Since the early 1990's, the heady heyday of the ex-pat scene in Prague, I've yearned for a tragicomic take on those wonderful times. Maybe a monologue. Or a play. Or a novel, but a short one. A film would be even better. They're easier to get, I think. Especially those mockumentaries -- I like them because I can always tell that they're satire.

But really, any of those things would be fine. I just want to capture those beautiful years, months, moments in the eternal papier mâché that is art.

I mean, I don't want to capture them. I want them to be captured, and I want to enjoy them.

The beautiful rivers, the cafes, the wonderful people and their fantastic educations. Their middle class to wealthy upbringings, and their blissfully monochromatic skin. The luckily impoverished Eastern Europeans and their insatiable hunger for American money.

Lucky for us, I mean. Not the Hungarians. Hungary? Is that where Prague is?

How would I spell the authoring of such a work? RELIEF!


The Rexpatriots. Get it? So rich!

Analogcabin @ 3:48 PM
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