Granted, this is Prague and I liken finding a new flat to having a root canal (I’ve had two), yet it still can be done. But my second home is gone, done, deceased. It was my oasis in a soulless desert. There will be no more bloody’s and Benny’s, true dirty’s, gangster dinners, or Tommy Gun’s in my gut. The Red Room is no more.
I’ve never felt that Prague’s inhabitants deserved The Room and this was proven by the inconsistency of its patrons. They just didn’t seem to get it.
Why else would their brunch be so inadequately taken advantage of while a number of inferior places (which will remain unnamed) just pack them in every weekend? But that’s neither here nor there.
What it boils down to is this: I’m fucked. Really. Completely afloat. I used to say that Prague wasn’t too big or too small and while I’ve uttered some colossally retarded statements in my time that one has to be Top Five. Prague is WAY TOO SMALL. I mean, what really are your viable late-night options? If I go from Chapeau to Radost to The Dirty Clown again I’m gonna slap on some Cher, draw a bath, open my wrists and slide into the Big Fade. The fact is there are only a handful of possibilities and they’re all seriously flawed.
I said it earlier and I’ll say it again, this city is soulless. Ok, that’s unfair. The city itself is fine. I guess I’m referring specifically to the social scene, or as I like to call it, The Drugged-Up Dog and Pony Show. Every other place I’ve lived, I’ve taken the occasional drug to periodically have a good time. Here I find the constant need to medicate myself if I’m going to stay out. It’s like Novocain at the dentist, you can decline it if you wish but Management strongly advises against it.
There’s an underlying sense of inclusion, and therefore, exclusion, that permeates the scene. I’ve never seen so many people struggling so mightily to get “in”, unless I go back to high school and conjure up images of freshmen trying to crash a party. “In” to some supposed sanctuary I guess, though I think a lot of people would define that place as the downstairs of The Dirty Clown where, if one could just get there, a land of free drugs, oral copulation and tomatoes to chuck at Wesley Snipes attempting to DJ awaits.
Obviously I’m leaving myself open to enumerable shrewd second-guessers who would suggest I: a) move b) stay home c) find some as of yet undiscovered place or d) shut up.
That’s all fine and fucking dandy and quite possible true. Maybe I’m bitter due to my height and lack of a jump shot. Some would say both. Yet I could bear all of this if I still had my home base, my haven, my respite from every other establishment and person therein. My heart is heavy. I feel a sense of loss I haven’t experienced since flannels went out of style.
Some people have taken great pleasure in asking me where I’ll go now. The answer is simple. I don’t know. The Room is dead. Leave me be.
Reach Kevin at email@example.com