We Can Be Heroes

Just for one day.

HEROES! GET YER HEROES! TODAY ONLY! screamed the newspaper salesman in my head. One downside to a 20 year media boycott (no telly, no radio, no 'news' other than online) is that I heard about Bowie's death via my fb wall. Days after. So I can't remember the exact time and place. I remember when Elvis died: I was in the back seat of Dad's car and the news oozed through the radio off the tongue of one of those sleazy, doped up rock n roll radio announcers to the backdrop of 'Moody Blue.' As well it should have. Those were the days. Now and forever, instead of remembering the exact time one of my heroes (like Bowie) died, I'll remember a homogeneous blob of news McNuggets served up via (anti)social media.

I don't have a telly, but I still managed to 'acquire/finagle' some American late night comedy shows. All of them had Bowie bits (not 'bits' as in 'pieces' of him, my sick UK/Irish friends). Memorials, footage, music, all of it. They showed flowers and candles on Bowie's Hollywood star, outside his house, outside all of his former houses ever—including his Berlin residence (my auld pal Der Irische Berliner was there). Though I was in Prague at the time of hearing of Bowie's passing, I will never forget my Berlin-Bowie connection.

It was early December in 2008, the last day of my Scouting For the Next tour. It was the end of my Decade of Decadence in Prague and I needed a new country to violate. I was on a 3 day bender, a tiki bar tour of Berlin with one of my Pragueish-American (that's a nationality), Prague-tiki-bar-owning friends. We were hung-the-fuck-over, sprawled out in the lobby of a Berlin-Kreuzberg youth hostel, awaiting our return to Prague. They were playing Bowie on the hostel speakers. Then I heard the softly warbling voice of Bowie transform, Reichisch-dictator-like, into ICCCCHHH!!!! ICH BIN DER KÖNIG! UND DUUUUUUU!!!! DU KÖNIGEN!!! Bowie was screaming 'Heroes.' In Deutsch (Deutsch must be screamed to be truly effective)!  At the time, I had no idea that Bowie had lived/loved/recorded in Berlin. HELDEN done in Deutsch confirmed it: only non-Americans bother to learn the language of their host countries. The truly great ones even learn to sing it (though to be honest, English lends itself better to lyrics. I mean ICCCCCHHHH? Really? I fucking LOVE IT).

While I age ungracefully, wideness setting in the body and mind, I remember my heroes, and where I was when they died. Most of them died while I was abroad. Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, DeForest Kelley (Bones!), and Bowie. Most of my heroes are/were rebels, outlaws and misfits. I would have it no other way. What put the choke in my throat about Bowie's death wasn't the flowers, the mourners or the non-stop Bowie-a-thon music. It was a scribbled note left on Bowie's Hollywood star, which bore a quote by another famous misfit, Guillermo del Toro:

"Bowie existed so all of us misfits learned that oddity was a precious thing."

And so he did. And I'm feeling pretty fucking proud to be an oddity right about now.

Bir Sir (when he was just a little sir) saw Bowie perform live in Mountain View some time in the 90s.  It's all a haze.

Would You Mind Not Eating? I'm Smoking Here!

If you happen to swagger into a Czech restaurant in Prague you could be in for a surprise: all of your clothing, your hair, your food and your drink will smell like cigarettes. If you are a smoker, you probably won't even notice. Or maybe you would; even the last bastions of the Global Smokers Republic which haven't been closed down by uppity pink lungers—have ventilation. There is no word in Czech for ventilation. If there is, it is merely academic and probably archaic. If you happen to wade through the blue-gray pub/restaurant smoke cloud and happen to see something resembling a small fan in the wall or the window, you won't see the fucking thing spinning. It may be due to a number of reasons, the least of which include:

A)  Communism. Commies love black lung disease. They find it quite yummy.

B)  Legal loopholes. I was told of a 'law' which declared that all pubs and restaurants must have ventilation. I was then told that you could find nowhere in that same 'law' which said that the ventilation must be functional.

C)  Cheapness. Why fix something if it will cost twenty bucks?

I'm gonna hafta go with A) Communism and yummy black lung disease.

Exhibit A: a ventilation fan at the pub across the street had its poor little metal slats kicked in overnight (no doubt by roving hordes of commie black lungers) and I was looking at a gaping hole in the wall with shreds of tin. Over the course of the day after, the pub owners had various people scratch their heads, pace around like they were looking for loopholes, fix the damaged vent, then flip it on to test it. For about 5 minutes, the newly-repaired horizontal tin slats flapped up and down while smoke belched out. Then they turned it off and went back inside. No use losing all the precious pub smoke. 'But Big Sir, WTF are you doing eating in a pub?' Glad you asked. In the Czech Republic, they have the pivnice (beer hall), hospoda (pub) and restaurace (restaurant). All of them do beer and food (to some degree) and they are all united with one purpose: to choke you with cigarette smoke.

A Little Leary

I'm trying to view things from the smoker's point of view. But I can't. Even though my favorite rant god Denis Leary told me smoking was the bee's knees, I couldn't quite hack it. I tried smoking for about five minutes in the 90s and I discovered it was disgusting and expensive. How people decide to devote their lives and wallets to this useless fucking habit is beyond me.

I do booze. Booze gives me a nice little head buzz and relaxes all my aching muscles (typing rants hurts). For the price of one pack of cigarettes in Europe I can buy a whole bottle of booze and get blotto. Now THERE'S a fuckin' habit worth its weight.

So, while the Global Smoking Ban had crept slowly eastward from Hippie Central in California, it never reached the Czech Republic. I just returned after 6 years in Germany, and the Czechs STILL smoke like chimneys. EVERYWHERE. I got used to the smoky Czech pub over the years because the only non-smoking restaurants were either fast food chains for tourists or fancy food for yuppie fucks. I'm neither, so I'm forced to go to the smoky Czech pub. There was even a bit of reverse culture shock when I visited places I'd been years before when they were smoke chokers—to now see the effects of smoking laws. Upon my return to California after several years abroad (during which time they enacted the public smoking ban), I was heading to a bar with a good friend. As he was pulling up to park, I shouted LOOK AT ALL THE PEOPLE OUTSIDE! IS THE BAR ON FIRE OR WHAT?!? My friend laughed and said, 'No, idiot, those are the smokers stepping out for a smoke.' The same type of situation greeted me in an empty pub in Cork, Ireland in 2008. All of the people were out for a smoke. I asked the only patron remaining in the pub how the smoking ban has affected the cultural phenomenon known as the Irish Pub.

"Now ye can smell da farts" was his reply. Gawd I love the Irish wit.

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UPDATE: Summer of 2017 marks the end of smoking in Prague pubs and restaurants. We can now breathe easily. Now we non-smokers get to hear all the whiny smokers complaining. Worry not, O chimney breath: you can still find plenty of scofflaws who let people smoke in their pubs. Just follow your nose.

Big Sir's Tip: visit the Czech restaurant/pub between the hours of 11am and 2pm on weekdays. Most of them have a temporary lunch time smoking ban in place while you chew and sip. And the food is about half price for the daily lunch menu.