When I was a small child, growing up in the reedy thickets of Indiana, I had my share of dreams. Oh, they were small dreams, sure, but dreams none the less. I hoped to one to one day own a cow, and perhaps somehow use this cow-ownership as leverage to launch and oversee a thriving cheese factory. How sensible, you may say, how mid-western and blase. Those accusations may be true, but those were my dreams; unfortunately, I held them deep within the fortress of my heart, never to let them out. Which is why I now live as I do: a well-to-do archaeologist in a town of upturned noses, instead of the jolly, overalls wearing proprietor of a thrumming cheese concern.
Teguh Tiaz has lived differently than I. Though I know very little about this bastion of glittery hope amid the gray, oatmealy tumult of daily life, I am secure that young Teguh looses his dreams from his heart as stallions from the racing gate. Teguh has never been booted from an Ivy League crew team for assaulting an opposing team with an oar; if he has had any contact with this noble sport, surely he has rowed proud and strong, leading his team to victory. And no doubt Mr. Tiaz' father never tackled him at his own high-school graduation before sitting atop him, demanding his only begotten son remove "his" Pierre Cardin loafers, "goddamnit". And I would be highly suprised if--well, excuse me, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Here's to you, Teguh Tiaz, for believing. It is for you, and others like you, that we are resurrecting the Hindenburg. Tonight, in your honor, I will pour and then drink several glasses of Campari, neat.
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