A Virtual Metamorphosis in Prague
As mentioned before in
previous posts, the wifey likes to drag my ass out of the house, kicking and screaming. She does most of the dragging and kicking, I
do the screaming. In the summer, it's mostly about prodding me up slippery rocks to a near death experience on a precipice. With
selfies.
In the winter, I get a
brief reprieve from nature walks with the Black Widow in the form of
cultural outings. Sure, as a wide body I much prefer to stay
ensconced in my comfy black office chair while marinating in coffee for the entire
winter. But eventually the chair's genuine Corinthian pleather seats need a breath of
fresh air, and its creaking wheels need a goddamn break.
Enter: Goethe. He creeps
up all stealthy-like, that dead German poet. He's got an entire
institute by the river, dedicated to the language and culture of
Deutschland. I'd never been there before, but last night marked a
very unusual affair: a Kafkaesque exhibition, featuring a virtual reality experience wherein you become a giant bug.
Hot damn! What a great
idea! It's like leaving the comfortable cyber-womb of home, riding
the Metro, and being jacked back in to a 3D cyberworld! (Inner
geek-child screams WAA-HOOOOO!!!!)
The quintessential Kafka
story (read: my personal favorite) Metamorphosis is, was, and always
will be the finest metaphor for insignificance and alienation ever
written. Kafka published the book in 1915. He was clearly
disenfranchised with the drudgery of selling his soul as an insurance
office clerk in a faceless, Capitalist machine. Too bad he didn't
live through the Czech communist period. Oh, the alienation he would
have felt then. Can you imagine the novels?
Stir Fried Bugs and White Wine
Kafka was born in Prague
in what was then the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Since he wrote in
German, he was naturally embraced by the Goethe Institute. I'm
assuming. I like to do that. It doesn't matter. There was a waiting
list to enter the virtual world. Just enough time to horse down a
half dozen glasses of free wine.
Of course they put up
several roadblocks to the obvious free wine pillager. Corridors
clogged with people unable or unwilling to get the fuck out of my
way. And a hippie stir frying actual (not virtual) bugs. Worms,
roaches, and other creepy crawlies. Right in front of the corridor
leading to das wein. Dafuq?
I'll never understand
hippies. First, they're vegetarian. Then vegan. Then raw. There's
nowhere to go from there but back up the damn food chain: bugs.
“They're very rich in protein,” proclaimed the hippie chef. I
knew it! Thought I, These vegan bastards are gagging for
protein. And there is no better way to gag on your protein than
to feel the crispy legs of a crusty cockroach clawing at your craw.
The hippie chef informed my wife not to chew on the roach, but to
chop it in half and suck the guts out. Fuck that freak (the hippie, not my wife). I skipped
the creepy crawlies and proceeded directly to the free wine.
I didn't see any bottles,
just glasses filled with white wine. I guzzled the first one to wash
the imaginary taste of roach guts out of my mouth. There was a
tingling behind my teeth and the front of my tongue (roachy?), and my
experienced art palate told me that this fine bubbling sensation
smacks of a fine Gewurztraminer. Or heavy sulfites. I can't possibly
be sure, as my wine snobbery is limited to guzzling free wine at
various art gallery openings around the world, from ghetto boxed wine
to high end vintages way too fancy for my rock and roll lifestyle.
This particular number turned out to be a very nice Riesling. I knew
it had to be something German.
These people were taking
the whole bug thing too far. It made me almost retch up my lunch
nachos. The wife had no problem eating the bugs. I'd already seen
her eat bugs at a fair in the mountains when we were in the States a
few years back. But I've always assumed that mountain folk ate bugs.
And tourists. But still. How in the holy hell do you eat a bug?
 |
| Gettin' Buggy With It (photo by Gabriela Sarževská) |
Half empty plates of bug
carcasses lay pell-mell around the exhibition hall. Half torsos and
thoraxes oozing goo, legs awash in soy sauce and red peppers. Gag me
with a spoonful of bugs. I swaggered through the crowd, trying not to
think about the bugs. I found cold comfort in a Berlin photography
book in the bibliothek. Thank fuck for squats and riots in the 90s.
The Alienation Tent
I finally got buggy up in that beeyawtch.
I donned slippers with plastic doodads digging into my feet, then the
gloves and the magic helmet of doom. It was incredible. I've done
the VR thing before, but this one takes the roach cake. My
outstretched hands were now segmented, insectoid arms feebly fumbling
for door handles. I had to find a key and unlock the virtual door.
An incredible view of Old
Town Prague out of the virtual window, a small room with desks,
drawers, and the mirror. The mirror! Spoiler alert! Look in the
mirror! It was taking the video game world to a frightening level.
I'm probably way behind the curve on this one, and there are probably
already many modern video game dens full of pimply-faced
geek-children with virtual realities strapped onto their
socially-awkward actual realities.
After minutes of searching
amid knocks at the door and calls for Gregor the Bug Man, I finally
found the key, placed it in the keyhole, and turned the doorknob.
What would be on the other side? Would the landlady whack me with a
virtual broom and chuck an apple into my soft, white underbelly?
Find out for yourself in
this ongoing exhibition, which runs now through March 31. Last night
was the opening of the show, so you probably won't get to drink any
free wine or eat any bugs. Unless that gawdawful hippie has nowhere
better to go and nothing better to cook.
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