayu!”, and then he says “Unde vreti sa mergeti? Ljublijana? A, o luati la stanga si tineti taaat inante!” We thank the friendly Romanian-speaking native, and we head on. And we exit Hungary.

But first – we transit the Hungarian border again. What in the world are three retarded Romanians doing in a car with an American driver doing here, in no man’s land? They must be really rich, thinks the guard, since they can afford an American driver for – I’m sure – no less than 20$/hour. Lemme see your passports. And he sees the passports, and Josh, polite, as usual, goes: If you want the missing page, it’s right here, officer, and he hands him the pitiful sheet. Ever seen a fat borderguard laugh his lard out? Make that two, for he’s calling in a colleague to see it. They look conspicuous, they decide, let us see your bags. Sure, officer, goes I in my best German whose only words are toilet, I’m hungry, and Hey, wanna fuck? Whose bag is this? Mine, says I. Take it out. Shoo, goes I, I only have food and cigarettes, plenty of them! And I unpack. Cigarettes everywhere. And cans. My hands are shaking. We are not supposed to bring non-EU food inside. What do you have here? I get pissed. Condoms, says I. Condoms? Yeah, condoms. The kind you roll down your erect penis while holding the upper tip with your thumb and index finger. Wanna see them? No, says the guard, turning to his colleague, they don’t look like no terrorists to me, look how lame they are. You can go now. Off! You’ve wasted my country’s vital supply of oxygene for too long now, and we have no mountains here, yeah, I know, it kinda sucks. But our GDP is still 20 times more than Romania’s, so we’re still better off, you and your rivers, mountains, Sibiu, UBB, the dorms in the campus, the friends you’ve got there and quite the million other stuff, like the really really cheap beer. And besides, this Tibby friend of yours looks realy hungry, feed him, for Christ’s sake! Yes, sir, boss, sir, aback horsepower we’re a-riding, says I, c’mon, guys, let’s hit the road.

Away we go, and we hit the border. Slovenian border. Amazing, Slovenian border guards wear Hungarian uniforms! And they speak Hungarian, too! Where are you going? Ljublijana, says we. Can’t go to Ljublijana. Why, it is closed this time of the year? Funny guy wanna die, screeches the border guard, this here is the Hungarian border. To go to Ljublijana you have to go back, and turn left or right at the circle you’ve just passed. How on Earth did you think the Slovenian border is 7 kilometres away from the Hungarian border? It makes more sense than having two Hungarian borders 7 km away from each other, thinks my right lobe, but my mouth is inspired enough to refuse to utter. Thank you, sir, we are most obliged. And by the way, says the guard, is your friend alright? ‘Cause he looks kinda hungry to me.

19 minutes we spend driving around in circles. I guess road signs were not invented in that country.

– Officer, I pause, the Ljublijana episode is in my previous blog entry, do you want me to go through that again?
-No, just carry on. You arrived in… Venice, is that correct?

Venice. What a lovely city! Gondolas, Italians, cigarette buds everywhere. And water. And bridges. We head out for a snack. I order what on the menu read sea horse, but it turns out it’s just horse meat. I do hope it’s someody’s pet, thinks my stomach while I’m gulping. Or a stud. Preferably both.

We take British Rob over with us. Probably Italians are really crappy (which they’re not) since he’s so exhilarated to see us. We hug a minute longer than decency allows. But we’re going to Amsterdam, the European capital of sex and gay pride, so we’re just warming up. But first – we must hit Bologna, where we’ll spend the night at Claudiu’s friend. Not Bologna proper, but a world-renowned little place called I-can’t-remember-the-name, and-I’m-prety-sure-its-inhabitants-can’t-either. And again I’m amazed at how fast Italians speak, especially since the only words I know in Italian are Yes, I think gay is ok, horse meat, which to me sounds like sea horse, Rroma, and pizza quattro formaggi, ti prego. Nonetheless, I am the designated linguist of the road trip, so I have to squeeze my brains real hard to remember the Italian I knew when I was watching Canale 5 shows hosted by huge titted porn stars. But we manage to reach our destination, not before getting lost 14 times. Thank God for huge titted TV hosts and a really, really horny adolescence.

Day 2. Headlong to Amsterdam via Milan
We exit Claudiu’s friend’s house, not before a generous meal (thank you, Claudiu! Be sure to charge Tibby for all he ate, ’cause he sure ate like a carnivorous elephant), and we drive to Milan. Gaping, we was! Cool, cool city. We find a store with incredibly cheap unconfortable shoes, and we buy two pairs each. We receive fliers with next week’s elections, and we decide to vote for that very party. Then we see a concert with really pretty dancing girls, and we decide to vote for their party, too. And then we decide to vote for the communists as well (yes, there is an Italian Communist Party!), and then with Mussolini’s granddaughter, herself the leader of right-wing party, ‘cause she looks kind of hot. Then we decide to make our own American-British-Romanian leftist-centrist-right-wing party, and become MPs and hire only hot lesbian secretaries and rig tenders and get indecently rich and feed Tibby all he wants. Then we leave before any other evil happens.

We reach Switzerland at night. Bordergurds speak French worse than I can, which indeed is a record. They warn us of the 30E motorway tax. Romanian is what Romanian does at the American’s “suggestion”, so we just cross Switzerland majestically – without paying. And we hit Amsterdam the next noon.

Day 3, 4, 5. Amsterdam
Nothing really worth telling. Really, nothing.
An African-Amsterdamian is tempting us with coke. Tibby jumps “Can you order fries and chicken breasts with that, too?” but soon realizes the guy was not selling the kind of coke he wanted. We get our car booted and we pay 100E in fine. Amsterdam is where British Rob has to leave us. So long, bud!

Day 6, 7. Bruxelles, then Bad Harzburg
Bruxelles. Hmmm. That’s where all the EU money goes, right? Yeah, that’s right. Despite its friendly people, we get lost for 4 hours, but we manage to get out in the middle of the rush hour. We are bound to get to my sister in due time, ’cause I wanna surprise her. And my German brother-in-law. And my two sweet little nephews. And I talked to my sister’s sister-in-law to make sure they are at home, with warm food for Tibby. And we get to Bad Harzburg, and the Police car driving by is looking at us with the biggest eyes the size of onions Bad Harzburg has ever seen. And I rush to them to  show them just how friendly we are with the indigens. And I tell them I want to get to see my brother-in-law. In return, they say our car’s hind lights are not working. I’m telling them I don’t speak such good a German and I don’t understand (playing the dumb tourist, I was!) They say they drive us to my brother-in-law provided we spend the night there and we get the car fixed in the morning. My knowledge of German somehow miraculously gets back to me I say: “Officer, you just got yourself a deal!” What’s in it for me, is my right lobe asking, but again my mouth refuses to comply. He is driving us to my sister’s home, and we scare the living hell out of her, walking inside shrieking “Multi Ani Traiascaaaaa” (it was my brother-in-law’s B-day), looking like all the shit in the world, after a 14 hours’ journey, and with  hungry Tibby who was fancying to eat a full whale with any crunchy hors-d’oeuvres he could find – pencils, shoes, us.

Strange how time flies, we have to get going to Zirndorf, at Tibby’s friend, not before Tibby swallows up all the food in the house and leaves my sister threatening to call Kriminal Polizei if we don’t scram, buster.

Day 8. Zirndorf
Just in case your knowledge of geography amounts to 33 grams, Zirndorf is a small town in Germany. Germany is a big country in Europe, which in its turn is a small continent on a planet called Baza, in the Bazavan galaxy. Also, just in case you didn’t know, for some people “crane” is the same with “bulldozer”, ’cause in order to find him Tibby’s friend told us to look for the former while he actually meant the latter.

Day 9. Salzburg
Straight to Salzburg we go! For all of you geography illiterates, Salzburg is a city in Austria, not  Germany, as I mistakenly wrote in a cover letter which cost me a scholarship there in my senior year in college. Salzburg is the kind of city I want to live in. Mozart, cool tourists, mountains, statues, Mozart, music, fortresses and castles, and Mozart, monuments, memorials, Mozart, Mozart, Mozart and – again, you guessed it – Mozart. Oh, yes, and Mozart was Austrian, not German, as I again wrote in the same cover letter which I’m sure must have gotten the admission board rolling on the floor with laughter, although I do believe they wouldn’t have felt so comfortable if I had asked them where Zirndorf or Poplaca was! So long, Salzburg! You’ve left me with a picturesqe image and a horrible indigestion from the freakish expensive sea food I ate there. And I bet there was no sea horse in the sea mix, either.

Day 10,11,12. Bratislava
As we were riding our vehicle towards friendlier Romanian soils, Tibby goes out saying what everyone felt: Dudes, let’s go and see Bratislava! Bratislava is just a right turn from Austria, and there we go, and we set foot there, and we stroll, and we take pictures. I love the Slovenian capital, goes I, look, they even have blocks just like Manastur! Let’s go have some Slovenian beer. Can I have some Slovenian beer, please, I ask a cute waitress whose eyes roll out into the biggest onions Bratislava has ever seen. Sure you can, Strabo, you father of geography, my friends tell me, only THIS IS SLOVAKIA, WHICH IS JUUUUUST A BIT DIFFERENT FROM SLOVENIA! And Budapest is not the same with Bucharest, you know, which in its turn is different from Belgrade! I hate geography, I retort (I don’t, but there was nothing else for me to say), and you can’t expect me to know how to tie my shoes and know where I am at the same time! Dude, that’s common knowledge, they say.

We have our beer, and away we go, ’cause we wanted to get home to Cluj in the morning. But – I won’t tell you what happened at the border, only the fact that the prickiest, son-of-a-bitchiest, bastardest Hungarian border guard denied us the entry. Take a guess why? Here’s a hint: a particular missing page from a particular passport which happened to belong to a particular American guy who was riding in a particular car we were in, too. Deny the entry – that’s OK, I guess, no underling with ripped passports should be allowed to defile the green meadows of Hungary. But his on purpose bitchy way he had us return, and his refusal to speak anything else than Hungarian to us to justify such a measure is I think worthy of a FUCK YOU! from the bottom of my heart, especially since his colleagues one week ago had not sen this as a threat to world security and peace.

Anyways, we drive back to Bratislava to the consulate to change the passport, and we can’t help feeling like lowlife gypsies (that’s why I am totally against discrimination, for I have been discriminated against in the past.) And there we stay for three long days waiting for Josh to solve his passport issue, and all we do is prevent our kidneys from gettign sick by staying 12 hours a day in the Slovak Pub in Bratislava and sipping on their delicious beer. Some voices say these days were lost, but I say on behalf of our kidneys these days were gained, especially if I ever want to sell one for a good price. I especially liked the friendly people – former communist block, just like us. So friendly, that when we had to bribe the Slovakian border guard with 50E for not having paid the road tax I felt the guy was actually doing me a favour.
Anyways, we eventually cross the Hungarian border (with more incidents again that I would like to remember, but I really felt like killing somebody with the death of a thousand cuts!) and we head straight to the booth to buy a vignette for Hungarian roads (all at our friend’s Slovakian border guard’s advice.) Again we get this nasty feeling of not being wanted – the booth worker literally slams the door in Josh’s nose and refuses to give us a vignette for God knows what reason, after having him wait in the wind for 4 minutes, 46 seconds, and 98 decimals. They can’t be all like that, we think, and fortunately we meet a very friendly staff at a OMV petrol station despite our communications issue. There! Now we feel better about Hungary Image

Wanna know how we crossed the border? I bought myself 3 litres of whiskey from the duty free, which I intend to drink all by myself as soon as an opportunity pops in.

– Long story, says the intelligence officer, stifling a yawn. And you expect me to believe all this?
– It’s all in the picures, anyways. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sleep to catch and a long way to go tomorrow: my parents are dying to see the pictures with my nephews. Oh, and by the way: just wanted to know I don’t hold any grudge against anyone. It’s been a wonderful trip which you ought to make sometimes.
– So you haven’t told them the secret, he said. Very good. That’s very good. You are free to go now.

6 lovituri, dă-i și tu!

This year’s 1st of April

So, we decides to go on this trip, right?
Me and some of me buddies, right? So, we do it. I says, we do it, and we done it. And everybody says we do it, and we done it! Right now we’re right at the end of it, in dear Bratislava, the beloved European capital with cheaper beer than Cluj. But before, we has to cross the Slovenian border, and we has to stop at this capital city, called Ljublijana (nice city, by the way). And so we says, since we’s decided to do it, why not sip a beer or two in Slovenia? And so by God we decided. And so by God almighty we did. We just headed out to the first pub that emerged from amidst old buildings and outdoor advertising. And so we goes in, and we orders. Four beers, and nothing less. And we waits. And then ze devil on me right shoulder spake: “Yo, brother! Wasssaaaaa… why not play a trick or smth, like a good brother! Why, it’s the first of April! Your day!!” And then my left shoulder angel comes  out in a fluffy cloud, yelling: “True!True!” And I says, like good old Zorba: “Who the hell am I to choose?” And so I goes to the tender – bartender, that is – and I says: “Yo, brother, you and I, u know, u and I, yo, we were meant to be together, bro! So here’s the thingie: see that table with those funny looking characters who couldn’t even star the film on their own life, dawg? So, here’s the deal: you, my man, you hand them, I mean, really hand them a fake bill, u know whatt’I’m sayin’? You just do that. Produce a fake bill worth 200 freakin’ euros for that shit you just brought us over, and we’ll have some good time!” And zen ze friikin’ tender – bartender, that is – looks at me and sez “I am sorry! Ich bin not allowed to do that! It is against club hrrre… hrrre… hrregulationz!” “Yo, bro, says I, u know what, do the right thin’, bro! Here’s the deal: u just produce a fake hand-written bill, and I myself with my own both right arms will hand it over to my colleagues, is that cool to you? C’mon, bro, gimme smth!” And he says: “Ich can trhhry” “At a boy, spake Radu, at a boy. Me knew you and I had this thin’ goin’ on between you and me, u know whatt’I’m sayin’, u and me? ‘Course u do, you even look smart. U just lemme know when you wants to do it”, so I walk back to the table, only to return a minute later and say “Bro, u knows what? Just make it 90 euros, that’s more down to earth, or something”, and I winks at him. And he winks back, with a sadistic smile. And 10 minutes later, when we ask for the bill, ze guy hands it over to me, and I produce the biggest eyes the size of onions Ljublijana has ever seen: “My, oh, my, this looks pretty expensive!” And with a nervous grim I hand it over to ze guyz. And they looks at it, and they goes all at once: “Freaaaaaakiiin’ huuuuge biiiiilllll” And believe me, that was no Monica talking about no Bill Clinton, no, they wasn’t! So I start chuckling and I grabs me camera, and I puts it all on film. And so they spends 8 minutes comparing prices on the menu to prices on the bill, they are!
And then I laughed on their faces, on their faces I did, ’cause they deserved it! And some of them even deserved communism, 50 years, they did!
Deocamdată fără lovituri. Dă-o tu pe prima!

Cum a luat Romania bataie de la Croatia

Camin 16

Da, tot caminul 16. Parca era ieri. De fapt, ieri si era.

Cred ca, per total, a fost cea mai tare experientza traita in anul I. In afara de balul bobocilor organizat de mucea din Sibiu, anu I, care vede si el prima data orash mare cu tramvaie, in afara de bataia cu basarabenii si de eternul Ivan.

Deci, sa o luam pe indelete.
Cupa mondiala la fotbal, sau campionatul european, vara ’98, juca si Romania; ca si acum, eram super microbist cand juca echipa patriei mele, ca aveam motiv sa beau, de necaz sau de bucurie.
Ei bine, asa se facu, ca din toata camera de 4+1, fiecare s-o inshurubat pe la cineva cu televizor in camera, pe la o terasa cu ecranare, pe undeva de unde se putea vedea meciu’ vietii. Romania-Croatia, daca mai tin bine minte, si mai tin, ca circumvolutiunile nu se indreapta de la beutura (oricine spune contrariul, minte!!).
Ei bine, si fac eu ce fac, ma plantez intr-o terasa langa B-uri (caminele medicinei), vecina cu Paco, prind si loc la masa, comand cele 6 beri care trebuiau sa imi umezeasca gura uscata de la “Hai Romaniaaaa!” Si incepe meciul. Si privesc. Si sufar. Si Romania o ia (Croatia, daca nu ma insel, o si castigat cupa anu’ ala). Si, amarat, dar optimist ca am motiv intemeiat sa imi beu iara mintile, cobor Piezisa sa merg in camera 109 din caminul 16, sa-mi iau tovarashii. Ajung la intrarea caminului dupa ce am inotat in suvoiul de multime furioasa care iesea din camin sa isi curete nisipul de la rinichi. La poarta caminului, ma intalnesc cu cel mai bun prieten al meu, un ucrainean (copilu’ asta iesea iarna la minus 15 imbracat in sandale, pantaloni scurti si un cojoc de blana neincheiat peste bustul gol sa isi cumpere tigari, si mai si zabovea in fatza caminului la o discutie cu aia care curatau zapada; ultima data cand l-am vazut isi trecuse UN SURUB prin nas si era mare bodyguard prin Bianco&Nero – era ceea ce eu numesc un tough motherfucker, cam 2 metri si 10, la sport). Era genul de om pe care era bine sa il cunosti. Odata auzisem ca ridicase doi inamici de cureaua de la pantaloni si ii aruncase doi metri in spate, si il cred in stare. Nu apuc sa ii strang mana lui intinsa ( Image) ca aud de sus “Roomaniiiaaaaaaaa…!”                          pauza                          BUUUUUUM! Metal, sticla, lemn. Un televizor aruncat de la etajul patru. Tzandari, aschii, ace. Basarabenii de langa meseriashu’ meu: “Blea! O aruncat tilivizoaru’, blea! Niebunu’!!!”

Urc cele cinci etaje, aleg cu grija pe drum injuraturile cu care sa impartasesc amarul cu colegii de camera, si ajung in odaie.  Camera – inca goala. Oftez, si plec sa dau un flipper asa, de amareala (era un flipper meseriash cu gagici futuriste, cu lenjerie intima de otzel si sfarcuri de laser). Stau acolo 15 minute, si ma hotar sa plec inapoi sa-mi culeg tovarashii.

Si atunci s-a intamplat.

Ati vazut vreodata tot caminul 16 iesit pe ferestre? 1000 de suflete inghesuite la vreo 70 de geamuri? Eu am vazut. Dar 1000 de suflete care iti fac semn TIE (mama, cum se transparea liderul din mine, de la distantza!) “Hai! Hai!! Hai!!!” ati vazut vreodata? Absorbit de multimea care isi cauta lider, pasesc precum un Dumnezeu pe mare inspre cladirea cenusie, pregatindu-mi discursul despre starea natiunii, cand observ si vreo cateva maini si guri cunoscute care strigau si faceau semne, cu incetinitorul, sa plec, sa nu ma apropii. Nu am mai avut vreme sa ezit. Din inaltul ceriului au aterizat langa mine vreo patru pungi cu apa, vreo doua sticle, un scutec de copil, si alte cca 32 de obiecte neidentificate. Prosti lunetisti! Un fleac, nici macar nu m-au ciuruit. Sar ca un cerb 16 metri mai in spate, si ma uit nedumerit in jur. Fac o corelatie destul de SF dintre televizorul care inca mai fumega, covorul de cioburi de pe jos, multimea in delir care racnea de la etaje, si patria mea care o luase pe coaja, ca de obicei. Mai stau pret de cateva minute sa ii vad pe altii cum o fura original (nu toti au fost la fel de pe faza ca mine, si unul cu gajica-sa chiar facuse un dush scurt), dupa care o iau pe langa caminul doishpe, si zig-zaghez prin foc prin shpagi prin glonti prin fum pana ajung sa intru in camin prin partea cu salile de lectura (coltul dinspre caminul 17), teafar si nevatamat. Urc intr-un suflet scarile, semnalizez si depasesc patru camarazi de arme care se kinuiau sa urce un frigider pana la etajul opt, aveam sa aflu mai tarziu, si intru in camera de vizavi, aia care dadea inspre intrarea in camin.

Mai, frate, mai, ce am vazut de acolo intrecea orice carte de Asimov. De sus, de la etaje, se aruncau orice fel de lucruri care puteau sau nu puteau fi aruncate. Sticle de bere, borcane cu zacusca inflorita, cutii de plastic cu pilaful de acum doua saptamani, pungi cu apa, coji de cartofi, pixuri, ceapa, pantofi scalciati, inca un televizor, doua chiuvete care s-au facut tzandari pe pavaj, o tzeava de dush, un pat, o saltea care a aterizat pe acoperisul de deasupra intrarii si a ramas acolo, innegrita de la ploaie, pana anul urmator, carti, cursuri arzande diafan prin aer, izmenele de asta-iarna, vreo patru coshuri de gunoi de plastic rosu, un lighean portocaliu, tacamuri, paine mucegaita, frigiderul de la etajul opt, tot gunoiul de pe palier, blugii vechi ai colegului de camera, cojile de la ceapa, mamaliga scorojita, rezerva de slanina. In orice moment pluteau prin aer cel putin 2-3 chestii, care cadeau pe pamant cu o cadentza de una la 2-3 secunde. Portarul a iesit afara si a incercat sa urle, dar si-a dat seama ca are toate sansele sa moara ca un erou din filmele coreene care se lupta cu invadatorul japonez, asa ca s-a refugiat rapid inapoi in camin, dupa ce eschivase, tinereste, cateva proiectile. Asteptam cu interes sa vedem si primul cosmonaut sarit din camin, dar nu am avut noroc. Cert este ca intreg cheful a durat de la 7 fara vreo 20 pana seara la 9,30, cand efectiv nu se mai vedea nimic afara. Si nu mai era cool sa arunci nimic daca nu ii puteai urmari triectoria. Mai ales ca aparuse si garcea de Hasdeu sa investigheze.

Dupa o jumatate de ora, am coborit cu Stelica sa bem o bere in Nico. Jur ca talpile mele nu au atins asfaltul, care oricum nu se vedea sub covorul de cioburi, pungi si hartii moarte. Si am facut si poza pe frigiderul cazut la datorie, dar trebuie scanata.

5 lovituri, dă-i și tu!

Oul lui Mitroa


Ati auzit de oul lui Columb? E, vax albina. Pana si eu am auzit de el. A dreq Columb, mono-coios, si descopera ditai continentu’, pitit cale de trei zile de exasperarea echipajului!

Noa, da’ ou’ lu Mitroa e mult mai poietic.

Clar, eram in caminu’ 16. Abatorul de minti fragede. Armata mea. Stagiul meu militar. Si cand plecam din camin in vacantza de iarna din anul de gratiela 1997, ramane un ou nespart, pe care nimeni nu il mai poate papariza, ochiza, fierbiza, papa, arunca. Un ou stravechi. Pe care cineva (aka Mitroa, ca e cineva!) are ideia geniala de a-l lasa pe calorifer pentru a se coace peste vacantza de iarna. Sau incuba. Sau whatever. Ideia era sa iasa primul pui din expresia “ce puii mei”.

Din pacate, Dumnezeul puilor a avut fericita inspiratie de a nu lasa vreun exemplar aripat  sa se nasca in cazarma 16. Am aflat acest lucru dupa exact patru saptamani, cand ne-am adus aminte de el. Oul deja capatase niste nuantze albastrii, si niste miasme emanand din porii personali care depaseau cu mult aroma bocancilor nostri in spatele carora se ascunsese nelegitimul prins de razie in odaia noastra. Dar era OK. Oricum aveam narile atrofiate de la gatit papare cu ceapa in slanina topita (shunca, pentru sudishti) si de la aroma dulapelor unde pastram kilotii. Asa ca l-am mai lasat sa fiarba in albush propriu pana in sesiune.

Ei bine, in sesiune, dupa o repriza furioasa de invatzat, cautam la marea disperare ceva de facut. ORICE. Si intr-o duminica dimineatza mohorata de ianuarie, pe la vreo orele 13, Fla’ Mitroa’ regaseshte oul. Care cam zvacnea. Parerea mea e ca deja isi dezvoltase un intelect propriu. Ce sa faci? Nu era decat o singura solutie. De aruncat la cosh nu puteam, ca iesea noaptea din gunoi si ne sugruma pe toti. Asa ca ne-am hotarat sa il facem cosmonaut orbital. Asa ca mytroianul l-a inshfacat viguros cu mana cu care isi tinea putzulica cand facea peepee si s-a catzarat pe masa din curul camarei, pentru a-l promova in proiectil inteligent (cum dreq atz traduce voi homing missile???) spre o tinta demna.

Si tinta s-a aratat.

In spatele caminului (deci in partea de est, partea opusa intrarii, adeca a plaformei unde se stransesera cioabele de la meciul romano-croat) existau neshte cashi, locuite de neshte bashtinashi super pashnici. Nush ce cultivau aia vara in gradinile lor generoase, deoarece nu mai puteai vedea culoarea pamantului de cate desheuri arunca un camin intreg de studentzashi pe gem. Ptiu, pe geam. Sticle de bere, borcane cu zacusca inflorita, cutii de plastic cu pilaful de acum doua saptamani, pungi cu apa, coji de cartofi, pixuri, ceapa, pantofi scalciati, inca un televizor, doua chiuvete care s-au facut tzandari pe pavaj, o tzeava de dush, un pat, o saltea care a aterizat pe acoperisul de deasupra intrarii si a ramas acolo, innegrita de la ploaie, pana anul urmator, carti, cursuri arzande diafan prin aer, izmenele de-asta iarna, vreo patru coshuri de gunoi de plastic rosu, un lighean portocaliu, tacamuri, paine mucegaita, frigiderul de la etajul opt, tot gunoiul de pe palier, blugii vechi ai colegului de camera, cojile de la ceapa, mamaliga scorojita, rezerva de slanina. Toate, intr-o avalansha tinereasca de proiectile pe care propitarii renuntasera de la a le mai indeparta. Ei bine, nacazul mare nu il reprezenta covorashul de desheuri, ci toaleta (ptiu, buda!) aflata – ati ghicit! – in curte. Buda clasica, cotetz de lemn.

Ei bine, in acea duminica, intr-o ora post-slujba-de-duminica-de-la-biserica, Flaviu cantarea un outz de gaina proasta intr-o mana, si cu cealalta fixa tinta, orice tinta, precum discobolul din caminul 16. Ce tinta? Pai sa va spun. Unul din nefericitii locatari ai cashilor din spatele caminului, unde soarele nu rasare nici daca-l mituieshti, tocmai mergea voios spre cotetzul rustic de lemn pentru a se exprima fiziologic.

Bad idea jeans!!!

In aceeashi nanosecunda, creierul berizat al mitroiului meu a fixat tinta, a procesat binar GPS-izat informatia, a stabilit coordonatele si a slobozit incarcatura hepatica catre nefericitul pisharcos. Bineinteles, cu aceeasi acuratetze cu care ai incerca sa nimereshti o angiosperma cu un proiectil de un micron (nush de unde comparatia asta, da’ iubesc cuvantul “angiosperma”). Daca nu l-a nimerit, nu a fost vina lui; cert e ca in aceeasi nanosecunda, inca alte trei minti luminate din camin s-au gandit sa ii trimita nefericitului niscai mancare stricata, in asa fel ca omu isi putea hrani in sfarsit o saptamana familia cu bucata zdravana de paine mucegaita, crihanul de slana afumata si branza cu mucegai ne-nobil pe care cele trei minti semi-treze s-au gandit sa i le arunce, spre indestularea gintei sale. Ca l-au nimerit sau nu, nu pot sa va spun; cert e ca omul si-a atins scopul final – atingerea americii sale cotetzeshti si buzeshti – dupa care a tzashnit intr-un sprint olimpic inapoi spre zidurile cashii sale acoperite de tabla, tabla aia infecta care suna ca dreq cand aruncam cu sticle de bere (evident, goale!) noaptea pe la 4.

Toate bune si frumoase si grase, sesiunea continua, si asa continua si studentia.

Dupa 2 saptamani, un zvon scutura caminul. Urmeaza sa ne puna zabrele la fereshti! Sa nu mai aruncam desheuri radioactive pe ferestre. Caminul a inceput brusc sa arate ca penitenciarul de la Vascautzi.

In ziua in care au ajuns la noi la etajul 5 cu zabrelele, Flaviu revine acasa dupa o cina copioasa (si altceva, probabil la fel de copios!) de la prietena lui, care dispunea si de televizor in dotare. Meseriashu’ tocmai vazuse pe NCN (postul local) un interviu luat locatarilor de supt ferestrele est, din partea opusa intrarii, cu ocazia zabrelirii caminului. Locatari, intre care un personaj foaaaarte dubios si mincinos se plangea ca “D-ra reporter, da’ nu pot nici macar sa merg la toaleta din cauza deseurilor pe care le arunca studentii pe geam! This is outrageous!!!”

Si amu stau si ma intreb: oare o fi vreo legatura???

Din acel moment, nu am mai putut arunca desheuri pe geam decat strezurandu-le printre ochiurile de plasa de metal de la geam. Ce pierdere! Pana atunci, la orele 9 dimineatza si 9 seara, cand caminul pleca la faculta in Pub sau revenea seara de la “studii”, nu numarai pana la 6 pana sa vezi o punga, un ambalaj, o sticloantza goala sau ceva mancare putrezita plutind voios catre coordonata telurica – o data la 3-4 secunde. Din acel moment nu am mai avut ce numara. Decat ghemotoacele perseverentilor, pe care ajtia se incapatanau sa le arunce printre ochiurile  de sarma, in ciuda autoritatii.

O lovitură, dă-i și tu!

Deprimati din toate tarile, sinucideti-va



Sinucide-te, bou sau capra ce esti. Pune-ti capul pe sine si asteapta, rabdator (adverb), sa treaca personalul, ca nu meriti sa te ucida Sageata Albastra.

Deprimarea e boala generatiei mele.

Suntem tineri, suntem frumosi. Mai icnim din cand in cand, da’ e ok. Nu toti avem locuri de munca, aia care avem nu suntem toti multumiti, ne mai kinuie un shaf, nu suntem apreciati la justa valoare, ne mai fute cand un pretin ca nu ne-o sunat de ziua de nastere sau nu ne-o dat un SMS patetic de LMA de sarbatori (partea asta am scos-o ca cineva drag mie s-o ofuscat). Ne enerveaza aglomereala din autobuzele ma-sii, grobienii, aia care or primit apartamente de la Ceausescu moca si amu le vand pe miliarde, hamalii din piatza care te darama cand circula cu carucioarele pline de castraveti importati, casieru’ de la Billa care are o zi proasta, Nastase cu matushile si nesimtirea lui, ziua de salariu in care vrei sa zbori si iti dai seama ca ai aripi de ceara. Proprietarul apartamentului meu, parintii care nu mai is tineri si nu te mai poti certa cu ei, sistemul sanitar din “Moartea domnului Lazarescu”, vremea asta cetzoasa, barurile in care vezi femei care nu se vor uita niciodata la tine, varsta asta care galopeaza spre dreq stie ce, ca nu tot timpul Dumnezeu are vreun plan cu tine. Filmele americane despre colegiu si tineri cretini pe care le plac jumatate din populatia Romaniei. Camera in care stai in chirie si pentru care plateshti un salariu de profesor. Pe luna. Starurile din firma. Rosiile importate care au gust de acru, iarna. Peshtele de la Profi, crescut prin haznalele oceanului, si care pute a caminul 16. Intretinerea. Aia care is pe dincolo, castiga o carutza de banuti, si se perpelesc de dorul patriei asteia imputite. Traian Basescu. Tariceanu. Geoana. Brucan (seamana cu o iguana). VADIM (daca tot ce spune el e adevarat???) Lenea mea (nu eram asa inainte, jur). Munca asta care nu pare sa se mai termine. Aia care se uita la mine si ma invidiaza ca castig o jumatate de salariu minim pe economie occidental. Cioran. Agentii imobiliari care se distreaza cand le zic ca nu dau 44.000 E pe un apartament de 46 mp, confort unic. Statul la ocazie. Aia care cumpara Piatza luni si golesc oferta de apartamente bune. Piloshii care intra in fatza la doctor. Taximetristu’ de la Diesel care ii injura pe olteni. Orasul asta cenusiu in care nu se va intampla niciodata nimic. Englezoii care habar nu au cum sa-si administreze afacerea. Bocancii luati la reducere si cu care alunec iarna. Izvorul Minunilor. Pretul la banane care e mai mic decat pretul merelor romaneshti. Caminul 16 in care nu poti sa lasi un partz. Faptul ca nu s-au inventat oglinzi pentru suflet. Uniunea Europeana care ne va lasa fara telemea si sorici. Smantana Napolact care nu se topeshte in ciorba. Pensia alor mei. Singuratatea lor. Oamenii de care ti-e dor. Corpul meu care trebuie hranit. Dan Diaconescu. Andreea Esca. Pretenu’ meu Niatza, la culme. Cel mai vechi. Din nou, apartamentele. Calculatoru meu care se blocheaza cand joc counter, desi am placa video de 256 Mb pe 128 biti. Aia de la cablu din cauza carora nu pot vedea CNN. Masterele pe care le-am picat. Faptul ca nu m-am nascut bogat. Capitalismu’ asta de imprumut clonat pe o economie bolnava. Oamenii imbracati in geci negre care iti controleaza biletul in autobuzele ticsite. Faptul ca nu mai stiu canta la chitara ca pe vremuri, si vocea care nu mai suna ca la 16 ani. Imi creste tensiunea cand trag din tigara. Am insomnii, pt ca urasc momentul ala de dinainte de adormire cand raman singur cu gandurile mele. Faptul ca mai sunt oameni care mor de frig sau de foame in Romania. Si in lume. Aia cu piercing in spranceana care nu pot duce o conversatie inteligenta mai mult de 20 de secunde. Fauna Music Pub-ului. Partile de lume pe care nu cred ca apuc sa le mai vad. Faptul ca ma cam doare la banana de ele si nici nu vreau sa le vad. Razboiul din Irak, care costa un miliard de $ pe zi. In Franta nu mai ai voie sa mergi la scoala cu voal daca esti musulmanca. Oamenii care nu inteleg sa fie umili. Aroganta mea cand mai cac un text ca asta. Durerile de spate. Oamenii hipersensibili la gesturile gresite ale celorlalti. Faptu’ ca pretenii mei care au firma nu castiga miliardu’ pe an. Si, in final, toti aberatii care isi trec texte pesimiste pe blog. “Viata e un butoi”, “Incerc sa descopar sensu vietii”, pizde d-astea. Mesurile alea cu se inkide yahoo, un copil primeshe bani de la AOL daca dai mailul mai departe, daca iti trebe penis mai mare ia bumbii astia. Nepotii mei care sunt la distanta si nu apuc sa ii vad numa in MMS-uri. Cumnatu’-meu e neamt get-beget. Nationalismul exacerbat al clujenilor. Vorbirea cu “are decat 3 milioane salariu”. Se zice serviciu, nu servici. Nu petrec suficient timp cu oamenii dragi si imi pare rau, dar uneori kiar nu am kef. Blow me. Un sut in fund e un pas inainte spre hemoroizi la amigdale. Oamenii mai si mor. Pana sa iti moara cineva drag, faci bancuri. Dupa care nu mai faci. Dimineata vin cu taxiul, seara ma inghesui in Ratucuri. Berea din Jay’s are gust ca pixu’, nush unde dreq o tin astia. A, si muzica e neschimbata de 4 ani. Microbistii. Gunoaiele. Trotuarele asfaltate prost, care nu vor arata a occident nici in 15 ani. Copiii vor rade de mine cand le voi explica Romania in 2006. Comu-istii pulii carora le-a esuat experimentul destinat esecului, si asta la scara planetara. Capitalistii astia care se mananca intre ei pentru un botz de mamaliga. Rusii. Daaaa, rusii anytime. Efectul de sera, ne ducem pe pula toti. Vremea din Romania, in tzara asta nici clima nu mai mere cum trebe. Vreau apartament. Si pensie mare, de 2000 E pe luna. Acum. Oamenii care sunt foarte buni cu mine si ma fac sa ma simt ca un vierme ce mi-s. Politaii care urla la tine cand nu parchezi cum trebuie. Bisericile romanesti sunt penale comparativ cu cele sasesti sau unguresti, si iti gadila isteric si negativist sentimentu’ nationalist. “Fara noi, erati inca vanatori-culegatori”. Faptul ca uneori fac bine din orgoliu. Oare asa fac si ceilalti? Uneori ma dau mare cu ce sfaturi de viatza dau. Ai, destept mai sunt! Mi-as lua si masina, daca as avea chef de scoala de soferi. Daca instructoru’ nu e amabil cu mine, a belit-o, jur. Nu mai am chef sa fac miscare, si asta e un semn naspa de ramolire. Sunt dependent de calculator.

Daca ai vreodata o depresie, gandeshte-te la copila asta din imagine. Cei dragi tie is sanatosi, sau de bine de rau mai sufla. Am vazut-o acum doi ani la sectia de Leucemie din Cluj. Anul asta nu am mai vazut-o. Te simti mai bine?

3 lovituri, dă-i și tu!

Caricaturi, Blog si Yahoo Messenjer asezonat cu injiner + filolog

Copy-paste din YM:
Show Recent Messages (F3)


Calin Marian:
Radu Bazavan: muie ba
Radu Bazavan: acum 50 de ani ne prajeam evreii prin lagare
Calin Marian: e
Radu Bazavan: suntem mai rai ca ei
Calin Marian: ha?
Calin Marian: tu tii cu arabii?
Calin Marian: da-i dracu
Radu Bazavan: nu mah
Radu Bazavan: trebe sa ne intelegem
Radu Bazavan: ca n-avem decat o planeta
Calin Marian: da ma
Radu Bazavan: capiche?
Calin Marian: da aia nu is de inteles
Radu Bazavan: sh io vreau sa vad ruinele din babilon fara sa ma ia careva ostatic
Calin Marian: poa sa zica ce or vrea sa zica de d-zo, ca nime nu o sa le atace ambasadele
Calin Marian: daca is tembeli
Radu Bazavan: poi da
Radu Bazavan: da nu-i mai zgandarim
Radu Bazavan: ca nu ie bine
Radu Bazavan: facem razboi la ei acasa
Radu Bazavan: si tot noi ne ofuscam
Radu Bazavan: nu?
Calin Marian: io vreu sa ii vad sapun
Radu Bazavan: ca sa cum as baga de vina taurului ca se crizeaza cand vede roshu
Radu Bazavan: si ei pe noi
Radu Bazavan: si nush care are mai multa dreptate
Calin Marian: da ba
Calin Marian: tauru ii animal
Calin Marian: is si astia animale?
Calin Marian: ca daca da, atunci perfect de acord cu tine
Calin Marian: daca nu, la sapun cu ei
Radu Bazavan: nu
Radu Bazavan: lumineaza-i, in pula mea
Radu Bazavan: ca si noi ar trebui sa fim exterminati
Radu Bazavan: ca suntem boi
Radu Bazavan: in gaura europei
Radu Bazavan: ]si ne furam si ne mintim
Calin Marian: e
Calin Marian: da nu dam in cap pt chestii idioate
Radu Bazavan: nu
Radu Bazavan: numa la betie
Radu Bazavan: si avem si pedofili in lumea asta superba a noastra
Radu Bazavan: ai auzit?
Radu Bazavan: 550.000 inregistrati in SUA
Radu Bazavan: no, tjanks
Radu Bazavan: 😀
Calin Marian: da man… da nu ii chestie de popor.
Calin Marian: scursori sint peste tot
Calin Marian: da acolo toti is
Radu Bazavan: ce?
Radu Bazavan: teroristi?
Radu Bazavan: nu pre
Radu Bazavan: 😐
Calin Marian: nu
Calin Marian: dusi cu pluta
Calin Marian: gata sa iti dea in cap
Calin Marian: daca tu zici ca-ti bagi pula in coran
Calin Marian: na
Radu Bazavan: da’ cine te pune?
Radu Bazavan: ?
Radu Bazavan: vizitator la cineva acasa
Radu Bazavan: sa faci pe nesimtitu’?
Radu Bazavan: hai la mine acasa
Radu Bazavan: si zi ceva de maica-mea
Radu Bazavan: am sa ma bucur
Radu Bazavan: si daca legea e de partea mea, te si fac caltabosh
Calin Marian: da nu o fost la ei acasa
Calin Marian: o fost in danemarca
Radu Bazavan: da’ daca scrie de maica-mea in ziar, ii dau in judecata
Calin Marian: si in state, si mai nu stiu unde…
Calin Marian: nu or fost la ei acasa
Calin Marian: vezi mail mai bine
Calin Marian: 😀
(imi trimite un mail porno, si ma amuz o vreme, sunt un porc sovin)
Radu Bazavan: lol
Radu Bazavan: ideea e ca
Radu Bazavan: oricum lucrurile is aprinse pan la d-zeu
Calin Marian: da
Radu Bazavan: si numa ca noi nu mai avem nimic sfant
Calin Marian: da asta nu ii scuza ca is tembeli
Radu Bazavan: nu ne permite sa dam cu rahat de cutzu p-unde apucam
Calin Marian: zii ce ii sfant
Radu Bazavan: nu mah
Calin Marian: da nu ma aburi ca biblia
Radu Bazavan: noi suntem tembeli
Radu Bazavan: de ce nu ne facem mashini pe aer sau apa?
Calin Marian: pt ca astia stim bine ca is chestii de manipulat in masa
Radu Bazavan: ce ne traba noo rezbel in Iraq?
Radu Bazavan: …sau poate nu
Radu Bazavan: nu uita ca esti injiner
Radu Bazavan: deci mai supus greselii
Radu Bazavan: ca restu furnicarului
Calin Marian: ne
Calin Marian: atita timp cit s-o ucis pt. un kakat de jhirtie
Calin Marian: nu ii ceva sfint
Radu Bazavan: nimic nu justifica crima
Radu Bazavan: nici petrolu’, nici hartia
Calin Marian: o religie (vezi definitia) e ceva ce nu te obliga
Calin Marian: ori ce avem amu sau de cind ii lumea
Calin Marian: ii doar obligatie
Calin Marian: si agresiune
Radu Bazavan: a noastra nu e de agresiune mah
Radu Bazavan: zice sa dai si alalalt obraz
Calin Marian: e
Radu Bazavan: si noi
Radu Bazavan: pula
Calin Marian: cruciadele or fost chefuri de fapt
Radu Bazavan: razboinicii luminii si ai pulii
Radu Bazavan: pai da
Calin Marian: iara
Calin Marian: cu obrazul 2
Radu Bazavan: ca le trebia mirodenii sh aur si petre pretioase
Calin Marian: un kakat mai mare nu se poate
Radu Bazavan: i-auzi
Radu Bazavan: is milioane care se ghideaza dupa teoria asta
Calin Marian: adica vine ala, imi fute 3 pumni, si sa mai stau, ca de, ii aproapele meu?
Radu Bazavan: si s-o gasit calin marean mai dajtept
Calin Marian: nu
Calin Marian: dar asta o aparut amu 1500 de ani
Radu Bazavan: ma gandeam eu, ca n-are cum
Calin Marian: teoria asta idioata
Radu Bazavan: asa
Calin Marian: ca inainte nu era
Radu Bazavan: nu e idioata ma
Radu Bazavan: nu
Radu Bazavan: inainte eram animale
Calin Marian: asa ca nu ma aburi ca asta o fost
Calin Marian has signed back in. (3/14/2006 2:32 PM)

Radu Bazavan: si ne trebia alta leje
Radu Bazavan: dupa aia ne-am revenit la ratiune si la hertz
Calin Marian: da da
Calin Marian: povesti
Calin Marian: deci egiptenii or fost animale
Radu Bazavan: poi nu?
Calin Marian: mesopotamiemii, si ei
Calin Marian: numa noi nu sintem animale
Radu Bazavan: in egipt? se futeau acolo fratii cu sorile mai mult ca caminu’ 6 cu 16
Calin Marian: amu te contrazici cu ce ziceai mai inainte
Radu Bazavan: nu ma contrazic
Radu Bazavan: cand o aparut zeu’ nost, o adus cu el o noua lege
Radu Bazavan: si gata
Calin Marian: a nostru?
Radu Bazavan: nu mai bateti doba de razboi
Calin Marian: da a chinezilor?
Radu Bazavan: da aia e treaba lor
Calin Marian: ala nu e?
Radu Bazavan: trebe sa ne toleram
Calin Marian: pai cum ma?
Radu Bazavan: ca alta planeta nu pre avem
Calin Marian: ca doar toti sintem oameni
Radu Bazavan: exact
Calin Marian: si aia daca nu au dzo
Radu Bazavan: ce ma pishca pe mine sa fut bance cu profetu lor?
Radu Bazavan: ha?
Calin Marian: da ce te-ar deranja?
Radu Bazavan: io am ditai barna la mine in cultura in oki
Calin Marian: amu hai si ia-mi gitu
Radu Bazavan: da’ rad d-aia
Calin Marian: ca si eu
Calin Marian: am jignit biblia la greu
Calin Marian: daca ii vorba
Radu Bazavan: auto-ironia e altceva, Nelu (apelativ generic folosit de mine cu succes)
Calin Marian: noa
Radu Bazavan: nu e aceeasi kestie cu restu’
Calin Marian: si arabii nu or inteles?
Radu Bazavan: nu cred ca au fost foarte fericiti
Radu Bazavan: si cu arabii
Radu Bazavan: si danejii
Radu Bazavan: iti spui io
Radu Bazavan: ca am stat acolo 5 luni
Radu Bazavan: danejii is mameluci
Radu Bazavan: si danezele is baietzoase
Calin Marian: las sa fie
Radu Bazavan: si la estea nu le mere cu arabocii
Radu Bazavan: astea is innebunite ca le calareste un mascul pe care nu prea pot sa il domine
Radu Bazavan: si ei, fatalaii, se oftica
Radu Bazavan: si fac caricaturi din kizda, ca alceva nu poa sa face
Radu Bazavan: noa
Radu Bazavan: muie
Radu Bazavan: reprimarea masculinitatii
Radu Bazavan: si o cam iau pe coaja de la tuciurii
Radu Bazavan: asta e tot
Radu Bazavan: si amu
Radu Bazavan: cu voia matale
Radu Bazavan: am sa te fac personaj de blog

O lovitură, dă-i și tu!

My B-Day in Denmark


Nu am chef de nimic

N-am chef sa beau azi nici o bere
N-am chef sa gust astazi nimica
N-am chef de somn, de invatat, de stat,
N-am chef de agatat
N-am chef sa vad acum pe nimeni
Nici chiar pe mine in oglinda.
Acum prin mine se perinda
Un lung suvoi de chef de nefacut nimica.
N-am nici macar vreo pofta sa respir
Nici sa mananc, nici sa transpir
Facand amor.
N-am nici un dor. Nimic. Sunt gol.
N-am chef sa vad vreun film, s-ascult radioul,
N-am chef s-ascult tacerea,
Si nimanui sa-i spun parerea-mi
Ca-mi pare ca n-am nici un chef.
Voi fi blasfemitor, dar nici de ruga
Nu am chef. Si nici sa-njur
Pe ma-sa, ta-su, si nepotii.
M-au napadit, omizi, netotii
Si nu am chef de ei sa scap
Ca nu am chef sa ridic mana –
Sa-i scutur doar asa, otara, sa-mi dea pace.
Ma uit cum trece saptamana
Si nu am chef sa-i spun “Arr^ete!”
Desi n-am chef sa vad cum timpul trece.
N-am chef maine sa merg la scoala
N-am chef acuma sa adorm
N-am chef sa vad ca pula mi se scoala
N-am chef sa vad ratiunile cum dorm
N-am chef sa fie var-acuma
N-am chef sa vie iarna in troieni
N-am chef, din flori de pom, sa beau din primavara spuma,
N-am chef, iubito, sa ma chemi,
E toamna, dar n-am chef de ea,
La fel cum nu am chef de voi,
N-am chef acuma nici de cheful meu
Care se cheama ca de nimic n-am chef.
N-am chef sa vad cum tot mereu
La hoitul vietii lasi se-aduna
N-am chef sa spun “Eu nu sunt eu!”
Si nu am chef ca altii sa mi-o spuna.
M-am saturat de draci si sfinti
Si nu am chef nici de parinti
Sa-mi spuna ce si cum sa fac
Ce sa vorbesc, ce sa imbrac,
La fel cum nu am chef de Danemarca.
Eu sunt Naufragiatul ce refuza barca,
Parasutistul fara parasuta,
Un giggolo ce nu vrea sa se futa!
Sunt marinarul care nu mai bea,
Sunt eu, cinstitul, mincinos sadea,
Sunt fermierul ce cu mana ara,
Sunt apa moarta-n foc si para!
Sunt sictiritul vesnic de pamant,
De Dumnezeu, de draci – de toti eu sunt!
N-am chef sa scriu poeme seara
Si nici sa stau degeaba-n pat,
N-am chef sa mai respir,
Pe fir
Ore si zile ca margele,
Satul de ele
Si de ne-cheful meu.
Satul de mine
Si de Dumnezeu.
Minusculul gandac de Colorado
Care sunt eu
Satul este de Dumnezeu!
Eu, parazit, capusa, scarabeu
M-am saturat.
Nu sunt nici derbedeu
Nici filosof, nici chiar poet.
Nu-s nici macar un chef enorm
Sa ma specializez. Si sa ma fac
Sa stau mereu, si sa n-am chef
Sa misc. Sa stau. Sa stau.
Si sa n-am chef de stat. Nici de cascat.
Nici de cacat. Nici de-adorat.
Dar s-ar putea sa vie clipa
Pe nesimtite ca pisica
Cand voi lasa acest nimica
Si voi fi iara, eu (nu sunt eu)
Cel care-l stiti.
Dar pan-atunci, n-am chef chiar de nimica.

Poezia asta am compus-o cand eram departe de cei dragi (oricine ar fi fost ei), hapt in innorata, vantoasa si ploioasa Danemarca. Jur ca fara nici o legatura cu Vama Veche. Am compus-o tocmai in seara cu ziua mea. Ce seara era? A, da, era anul 2000, duminica spre luni. Plouase. Normal, era noiembrie. In seara aceea am furat:) Am vazut, cu ochii mei de vultur, unde danezii lasau electricele stricate, si cu vreo doua saptamani inainte furasem, in plina puterea noptii, cu toata rusinica, o combina muzicala. Fara boxe si fara cablu de alimentare. Si duminica, in 12, vad doi danezi blonzi cum lasau de izbeliste o mandrete de televizor de lemn, probabil usor mai tanar ca mine, si pleaca in treaba lor. Ce credeti ca facea un anume student roman in aceeasi noapte pe la 2? Cioplea cu furie cu cutitul din dotare (maner negru de plastic) la ladoi. Asa ca in aceeasi seara, dupa un efort sustinut de o ora si jumatate si cu mainile amortite si congelate m-am trezit cu cablu de alimentare si boxe, si am inceput sa ascult de zor RADIO RUSIA.
Ca sa fie cireasa peste budinca asa cum trebuie: in seara aceea mi-am facut cea mai adevarata mancare papata de mine in Danemarca (exceptand queue de boef-ul lui Iki): am facut pireu cu cotlete de porc ramase de la colegul de apartament, salata de rosii, masline si ciuperci (primele le primisem de la Ali, irakianul la care marunteam cascaval) si m-am apucat de scris ganduri de roman la 3X86-le primit de la Habip, libanezul, my best friend. Si mi-am dat seama ca niciodata nu ma simtisem intr-atata de liber si de implinit. Niciodata. Sau de singur. Niciodata.
Anu asta am avut un gramadau de preteni si cunoscuti tocma cand mai adaugam un scaiete la ierbarul vietii mele trandafirii. Dar despre aceasta – dupa o scurta pauza publicitare.

O lovitură, dă-i și tu!

Ziua mea 2005

Politia prin vizor


Trei kefuri consecutive cu tot tacamu’. 11, 12, 13.

Cluj: Mi-e si frica sa zic cata lume a venit. Ceva pe la 60 de oameni si femei.
Creca de cand cu Danemarca m-a luat o frica atavica sa nu raman singur de ziua mea. Desi – Dumnezeu mi-e martor – niciodata nu am pus pretz pe aniversarea-mi. Si ca dovada, sorella mea a uitat ce zi e si cat e ceasul samd si mi-a dat mesaj de LMA pe 11 Image. M-am distrat si am sunat-o inapoi fara sa-i zic nimica, pentru ca, pe 13, cand era cu adevarat ziua mea, sa imi dea alt mesaj, care suna in felul urmator: “Dupa o masa buna la italieni am plecat la Salsa disco si acum la culcare. Dana” (mama ei de treaba, acuma nu mai semneaza cu “sor-ta”, ci cu “Dana”, germanizata lu peshte!)
Nacazul e ca nu a iesit keful pe care il asteptam din simplul motiv ca, pe cand ne kefuiam mai abitir, cine apare? Politia Image! (vezi poza de mai sus, facuta prin vizor, oare cui trebuie sa ii multumesc pentru ca s-a gandit sa imortalizeze momentul? Nu, perversilor, nu e o pasarica, e un vizor de usa!) Si nu Politia Primariei… Careva dintre vecinii binevoitori s-a gandit sa imi faca un cadou. Noroc ca inca eram foarte coerent si, dupa indelungi dezbateri si negocieri, am obtinut un avertisment scris din partea meseriashilor (fara implicatii financiare), si promisiunea ca daca mai primesc telefoane de reclamatii, sa imi dea bip la numarul de pe cartea mea de vizita (apropos, poate o sa aveti si dvs. vreodata nevoie de o traducere, ceva – anytime is a giood time to do business) – si vom evacua toata shandramaua in 2 minute. Puteau sa imi vaduveasca bugetul de 10 milioane. Ar fi fost pacat, banii aia puteau merge pe cauze caritabile, cum ar fi ciubucele date surorilor medicale care ma vor trata cand berile baute pe parcursul vietii mele se vor razbuna. Noroc ca am gasit intelegere, desi mi-a fost foarte greu sa vorbesc inteligibil, mai ales ca eu ma inteleg destul de greu ce spun chiar si cand sunt treaz. De ziua mea, cineva imi furase tigarile. Multumesc in gand lu Shafu’ ca nu sunt totusi in Danemarca, singur. Fiind roman, nu puteam da afar’ oaspetii, asa ca ne-am multumit sa concertam din chitara. Noroc ca Misu canta fain. Eu nu mai cantam decat ragete. Oare de ce am primit aproape numai cadouri cu tenta sexuala si beutura? Oare asa ma percepe oamenii si femeile?

Sibiu: Ce s-a gandit atunci Groparu, amu ca ramasese cu doua lazi de bere pe stoc? Nici mai mult nici mai putin decat sa le transfere in Sibiu, la partea a doua a petrecaniei. Asa ca – hopa sus cu ele in autocar, si tarash grapish cu ele pana in Sibiu (normal ca bravul sofer a lui nea Carabulea a primit si dansul o glaja, sa fie de sufletelul meu, manca-ti-as!). Clar ca am mai parlit neshte beri pe drum. Sa fie primit! Ajungem in Sibiu unde, la onor. casa de vacantza a onor. parintii mei, s-a petrecut a doua petrecanie. M-am fortat, m-am chinuit (dormisem ceva de genu 3 ore noaptea precedenta) si m-am culcat ultimul. Stie cineva cum de telefonul meu a ajuns tocmai in buzunarul Mitroiului, si a doua zi aveam 15 minute vorbite in Spania? (va spune ca nu e asa. Sa nu-l credeti, toti masculii sunt niste mincinosi si porci. Toti!)

A treia zi – soare, frumos, vreme de stat in tricou afara, desi e miezul lunii noiembrie. Doamne, ce buna a fost zama de verisoare facuta de o mama grijulie! Seara am ramas singur, asteptandu-l pe Utzu sa vina sa ma duca acasa. Si am adormit cu tigarea intr-o mana si cu berea in cealalta. Senzatie extraordinara de implinire, de parca mana mea tocmai pusese piciorul pe Luna a 9-a. Stratosfere. Licurici.

Ultima amintire: zeama de burta la Bistro. Stau la masa cu o trupa de manelisti pe care nu-i cunosc. Cel mai galagios dintre ei are cate trei ghiuluri babane de aur pe fiecare mana. Ma uit: primul e cu simbolul Mercedesului, al doilea are o sirena de aur, iar al treilea are un nume. Unisex.

S-a terminat. Ziua mea. Noroc ca mai e si la anu’.

Deocamdată fără lovituri. Dă-o tu pe prima!