El Classico

Watching El Classico, the Barcelona-Real Madrid game, helps to understand how a simple game of 22 men could be an artistic and sportive show. After this kind of games, Spanish or British derbies, I don’t feel like watching Dinamo Bukkarezt or Gazsaray Izdanbul…

Romania is trying to choose between the lesser of two evils. Next Sunday will be not just an election day, but also a light Armageddon (or Armageddon Zero?), deciding the possible outcomes of 2010… The country is in crisis, jobless rate climbing, pensioners marching the streets; New Year preparations have a rather sad tone despite the glowing sun at the end of November.

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I haven’t been out at a club for a while. During the week spoke to a few pals and agreed to meet at Brothelli on Saturday night.

The club is expected to be packed as stiff as a city tram during early morning hours; I have sent an SMS to D, as our participation ticket to table-lottery. In an hour or so, I received his reply, the table and thus our status at higher social ranks has been granted. We were going to watch down and be looked up.

Days spent home contributed to the diameter of my lower body so I am having difficulties in entering the black jeans I used to wear last year. With few jumps and swift pulls, the encounter has been accomplished- although I might not be able button up. Wearing nothing but the jeans, at a quick look at the dressing room mirror I met the Michelin man posing for Levi’s. Freeing myself from the jeans has taken more effort, I almost fainted.

Grabbed the last pair of jeans bought recently, fitted in and picked a black shirt. The supposedly black shirt lost its color and turned into a shiny grey; after serving as the training base of our cleaning lady for the World Armwrestling Series. Hoping that the dim light of the club will hide the rays of light I will be transmitting, I put it on. As long as I would not sit down, the shirt was still good. However any inclination forward or temptation for sitting may generate a belly vagina between two lower buttons of the shirt, just over the belt buckle…Still fine, slim fit, do not breathe…

Greasing my 1.5cm cut hair with hair gel (to hide the whites), getting into a pair of comfortable white sneakers and I am good to go. (While I was fighting with two pairs of jeans and a shirt, missus has taken shower, dried and reshaped her hair, dressed up, put on make-up, smoked two cigarettes and had a phone conversation with missus Sr.)

Reaching the crowded parking lot we are greeted by customs officers behind an iron bar. One of them leaned towards my window with a disproving gaze but recognized me and asked his mates to let us in; not only me but also my car has VIP treatment, having its own reserved place. Parked the car, walked past a cue of long legged species, guided by the welcoming faces of guards and we are in.

While I am following the waiter to our table I realized that the service personnel had white Nike’s, blue jeans and black shirts; the only difference between me and them was that they seemed comfortable in what they were wearing while I was breathing economically.

Two ladies are waving to me. I would enjoy the moment on my way to the toilets later in the evening but now I wasn’t alone. The girls seem to insist and even move to catch me; one of them shouts, “Could you please bring an ashtray?”

Landed at the table, meeting friends and their friends, ordering drinks. The music is a painful mixture of electronic house, alternative, rock, hip-hop and heavy metal. Adjusting our booty shaking and arm trembling according to the rhythm, occasionally smiling to indicate the joy we are having and the belly exercise I have been applying for the last hour or so create a prostatic pressure; the nature calls.

The walk to the toilets (“Men’s Room” sounds gay) is like swimming against the ocean waves; the crowd extends and dips in harmony but you can never find a straight route. Once seeing the lights of restrooms, you feel like the plane crash survivor regaining his confidence to move on.

With increased testosterone level pumped by the beverage consumption and visibly excessive female flesh, none of the guys aim at high precision targeting but they prefer long distance random shooting; so there is no dry spot around. I make my own contribution to the liquidity discharge and left the warzone, back to the table. On my way, took few orders of beer, cigarettes, was asked for the bill and a cocktail (She didn’t know which cocktail or what kind of alcohol but wanted to pose with one, one with many colors)

Another round of shaking, trembling and while leaving the place at around 3am in the morning, the crowd doesn’t seem to diminish at all.

We had fun, huh?

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I happen to travel a lot around the country and within Bucharest; entering streets and neighborhoods where many local friends wouldn’t deem necessary to go or even couldn’t dare to pass by.

There are several industrial parks randomly left to rot, everywhere. One can easily believe that Romania partially served as filming platform for Mad Max series. After the revolution, probably in a hurry to spell-check, the hub for “steel industry” has been understood as “steal thy industry” by the politicians and those giant work plants has become the scrap yards for Transformers…

And all we are interested in is whether a candidate hit a boy, 5 years ago, or not... Nobody mentions social/economic solutions and plans but a slap... C'mmon... I suppose we all need a good slap to make a step for the required change.