If you saw a strange looking figure down at the river bank in Prague this afternoon, it might have been me. And if that poor bugger wore a red Apple tee and a blue shorts, it must have been me. You could also find out quite easily if that pitiful soul waved his hands uncontrollably, trying to stick to the track and move forward.

Yes, it was me inline skating. My first attempt ever.

First off, I found extremely difficult to stand — and once I managed to put myself to an upright position, even more fun started. Something that could vaguely remind someone of skating, I’d say. However, only vaguely, as I was unable to turn, unable to brake, unable to skate uphill or downhill.

Particularly downhill skating seemed to be the biggest issue. As I was unable to break — unless you wish to call a jump to a nearby bush breaking — gaining critical speed rolling downhill made me understand the value of life.

Yet I’m glad to report that I survived; so you hopefully get a chance to see the newest attraction of Prague — the waving wretch on skates sometime next weekend again.

I went to Brno over the weekend to join participants of Red Bull káry (trolley) competition. I knew it would be lots of crazy fun ever since I was asked to team up with Rui, my Portuguese friend, currently living in the town of Klatovy. It was his idea to built a car and come over.

Rui built The Love Lednička — lednička means fridge in Czech. I’m putting it exactly as he had — half English, half Czech. The four-wheeled lednička was equipped with a freezer (for drinks), a seat (for kids during the presentation, for Rui during the race) and breaks (a really essential part). Painted in blue and green, with a spoiler and with a crew of five crazy misfits dressed a bit hippie, with large bushy wigs, funny glasses and unstoppable good mood, the gang of Flower Power was ready to rock and roll.

Fun started on Saturday night. Roughly 200 contestants were united in a party, together with bunch of great looking Red Bull girls. Without going too much into detail, truth is that vodka with Red Bull is a killer drink. Everybody knows, though.

Sunday was boiling hot. Competitors were presenting their vehicles to endless brownian-motion-like moving crowd and trying to find an inch of shade wherever they could. Heat was hardly bearable, waiting for our turn was agonising.

What we did to kill the time and entertain the spectators was… a song. Rui was singing Marley’s Is This Love and playing guitar so we quickly changed the words. Our world-class collaboration brought this Red Bull song to life in less than ten minutes:

I want Red Bull
And drink it right
We have Red Bull
And a cool life

We love Red Bull
Help us win the fight
We drink Red Bull
Every day & every night

This is love
This is love
This is love
This is love
Love lednička

Those few simple lines were enough to last us until it was Rui’s turn to trip downhill. He went down with grace, waving onlookers as he passed by. And the breaking at the finish was top-notch. Overall, we earned the sixth place out of 45 teams!!

And I’m already thinking about another trolley or maybe a plane… And more so, about another beautifully senseless song.

Do you associate a song with a certain event or vice versa? I do — quite often — not intentionally but rather subconsciously. It just happens to be that way. When I hear a song, I can re-create an occasion; or another similar moment reminds me of a certain tune.

Take The Beatles. I can link their music to the particular time of my youth. I was listening to Help! when I was in the seventh grade; Rubber Soul was my favourite in the eight one. White Album by the summer of that year, just before Let It Be took over completely. Lennon came next and Plastic Ono Band ruled my days as I advanced to the grammar school.

I remember discotheques by a DJ’s favourite track. T Club, a Uni club where I used to hang out while underaged — Forever Young. A high school ski trip — What a Wonderful World. A disco at school premises — I Love To Hate You. My last trip to the border of civilisation with a bunch of young mathematicians — Violently Happy. I could go on and on like that for hours.

Mentioning What a Wonderful World, there’s something else crossing my mind. Songs that are forever a part of one’s memory because of technology: people have learnt to set their own ringtones or alarm tunes that follow them through months until they become annoying and get changed. I had few ringtones replaced, yet I’ve been waking up to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s rendition of What a Wonderful World/Over the Rainbow since 2005, and it seems it’s not giving up.

Then, there are numbers that are shared and have untouchable intimate quality… ‘Cos one happened to listen to them while being with someone exceptional; and those are moments that are rendered unforgettable. It may be ironic enough that one can recall also tunes used to heal (or enjoy) a broken heart. How good is Stand by My Woman or Into My Arms? How weird can Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft sound?

And a very special category are the songs written for somebody. I managed to pen one or two clumsy ones (with indisputable Gabriel’s help) and seeing they work, they give a loved one goose pimples or make her cry — because she’s been touched! — is the most rewarding experience. Simply amazing.

Of course, fame and money would not hurt either. (But hey, that’s just me trying to be sarcastic to hide that I’m sentimental…)

I appreciate live music, an experience of being there while the sounds are created and enjoyed by musicians and a crowd alike. I don’t differentiate, one can see me watching Prince or U2 as well as a local jazz band. In fact, I have a strong feeling that I do prefer a local jazz band over anything else.

Having lived in Prague for just a short period, I am not acquainted with a lot of people around but through a lucky coincidence I got to know a lovely young lady called Leona Prokopcová. Leona is a jazz singer and a regular in a downtown jazz venue Agharta.

Seeing Leona on stage is always an occasion — unlike a large number of other musicians, notably those who perform a deeper genre such as jazz — Leona is not afraid to communicate with the audience, poke a joke or tell a story to introduce a song. I guess it’s often the attitude that makes all the difference. Of course, she’s also an impressive singer — hearing her live is an uplifting and stirring event without fail.

Unfortunately, I just cannot get my timing right — I missed her last concert not knowing she was to perform and I’m gonna miss her next one this Saturday as I’m out of town. And I’m seriously worried how many more chances I get to see her as she’s supposedly leaving Prague for Denmark in few months.

So for those of you who have a chance, go see her gig, it’s well worth the time. But if you run into me afterwards, please don’t rave too much, all right? I’m already sorry I’m not gonna be there.

Being insomniac, homeless and unemployed opens unseen opportunities for an everyday man. Or a woman, of course. Amongst them reigns my favourite one — late night shopping.

Shopping as such does not thrill me. How can it? There’s no passion in pushing a supermarket trolley for oneself or — to be more accurate — to push a trolley for one’s mother, girlfriend or girlfriend’s mother. That’s exactly how I remember shopping for some thirty-plus years. Of course, there’s always a bonus of having to avoid collisions with a myriad of other trolleys, ill-mannered kids and then — when the crusade seems to be almost accomplished — there’s a never-ending snail-paced queue to be conquered.

How cool is that? One is sweating or freezing, depending on an air-con settings, can’t wait to get out of there and then the cashier cannot find/scan an item or there’s a dispute about a bill. Or the computer system goes down. Or anything.

On the other hand, there’s a late night shopping. And I do mean late by saying late. ‘Cos in Sydney, many people think a late night shopping is shopping till 8 pm. They’re wrong, obviously. Late night shopping means shopping late at night. Like, let’s say, 3 am (my favourite time). Obviously, one has to live in a larger city and in a proximity of a non-stop shopping centre, sometimes called a hypermarket.

Now, before we move further, let me explain etymology of a hypermarket in short. Once, there were ordinary shops. Then, there were supermarkets; those were selling more or less anything from groceries to toothbrushes. And then, later on, hypermarkets took over. If super means kilo in a marketing newspeak, then hyper stands for mega.

A hypermarket is a place where you can buy almost anything you may need late at night. A fresh apple. A toothbrush. A Milli Vanilli CD. A plasma TV. A bicycle. A new sofa. Anything you please.

Imagine such a hyper vast space, no customers, a tranquil night — and it’s yours to shop. That’s what a late night shopping is all about. There’s no screaming children, there’s no trolley traffic jams, in fact there’s no need for a trolley at all, unless one’s getting more than they can carry, and there’s no queues at registers. It’s like a sci-fi in making. All but masochists and slow-witted must understand definite advantages for a a human being — time saving, mental health protection and the like.

I have enjoyed shopping at night ever since they had opened a hypermarket close to my home about a decade ago. Back then, it was me encouraging friends to go shopping after 11 pm, and now again, it’s me strolling through isles when everybody sleeps. Clearly, it’s a great way to fight insomnia. Having been shown keys to a new pad in Prague recently, there’s also lots to shop for. During my first night, I bought myself blankets, sheets and pillows. A number of small appliances followed. Then a book or two.

Hm… That reminds me that I was planning to get an armchair tonight. I’ve heard it’s simple to beat insomnia sitting in an armchair, reading classics and listening to some, too. Maybe Kafka & Dvořák will happen to be a good combination, being in Prague. I just get that armchair first…