If all the world is truly a stage and we are but players, then there can be no tragedy without comedy. Some places manage to celebrate the lives of those passed. Even poke a little fun.

In Sapanţa, along the Ukrainian border in the Maramureş region of northwest Romania, there lives a relatively new tradition of greeting death with a smile. There the grave markers broadcast in vibrant colors miniature descriptions of the person whose body lies below.

Some of them are down right funny. Some are poetic. Some are clever. Some are just down to earth. But none of them are depressing or angsty. Sapanţa tends to celebrate the human that was and remind us all to consider how we, too, will be remembered after we’re gone.

One of the many place Marie of Edinburgh enjoyed philandering with her international menagerie composed of various men of state was a rather nice beach house set along side the ocean and styled with largely Turkish influences, inside and out, as a result of her being quite enthralled with all things Islamic.

When the free spirited queen had had her fill of royal adventures in the love nest, one could always enjoy a fine bottle of Mavrud wine and enjoy the magnificent view afforded to those lucky few born into the dominating factions of life.

It warn’t too shabby, iffin’ y’alls be askin’ me.

With tepid barbecue response forcing a cancel, I opted to invite a handful of friends over to witness the disaster which is my packing area, ply them with Zagorka and wine, and try my hand at cooking Ostropel (for the first time, poor guinea pigs).

I scored some delicious plum jam along the way. Mmm.

I think it went fairly well, on the whole. Probably because of the tiramisu ice cream. Or libations.

The End

I was out wandering the eastern edges of Romania’s singular approximation of metropolis, the capital city, the center of life, and magnet for Romanians everywhere — Bucureşti — when I stumbled across a blaring example of the very essence of modern depravity which is sweeping the country like a virus after being mollycoddled by Father Nick.

While an externally pleasant bloke, the disturbing truth is this sick, twisted individual wore his abject immorality on his sleeve like some badge of honor.

The unbridled wave of capitalism spreading through Romania like the plague has undermined the strong family values originally instilled during the Red Glory Days by The Conductor at the peak of Romania’s greatness.

Here we see such an example of a married man spending all his time outdoors, completely smashed on open bottles of wine in public, with total disregard for his abandoned rugrats he left playing in the park, kicking small helpless kittens, and clinging to some dashing, young bride for support to keep from falling over.

You — anonymous, unnamed, and unknown sir — typify the antithesis of wholesome family upbringing. It is both repulsive and repugnant. Sa te ierte Dumnezeu fiule.

The mystique and allure of communist-era motoring icons continue to catch the corner my eye although they may be seen as unclean eyesores by the average native. I wonder about the simple, perhaps pleasurable driving experiences which could be untapped from various relics.

I suppose it’s probably not too different from the folks who feel drawn toward Hitler’s volks-wagen which was originally developed in the 1930s to improve the lives of the master race, but had its’ production delayed as the Nazis began invading a smorgasbord of nation-states.

In Romania, it’s known as Broscuţa (aka the Froggy) and is a rare find indeed. In the United States, we call it a VW Bug and mostly associate it with the 1960s free-love era (or, if you’re really a consumerbot pop-culture junkie, you may waddle in with 1970s Herbie muck).

But, the point I stray from is I’m curious about these ancient leftovers. Those still-living beasts lurking about the streets of eastern Europe. The heretofore unseen ones which are unavailable in the West.

For quite some time, I was deeply enamored with the Trabant. In fact, I’ll admit to you that a guilty pleasure of mine has been to live vicariously through the exciting adventures of Steeplejack, The Trabant Driver, an unflappable ladykiller who’s jockeyed his Trabi to the unthinkably mindboggling excess of 112 kilometers per hour.

Lately, I’ve gravitated toward the Aro M461.

But just this weekend, I stumbled across a grotesque carcass which I was unable to tear my eyes away from. A hulking green beast of hideous proportions lie ensnared on the road outside of Parcul Carol.

Eagerly, I snapped away at the unmarked skeleton in order to ask you, dear readers, to help figure out just what in the world this deep-sea monster could possibly be.

Take a look at the popping bugeyes and gaping maw whose intelligent designer had not the pride to affix any insignia but rather unleashed the creature without identity.

As it swam past, I deftly clicked its’ backside covered in afterbirth spam.

I figured many of you would have never seen one while others have witnessed its’ glory without knowing what it was. Perhaps one of you would know the manufacturer with some certainty. Alas, your opportunity to enlighten me has been pre-empted.

For, you see, Cap’n Jack is no longer a Trabi man but — by sheer coincidence — has become afflicted with a new passion for this precise automotive wonder pictured above. And so it came to pass that I’ve learned the gargoyle is from the secret labs of Barkas.

Apparently, the B1000 is the brainchild of fiendish tovaraşi of Karl-Marx-Stadt, East Germany. Despite laboring away in a workers’ paradise for 30 years, it would seem the union staffers could only manage to scrape out a scant amount under 200,000 units of this Mystery Machine of the DDR.

I reckon this varmint cobbles together half a life with the paltry three-cyclinder, two-stroke engine that rings true as a hallmark of The People’s Factories. While no Porsche 911 SC Targa, I bet this cantankerous rattletrap can hum along respectably over flat highways.

The Barkas B/1000 certainly has plenty of character.

So, our unsolicted best wishes to the merry chap raising havoc on the east coast of Scotland. I can put an early end to any untoward enthusiasm about the Barkas because I’m sure to experience it second hand soonish.

Thus, I can affix adoration back onto the M461, which appears curiously unnatural in orchid shades of purple.

All the more so, if some careless slob discarded lunch onto the wheel well.

I nearly feel sorry for proud machine as it suffers through such thoughtless abuses. Could I trouble you to be a dear and pass the kleenex?