BobeBlog

There is an echo of Budapest on American TV. The news, for instance, reports that in the wee hours Prez Bush met Hungarian Prime Minister before embarking on a more valid mission. That's just a few hours after I had the pleasure of meeting the main man of my Hungary in person. And you know what? I was impressed. He is gallant, witty, knowledgeable, even when surrounded by suits & financiers. I fell for him when, with his dagger of reason, he masterfully silenced the expat careerist youth yearning for the export of US-style love of the homeland to Hungary. You have to love Hungarian men: uniquely ego-centric and blind to the larger picture.

Picture this: bad TV always identifies vampires and lewd-like violence with Budapest, instead of Bucharest. And now one of the Baldwins fakes a quip about Budapest in a TV commercial. Jay Leno is still the wittiest. I am crazy about 99 cent stores and I free-giggle when he lines up all sorts of precious junk in his show, like an eye repair kit & a 666 cold medicine made in "US or Turkey or Korea," all found in 99 cent stores. I come to realize that I am a language philosopher that has access to deeper layers of interpretation than the average American bubba, when Leno introduces "a large bucket men's panties" for especially large size (well-hung is a new word I am learning these days), in a non-decipherable language, and I read nagymeretu ferfi alsonemu. Hey, we beat the Chinese in the 99 cent market!!!

I dropped off from the face of the blogosphere for a few months and although I kept receiving demanding messages from well-meaning friends (thank you!!!), until now I have not been able to bring myself to do anything remotely creative or revealing. The truth is I froze inside when I came back to New York for 2 weeks over the summer, and since then I have been dying a little every day. For 13.8 lovely summer days I had fun in New York. Destiny brought back one of my heroines from Rwanda for just the perfect opportunity for me to hug her. When it comes to her, I believe in reincarnation. Though we had met only once before in this life, it is a cozy sort of love. Gastronomic genius Monique made us explore a yet (to me) unknown side of Astoria: Greek restaurants. What vegan in his sane mind would claim that Greeks only eat meat? Marvelous vegan paradise with girly giggles. I also partook in another delicious miracle: coop-inspired ruthless Iron Chef competition. I was the absolute winner for I sinned, being a shameless freeloader. I splurged - but strictly for the sake of science - and purchased an ultra-cool camera that lost its virginity to pleasures of the flesh in a mere 3 hours upon getting into my possession. I had to spend 3 weeks in Budapest court archives to undo this infamy. Alas, the scarlet letter remains.


But in the very last minute all joy was undermined, my heart froze for I lost my giggles of liberation. Erikas are no good for you, especially when they make you a transatlantic cereal transporter. [I should hate all Erikas, and I always did and am still trying but this particular Erika is one hard nut. You just have to love her. But all the rest of you Erikas - keep away from me.] So destiny has its ways, sometimes in the form of cereal shopping debacles lending you in the midst of ex-boyfriends' strong cozy arms at an airport. And you know in the bottom of your heart that that's the last you gonna see of him. But being a devout naive utopian, you fight the loss and hang onto shreads of hope. That is just slow painful murder.

I am back now. And screw you, coward.