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.

H8 M8

An idiot, who deprived himself of a banking career due to own personal shortcomings, began writing about banks in his blog. From French Banking system to Romanian financial sector nothing stays on his way. His credit card application is rejected? Burn them… His friend’s company couldn’t get a loan? Kill some… He couldn’t pay his leasing and didn’t obtain rescheduling? Spit on those…

Throwing accusations and generating stories, he considers himself the Braveheart, but the only part he comes close to the story of Mark Wallace is the scene when MW taps his own ass…

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A friend of mine moved to Romania and rented an apartment in a building, just on the corner of Stefan Cel Mare Blv intersection with Calea Dorobanti (a.k.a. Perla).

One Thursday afternoon he received a call, urging him to rush to the airport, to catch the evening flight to Istanbul. On his way to the airport he sent me an SMS "O., I had a leakage at home, at my kitchen sink; left the keys to the driver, could you please go and check if there is any further problems?!? Sorry.”

2 hours later the driver came back with the keys, asking whether he should go to check, instead of me. The grin on his face created flashbacks of few dirty bastards having a party in the apartment, finishing all the available booze (and me not being invited); so I decided to pass on his kind offer and go to check myself.

There is a big parking lot in front of the building, facing Stefan Cel Mare Blv. From a distant look, it seemed to be filled with cars parked by a group of anti-symmetry propagandists or by philosophy students trying to disprove the existence of parallel universes (Just for the record, I do refrain from commenting about female parking habits). Actually the small hills of sand and cement, as accessories for a pavement reconstruction, were blocking the space and offering an off-road experience to the residents.

Found a parkable place, landing my shiny black RR Supercharged through a cloud of dust. Waited a bit, until the dust was inhaled by cohabitants and jumped out of the car. Presenting the urban version of Swan Lake in the name of walking not to fall in a municipal-hole, I remembered about the bag I left in the car, the wallet in the bag and the cash & cards in the wallet. I even couldn’t recall locking the car. RR Supercharged is locked by an unusual sound of metal clinching, as a sign of prosperity of the guy holding the key (though you could push the remote button even in your pocket, the ritual of keeping it in the air makes you feel good). As I couldn’t remember any female attention for the last 2 minutes, I couldn’t have had locked the door, so I started rewinding my ballet course back to the car.

When I was approaching the car, from a distance of 15 meters, I realized that there was a guy climbing to the driver seat, holding a mobile phone on his ear and leaning towards the rear seats (where my bag was hiding as obvious as possible). The guy was dressed with Romanian National Football Team’s zipper and training trousers, the white sneakers and white baseball cap completing the car-smuggler uniform. I was, as in all panic situations, trying to process all information and possibilities without any real thinking. He could be a professional in his line of business, carrying a small cutter or knife. Also the taste for clothing indicated sportiveness which I never would trade for my belly.

I had to act fast… Like Bruce Lee…in a costume and tie…how was it? “Fly like a butterfly and bite like a bee”…Not Bruce Lee? Bruce Willis? Aha, Mohammed Ali...

I have held the half open door of the car, grabbed the dangerous criminal from his shoulder and pulled him down, out of the car, on to the sand bed. I caught him unprepared, unexpected and also he hit his head to the door while falling. That was my time for action; before he could take out any possible weapon he might be carrying. Threw consecutive punches on his face, neck and belly. Kicked his feet like a sewing machine.. Yiiieeehaaa, I am the Bruce Willis of Dorobanti (Brus de la Dorobanti?)

I grabbed his throat with a hand and showing a threatening punch with the other hand, heard him screeching. He sounded as if he just had an helium injection so decided to release my hand a bit. There were few spectators, none intending to save me from the criminal mind (his mind, not mine). Suddenly a group of shadows appeared behind me. I had to think that these dickheads never attack alone, but it was too late. My only option was to stand up, to seize the enemy and to run. Fast…

Slowly lifting myself from the patriotic thief, turned back to the group, trying to look cool. There was a guy in his 50’s, dressed in a better stitched costume as compared to mine, a similar aged-also neatly dressed lady holding his arm, and 2 more teenagers. I started shouting about catching the bastard while stealing from my car or even my car itself, attacking me and getting rid of the knife he was waving. The guy approached me and the thiefie, pulled him up. With a disproving look while cleaning his clothes by tapping with hands, he asked me “Why did you need to do this, Sir?”. His tone and words were too civilized for the mood I was in and I started shouting the story again.

Seeing his face, I also realized that the “thief” was an 15-16 years old, clean looking, baby faced, Dorobanti-type-teen guy. He was trembling and crying holding the elder lady’s arm, with his face having few fresh potatoes that I have recently cultivated .

The story turned sad; the older guy, his father, had also a black RR Supercharged, sent the guy to take the shopping bags from the car, the kiddo pushed the remote and by mistake entered my car, the car that I left open, instead of daddy-mobil while checking whether any girls are watching him.

I was sinking to zero from hero and he had a fight story to tell the next day to his friends. I still feel sorry.

And it really did happen…Thanks A., for reminding me to write it.

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Long before the webchats, we had the dealing screens in the Treasury Departments. Trying to act fast, to smack the counterpart immediately, we were using shortcuts, metaphors and amalgams of letters and numbers.

“M” and “8” stood for “Mate (Pal/Friend)"; the other one stands for you, my blogger-journalist-financial&social expert friend. Try to be someone but not everyone.

Obo

Yesterday I heard from an old friend working at CitiGroup that Anan Dickshit is still with Citi but now riding bigger horses.. Glad for him, and for the crowds who might be meeting him, letting him introduce himself...

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From the "to-do"list, I didn't manage even to start any of the items yet but good intentions prevail

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Journal of the Broken Heart

20.20pm
I showed her clearly who is the boss around and said honestly my opinion about the way she does things. The fact that she couldn't understand and accept the reality is another proof of her inability to self-improve (I have told this also, honesty is the key in a relationship)

20.25pm
I should have taken a photo of her face when I was talking, to show to the guys tomorrow. Her eyes were blocked as if her brain was run by Windows Vista. I am done with her and she is sooooo done with any sign of further humanly life.

20.30pm
Driving home, checking the mobile if she has send any message of apology. She must be crying in agony with tears and couldn't sum herself up for texting.

20.40pm
Still no calls or messages. I check her Facebook page on my mobile, no status update (hope she didn't commit suicide)

20.45pm
I check her Facebook page again at home and saw the wall-messages from her friends, the sluts seem to be going out tonight. They were always a bad example for her any case.

20.57pm
I am afraid she will do something stupid for consolation and end up as the breakfast of a bastard.

21.00pm
She still didn't call for a decent apology. I call her to make sure that her phone is functional and she is alive. She answered but the wind blowing at the background makes it impossible to communicate. What? Hairdryer??? She is really going out...Bitch..

21.10pm
She should have called back already. Probably now at the make-up stage... Make up... we make it up......no?

21.25pm
I am ringing her again, to tell her that I do not understand how she could be ready that quickly to hit the night, while she has just been dumped... Dumped by me.
She answered, quite relaxed, asked why I am calling her every five minutes now, when I didn't even answer her calls during the day. Said that she has to find her boots and hang off. Boots? High Heels?

21.32pm
She was right, I didn't show her the attention she deserved lately. And now a two-days bearded Hulk will get her into his bed with a quick smart talk...

21.47pm
I should have been more attentive and I shouldn't have forgotten the reasons for which I was attracted to her. I loved her for who she was and who she is, why to change?

21.53pm
I want to call her and ask for an apology for the rude talk, it wasn't honesty but aggressiveness. She didn't deserve those groundless accusations.

22.00pm
and I love her. But tonight I am going to lose her, because of my stupid macho behavior. Decided to catch her and her lovely friends at the bar, started dressing up quickly. Huh, she likes that shirt.

22.15pm
The door bell rings. I do not have time for a neighbor or dropping by friend. Looking for the jeans she liked me to wear.

22.18pm
The doorbell is still ringing and I need to open the door to let myself out; so the encounter with the alien is inevitable.

22.19pm
Opened the door, forcing myself, aiming to rush and but met her. She passed me by, entering the living room she asked where I am heading to, as I was dressed with my Fratelli uniform. Speaking with a tone and a speed stopping me to interfere, mentioned that she is sorry that she didn't listen to what I said at the cafe, she was thinking about the girls going out tonight and she needed a reasonable excuse not to join but to spend the evening with me, she didn't want to piss me off but I shouldn't have left the table in such a girlish manner. She was ready to listen now carefully.
Unfcknbelievable....
I started "Look, you are suffocating me, tonight we were supposed to spend with our friends...."

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Do not forget, Sunday we will be going to vote!!! no other plans!!!

0-800

Thanks to the new tech, we do everything by phone or Internet; talking, selling, shopping, getting aroused, learning and even sometimes listening to someone or something.

The door-to-door salesmen of 80’s become the young agents of call centers. Few kids with headsets know what we need, when we need and they even know our mother’s maiden name.

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A very hectic day in the office; 189 e-mails boldly waiting to be read; 2 mobiles and the office phone competing to ring; couple of meetings overlapping; few colleagues back from holidays and frequenting my office in need of reminding me about their existence; an angry client threatening to file complaints to Consumer Protection, parliament, authorities and even to send a letter to Mecca.

When I hang off the last phone, two more colleagues attempted to enter , each holding a white page but I stop them at the doorstep with a hand, like a talented traffic police, showing the ringing phone with the other hand. I am decided to have a looooong conversation with whoever is calling. The line of numbers starting with double zeros indicates an international call.

“Hello, is this Mister Teppich?” I am asked, by a velvet voice of a young girl. Under normal circumstances I would get angry and correct the spelling of my surname loud but now I need this conversation, to hide behind. Also her voice is so soft, I am ready to be her “carpet” (though I am sure she doesn’t mean or speak anything in German).

“Yeah, but I recently rebranded myself as Tetik, T-E-T-I-K, Darling!” I can’t stop myself.

“Aaash, Mr. Tea Tick, Sorry for my mistake, but my records indicates as Teppich”. I couldn’t dare to challenge your records and please you do not challenge my patience.

“Mr. Tea Tick, I am sixteen and I have an offer that you cannot refuse”.

Honey, I'm not sure whether to be honored that my reputation is beyond borders but you are 2 years below the legal age to offer me what I cannot refuse. Still I would rather check your local legislation and might ask for a photo before my final answer.

“Sorry?” I said, “What is your name, M’am?”

“I am sixteen, Mr. Tea Tick”

“Sure, I got it and I am 36. But, your name please? Where are you calling from?” I just wanted to add if her mother knows the international call she makes.

“No, Mr. Tea Tick, my name is S-I-S-T-I-N-E, Sistine; and I am calling you from Chamberlain & Wyman International ”

Upppsss, I did it again.

“So, Mr. Tea Tick, you are the Head of Treasury And Financial Institutions in your company?” Nope, I am the liver of retail banking and it is not my company, I just work here.

“No, Mademoiselle, I used to be… Until a few years ago”, regretting the days when I was bothered only by the beeps of dealing screens in trading room. No human touch, just graphs and numbers…

“Ooo, excuse me Mr. Tea Tick, I was referred to you by Mr. D. We have an exclusive event in September in Prague, for a limited number of 20 bankers, as regard to the effects of Global Warming on Commodity Prices and US dollar indexes. We have an unexpected availability only for one more attendant and we thought you would be the right person”

Yes, with 6 faces impatiently staring at me through the glass office walls, I am the right person for you to talk now, keep on explaining. And of course when remembering about Global Warming and Commodities, I am the 21^st person coming to anyone’s mind.

Though, I am wondering the mimics I could activate on my boss’s face, by bringing a 5,000 EUR protocol expense request, only for the participation fee. I would at least feel a local warming, if not a global one.

I let her talk, about program, subjects, participants, sponsors, prices until everyone got pissed off and left my visibility. Once my horizon has been cleared, I cut her sales pitch “Thanks Honey, for all the information provided. When exactly would be the event? Which dates?”

“6-9 September, Mr. Tea Tick”

“Ahhh, now I am really sorry but exactly on those dates, I will be joining Al Gore at a Panda Hunt in Mexico. Unfortunately I am in a position to refuse your kind invitation”

When I am hanging off, I hear her asking about references to be called.

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I joined CitiBank Bourse Game in 1996 in Istanbul and my deskmate was a very kind & polite Indian, named Anan Dikshit. He was running the Call Center located in India, covering East Europe. The poor guy couldn't introduce himself to anyone during the courses without an explosion of laughter.

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Spending more time on the phone with friends, apologizing for not being able to call earlier instead of straightforward chatting with them. Once I finish the unread e-mails, I will call a friend.

the bank job... b-job...

I was searching wikipedia for Romanian profanity. And found “a da la nutella”… I adore Nutella; at least adored it… For someone thinking that liquored chocolates are ultimate perversity, the meaning in English was disgusting… WTF “a da la nutella / to hit the nutella” means to have anal sex???????

One cannot have a decent breakfast these days…

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Year 2000 again; Y2K. The year that was supposed to crash all systems in the world but just did crash mine; I moved to Romania and started to blink syntax error….

End of May, less than 6 months in Romania; knew few places and few words. I had an abscess in my mouth, my dental presence being felt on each nerve. The dentist said that it was too late for me and I had to wait until the abscess was fully treated by itself (Yep, it was late because then I was considering “Stomatology” related to stomach and wondering why the Romanian population had such a wide-extent digestion issue)

I couldn’t eat anything for days as I couldn’t chew, with my face resembling the elephant man, having a pumped up left side. I had to feed myself, before the stomach attacked kidneys or liver in despair…

There is (or was) an unfashionably cousy Italian restaurant, vis-à-vis Opera House, named after the Opera House by the genius Italian patrons. They served semi-fresh soups and I was close to the place.

Parked the car in front of the restaurant, under the envying looks of neighborhood ladies (I had a brand new VW Bora, metallic pistachio green, huh) and entered the place.

The pain was controlling all my body and I was leaping instead of walking straight. With the new shape of my head and folded moves, I was the grandson of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The mixture of old-dirty foreign man and young-excessively painted ladies greeted me with estranged sights.

Seated by a waitress to a table in the corner and given the menu. No need to think, I ordered a chicken soup.

The soup, ready for the last 2 days and boiling, has been served immediately. I had to aromatize the taste, with some lemon juice, few drops.

Called the waitress but she didn’t hear. Called again waiving my hands as supporting indicators. She was still in chat with another waitress.

I shouted, “Could I have some lemon juice?” in Romanian. She turned while staring at me from a distance of 10 meters with an ultimate hate. I shouted again, “Juice, M’am”…

Few clients turned back to me also, throwing question marks. I had to use this chance of attention to tell again my wish; “Lemon, juice?”

Now all clients from all tables are looking at me, and sure they seem to be angry. Meanwhile one of the waitresses, an Oldie-but-Goldie, brought the small bottle of limejuice to my table, laughing hysterically and saying, “Maybe later Cutie, come after midnight”.

It took me few weeks to understand, while learning new words from colleagues.

With my mouth half open, lips squeezed and teeth closed in pain, what I asked sounded as if I was shouting for “Sugi (suck)?” instead of “suc (juice)” at first call. Moreover, I insisted politely on having “la mu.e (blowjob)” while trying to ask for “lamaie (lemon)”

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Do not try to speak a foreign language until you learn all of its slang and profanity. At least do not speak when you cannot control your teeth and lips for whatever is the reason.

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That’s not a story but a memory. One from the many again.

But still. your musical education is my main concern, so just click on the link

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhHhKIa8jbo

When you get the taste of lime from your life, just don't be lame. Suck it!

missing in action

Too tired these days; didn't accomplish anything yet from "to-do" list. But managed to get 4 more kilo's during last Istanbul trip... now installing the new iLife and SnowLeopard, as the installer claims "less than 17 hours left to finish".

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Coming back tomorrow -hopefully- with a new story, for the moment "under construction"

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I am going to change my mobile number this weekend. So, if you can't reach me next week by mobile, please get my point :)

Real Bucharest

I became comment-addicted. Checking the blog every hour to see if anyone posted a comment...
Few colleagues and friends insist on asking whether the stories are real, whether they are my memories. Mostly, yes. What is funnier than reality any case?
All of the following are true and I will try to exaggerate modestly;

- After a terrible 3 weeks in a room at Gastinitsya Mezhdunarodnaya (World Trade Center) in Moscow, I found my apartment. A shithole of 40 square meters on Kitai Gorod (China Town), at the first floor of a smelly, crowded 6 floor building (and just for 2,000 USD per month). The apartments on that block were modified from "kommunalkas", small living rooms for each family (converted into bedroom at night) sharing a common kitchen/bathroom for each 20-25 households. I was asked to pay 3 months' rent in advance, 1 month rent as deposit - for the damage I could do (there was nothing I could possible add further to the smell and misery) and a month's rent as agency commission. I had 10,000 USD in my bag, riding with a cab to my new residence. (The dollar cash in circulation in Russia is 3 times higher than of in United States)
When the car entered the street, I opened my bag to take out my wallet and the green shine of dollars at the bag pocket enlightened the face of the Azerbaijani driver. He grabbed my arm and said few words that I didn't understand but seemingly threatening. Opened the door with the free arm, hit his face to release the other arm and jumped out to run. The real estate agent girl and landlady were waiting outside on the street, they saw the scene and started running after the driver who was following my city marathon...The driver caught me, the ladies caught us. I was saved, he was beaten bad. Stayed 6 months at that apartment until moving to Noviy Arbat (New Labor) street, where my car was stolen happily 3 times, by the same guys.

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- The management of the bank rented a "business suit" at Gastinitsya Mezhdunarodnaya, a duplex apartment of which the upper floor was serving as a guest house for new arrivals like me, until they found an apartment. First floor was the "Head Office". I was staying together with my future manager, as we both arrived to Moscow on the same day and were searching for residence.
Each night, at around 10pm, the chain-action of door-to-door sales was starting. Few knocks at the door, opening it you would meet every kind of white meat, always in a combination of 2 pieces, with short skirts and excessive make-up, asking "Want?" and giggling. They were so used and torn, "Do not want"was the only human answer. It kept going on with 20 minutes frequency until 6am in the morning.
It is funny for the first 3 times of the first night but after few weeks of sleeping disorder, one would get nervous. So did my boss... He was a person of comfort, hardly affording the first impressions of Moscow. About to go to sleep, brushing his teeth, dressed only with his Calvin Klein boxer shorts, the 10th knock on the door acted as a sprint shot for him. He rushed downstairs to open the door; to swear at the ladies. He forgot the luggages on the hall and trembled over, went down a dozen stairs on his head. I ran downstairs in panic and found him with blood dripping from his forehead, toothpaste foaming off his mouth, but conscious and nervous. Opened the door to get rid of the Knocking Birds and to call for help. The ladies started shouting by the scene. In less that 30 seconds security guards arrived, picked my boss and me as criminals by the arms and brought to the closest police section (downstairs at the hotel's groundfloor). After few questions in Russian and our answers in English, Turkish or German, we were allowed to call the lawyer of the bank, who got us released early morning. Only after a year learned the version that bastard lawyer told to the rest of our colleagues; two horny Turks called in the girls but the dispute to share the girls resulted in a bloody fight, the guys were so aggressive and excited, their mouths were splashing off.
I wouldn't let my dog to screw those meatbags but had established a decent reputation by the staff...

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IMF will disburse the 3rd tranche, EUR 1.5 billion. They cannot afford to have a red dot in Europe, possibly causing a regional catastrophe. It is much easier to throw EUR 1.5 billion to Romania and keep the engine running, instead of spending EUR 20-30 billion to save Turkey, Hungary and Czech Republic affected by the negative sentiment after. However, the IMF officials are executing now an humanitarian effort, trying to straighten political life in Bucharest. "Money talks, bullshit walks".