Surprisingly enough, over the last two days nothing untoward, bizarre or even naked has happened to me. The most mental it has gotten for me today is that I accidently left some green paper in a photocopier, later heard some girl bitching about the fact her pamphlets were printed all green-like, and secretly smirked to myself thinking, 'ahaaa! yet another victim of the GREEN BANDIT! BABABAABAAAAA!'. Perhaps I'm the only one, but I spend quite a lot of time when on my own imagining that the normal things that happen around me happen because I have special powers.
For example, in the elevator (thats 'lift' for those who are confused. You're welcome.) When the grating slides across and you start to climb those floors, I sometimes raise my hand up slowly as if I am the one controlling it. Anyone else? No? Only if I'm alone, obviously. Otherwise that would be weird, right? And then when the grate opens quickly I make a 'fuck off' sweeping motion with my hand as if the door is bending to my will. Is that weird? I literally don't even know anymore. Ha, I think the reason I can say all of this so willingly and freely is because I've been here a month now, and I'm pretty sure England, the Atlantic Ocean, and all of those who read my blog do not actually exist. Therefore no one will ever actually read this, its all in my mind anyway and I might as well be completely honest about the whole thing. So yes, 'every day action superhero'. Thats me. Like trying to guess when the kettle is going to click off when its boiled, and pointing at it at the moment when you think its going to, JUST IN CASE it coincides with the click. yes? I mean sure, it results in a lot of fruitless pointing, but still, when you do manage it, oh the joys to be had. yes indeed. Oh dear. even I begin to sense that I may be going too far.
It might be because I'm getting accidently slightly high. Seriously, the amount of pot being smoked in my apartment is almost silly. Those Lessogs KNOW how to smoke dope. I feel a bit like I'm having a good time against my will. You know those adverts with the child with the face made entirely of eyes, and in the background his mum is lighting up and beating a treasured pet with a golf club-which has the tag line 'I have a smokers cough... and I don't smoke.' I feel like there should be another one, just of me, looking a bit dazed with a grin on my face with the line 'I'm really weirdly relaxed and dispassionate about life.... and I don't do weed.' yeah man. yeaahhh.
People are funny aren't they? I came through the door bearing chicken and sneezing madly, and the two of them on the couch didn't even look up, didn't say a word, just carried on watching some 'football' game. (Incidently, it is NOT football. In no way do they use their feet. If anything it should be called Armball. Or Rugby For Pussies.) Whereas on the streets of Brooklyn I can literally stop for 3 seconds, look very slightly confused and have strangers falling over themselves trying to help me find my way. Very bizarre.
I really like Brooklyn, as an aside. I think it has something to do with its underdog status, and being from the North of England, I can identify with that. I will never forget my first night of University, where I had carefully and thoughtfully planned to worry about EVERYTHING, literally everything, from meeting people, to my face, to being sick inappropriately into some else's bag. The one thing I forgot to worry about was being from Warrington. Within about an hour, the cries of 'You're from WHERE?' were echoing around the Westwood halls, and I was subjected to listening, on repeat, a lovely ditty by the comedy geniuses who created the witty and damning 'London Underground Song' (jesus sarcasm is difficult to get across sans actual voice hearings), a song called 'Northern Birds'. To the tune of 'More than words.' yeah. Look it up if you're interested, but safe to say, I was slightly scarred. 'Northeerrrn birrds, are easy ugly whores who smell of burggers.' yeah. Just one of many lines that still haunt my Warringtonian soul.
What was I talking about? Ah yes, Brooklyn. I recognise the cheeky, a little down on its luck, slightly self-depreciating tone of the place, where the signs use words like 'wonderfulest', safe in the knowledge that they don't need to bend to the restricting laws of grammar, this isn't Manhattan damn it! Words roam wild and free here! And on a slightly less poetical note, its cheaper. Which is always good. I mean sure Manhattan is wonderful too, but I always feel a bit like I should be wearing more make up, or a less see through dress. Who needs that kind of pressure eh?
Anyway, I was going to say that I have nothing to report, and so wont be doing a post this evening. And yet I seem to have rambled anyway. God bless associate weed smoking, thats what I say. Yes. So anyway, I think I'll leave it there for today, I'm very sorry I've let you down, and at least I can leave you with the knowledge that there's a really great wall opposite me that I'm going to do some shadow puppets on for a while. Another pasttime of mine in the dark hours. I made a frankly brilliant 'french man whose toupee gets blown off unexpectedly' the other day. With the power of hands. No idea how to do it now of course, but that, my dear friends, is both the blessing and the curse of the ancient art of hand shadow puppeting. Ok. I definitely sense a 'you've gone to far with the inner workings of your sadness' beginning to brew. So off I go. Maybe make a cup of tea first. Dear me, its tough being a secret superhero.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The kindness (and strangeness) of strangers
What I love about being in New York is that people will just tell you exactly what they're thinking at any given moment in time. Strangers, hobos, and loved ones alike.
In Britain, we have evolved a brilliant strategy for saying nothing, most of the time. Its a system fondly known as 'small talk', and everyone hates it beyond hatred of most things (except the first Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film. Always except that.) But we all use it anyway. Which makes us hate it even more. The problem is that in Britain, we don't like to state our opinion too forcefully when first meeting someone. Having an opinion could mean having a different opinion to the person you're talking to. Having a different opinion basically means you hate them. No one needs that. So instead, we have wonderful system I like to call Conversation Jenga, where each topic is nudged carefully out, examined thoughtfully for any potential topples or wobbles in the person opposite them, and only when we get an assured go ahead signal do we continue to push on with any real force. Its a good system, and its one that has worked well for us for years. In New York however, give a shit! Say what you think brotha, say it loud and say it proud!
I, of course, can say this today, with the conviction of someone who knows they were definitely fully dressed, and therefore knew there could be no potentialy agonising horror upon a startling naked realisation. Indeed, I dressed with rather a lot of care today after the rather scarring tube incident, and put on a tshirt, then a dress, then some tights (i wasn't even going to wear the tights, it was really sunny today.. but then I thought I just shouldn't risk it), and shoes, and then finally a jacket. There was basically no part of me that was not covered in material in some way. Except my face. But I couldn't be bothered to wear my contacts today so technically my face was dressed in my glasses. How coy. Indeed.
So off I went, to explore the East Side a little better. I didnt need to work today, i was informed, as I'm going to be working all weekend, so go, go and enjoy your funsies! So I did. I decided to just choose a random stop on the subway, get off and explore what I found. Sounds good? Well, it sounded cheap, so by default, yes, yes it sounded good.
I found I had stumbled across a very cool thrifty storey market wheeley deally part of town, filled with impromptu tattoo parlours, skinny jeans, sunglasses for 2 dollars and people looking a bit worriedly at their impromptu tattoos. Happy and busy, I spent the next two hours thoughtfully buying a headband.
Satisfied and glowy with my new purchase- it really it a very jazzy headband, I'll put up a picture for mainly Franki Burke- I turned a corner, and a man bumped into me, and I swear before even reacting to the bump exclaimed
'LOVE that combo! LOVING that colour combo!'
and without looking back, strode on.
I should explain. I was wearing purple tights and yellow shoes. If only I could say that its because I am fashionista, I am at one with the future trends, and I have an innate sense of style that makes...erm... oh God I cant even think of a suitable person to weep over me. How embarrassing. Unfortunately, I was actually wearing that 'combo' because when I was 13 my art teacher had told us about complimetary colours. And purple and yellow were one set. Sadly I get most of my style ideas from GSCE Art, you should see this headband, think 'collage: madness of the wistful penguin'.
But still. He didn't know that. I could be an excellent fashioner for all he knows, and I strode on, thinking that that would never ever ever happen in England. Partially because most of the people I know are so freakin fabulous of the clothes that everything I wear instantly becomes an ethel austin sale item by comparison, but mostly because we keep our opinions so forcefully to ourselves. So, lost in these muses, I turned another corner, and, believe it or not, ANOTHER person called out to me 'hey, I love your style, its so you!' Helpfully dismissing the fact that he could have no idea whether its 'me' or not, I burst out laughing and said 'thanks', and ran swiftly away in an semi bemused, embarrassed/flattered way. I felt like I wanted to shout 'thank Mrs Fisher, she taught me all I know'.
This was all very weird, and I felt a bit exposed, and like the tights and shoes combo had overpowered me to the point where I no longer had control over them. I decided to leave, and try my luck elsewhere. So, I pulled out a subway map, and began to have a little look around, and suddenly I heard 'Are you lost, dear?' This is really common in NY, everyone is so freakin helpful, and as he hadn't yet mentioned my shoes I felt that this was a situation I could control.
I turned, and laughed and said 'Well, no, just not really that sure where I want to go!'
The man standing before me was probably in his mid sixties, wearing shorts, a sportsy top, and for some reason, refused to look me in the eye. He always looked a little to the side of me, as if I was a horse and he was trying to whisper me. 'Well, what kind of place are you looking for?'
I shrugged. 'I don't mind really, just somewhere thats interesting.'
He nodded, looking at the road, 'Someplace interesting? Ok. I'm gonna take you to 9th avenue.'
And he strode off. I, it seemed, had no real choice but to follow.
As we walked, something a little weird happened. He started a long monologue about the fact that he had just run a marathon, memorial day, moved swiftly onto talking about ground zero and new buildings, and in the middle of a sentence added 'and give me your hand.'
I looked round, a little surprised, and before I knew what was happening, without looking at me, this man grabbed my hand and started to,-i can only describe it as- search it. It was if he was checking my hand for cancer. My first, irrational thought was 'he's going to steal my ring!' but then i realised rather swiftly that we weren't in a Dickens novel, he wasn't a wee little tinker and if it came down to it, I could take him. The second these thoughts had stopped processing, he dropped my hand, and continued talking as if nothing had happened, still refusing to look at me.
I wondered if I'd just imagined it. He was still talking 'Now on 9th avenue, I'm going to show you the shops! They've got dresses, they've got shoes, they've got blouses...' I agreed that shops often stocked these items. He stopped. Suddenly. And began pointing to the directions to the left and right of us, showing me where abouts we were. That would all have been fine, and I did appreciate the trouble he was taking, but he'd stopped in the middle of the road. And cars were honking at us.
'Now thats the East, up there you'll find Lafayette and-'
HONK
'I think we should maybe move to-
'Now South, you're gonna hit the brooklyn bridge'
HONK HONNNK
'haha yes, but I really think-'
HONK HONK HONK
Looking at my ear, he began to stride on again. Relieved, I followed hurridly, like a wife who had manage to avoid an embarassing social scene with an abusive husband. 'Now these shops-I'm not gonna come in with you,'
I agreed quite firmly that he wasn't.
'I hate shopping. But they've got everything. They've got shoes, they've got blouses, and I have to say-' he looked nervously at my shoulder, 'those shoes you've got on, they stand out a mile'.
The damn shoes. These shoes are too much for me. A better woman than I should wield them. I felt a bit like I was carrying the one ring to Mordor, but in the very beginning Gandalf had accidently called in on Pippin instead of Frodo.
'Where, where did you get those shoes?'
'well, I got them years ago and-'
he BURST out laughing 'aahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAA!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!'
now, either my delivery of that line was devastating, or the man who set up his brain chamber hadn't read the instructions properly.
'yes,' I said, completely thrown, 'and I suppose with the purple tights, they..er.. they do stand out, I-'
'HAHAHAHAHHAA'
He roared with laughter. He began gasping, and shouting 'I wasn't going to say it! I wasn't! But yes! ohhhh aahahahahaha!'
I literally just had no idea what was going on. The best I could do was think that he thought it looked ridiculous, and I hoped thats what it was. Otherwise I was completely stumped, and he was a mad.
Flailing for word thoughts, I faded to silence, and he continued to giggle to himself.
Finally, finally, I saw a sign for 9th Ave.
'Now these shops!' He said again, 'They;'ve got dresses, they'e got shoes, they've got... things for your fingers! Things for your wrists!'
'Suitability for any body part eh?' I said a little nervously
He agreed fervently.
He stopped again very suddenly. I turned back on myself and waited.
'Now,' he said, staring firmly at my elbow, 'I hate shopping, I'm really sorry, I just hate it. But you see that coffee shop over there?' He pointed to an alley.
'Yep.'
'I'll be sitting there. And I would very much like to have a cocktail with you.'
I thanked him, said I'd think about it, and went in for a handshake. He grabbed my hand again, and kissed it, gave my neck one final stare and walked away.
Jeepers. What power clothing holds eh? I reckon if I strapped these tights and shoes to a passing cat, it could rule the world by Friday. I better not add the headband. There's such a thing as too much power.
In Britain, we have evolved a brilliant strategy for saying nothing, most of the time. Its a system fondly known as 'small talk', and everyone hates it beyond hatred of most things (except the first Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film. Always except that.) But we all use it anyway. Which makes us hate it even more. The problem is that in Britain, we don't like to state our opinion too forcefully when first meeting someone. Having an opinion could mean having a different opinion to the person you're talking to. Having a different opinion basically means you hate them. No one needs that. So instead, we have wonderful system I like to call Conversation Jenga, where each topic is nudged carefully out, examined thoughtfully for any potential topples or wobbles in the person opposite them, and only when we get an assured go ahead signal do we continue to push on with any real force. Its a good system, and its one that has worked well for us for years. In New York however, give a shit! Say what you think brotha, say it loud and say it proud!
I, of course, can say this today, with the conviction of someone who knows they were definitely fully dressed, and therefore knew there could be no potentialy agonising horror upon a startling naked realisation. Indeed, I dressed with rather a lot of care today after the rather scarring tube incident, and put on a tshirt, then a dress, then some tights (i wasn't even going to wear the tights, it was really sunny today.. but then I thought I just shouldn't risk it), and shoes, and then finally a jacket. There was basically no part of me that was not covered in material in some way. Except my face. But I couldn't be bothered to wear my contacts today so technically my face was dressed in my glasses. How coy. Indeed.
So off I went, to explore the East Side a little better. I didnt need to work today, i was informed, as I'm going to be working all weekend, so go, go and enjoy your funsies! So I did. I decided to just choose a random stop on the subway, get off and explore what I found. Sounds good? Well, it sounded cheap, so by default, yes, yes it sounded good.
I found I had stumbled across a very cool thrifty storey market wheeley deally part of town, filled with impromptu tattoo parlours, skinny jeans, sunglasses for 2 dollars and people looking a bit worriedly at their impromptu tattoos. Happy and busy, I spent the next two hours thoughtfully buying a headband.
Satisfied and glowy with my new purchase- it really it a very jazzy headband, I'll put up a picture for mainly Franki Burke- I turned a corner, and a man bumped into me, and I swear before even reacting to the bump exclaimed
'LOVE that combo! LOVING that colour combo!'
and without looking back, strode on.
I should explain. I was wearing purple tights and yellow shoes. If only I could say that its because I am fashionista, I am at one with the future trends, and I have an innate sense of style that makes...erm... oh God I cant even think of a suitable person to weep over me. How embarrassing. Unfortunately, I was actually wearing that 'combo' because when I was 13 my art teacher had told us about complimetary colours. And purple and yellow were one set. Sadly I get most of my style ideas from GSCE Art, you should see this headband, think 'collage: madness of the wistful penguin'.
But still. He didn't know that. I could be an excellent fashioner for all he knows, and I strode on, thinking that that would never ever ever happen in England. Partially because most of the people I know are so freakin fabulous of the clothes that everything I wear instantly becomes an ethel austin sale item by comparison, but mostly because we keep our opinions so forcefully to ourselves. So, lost in these muses, I turned another corner, and, believe it or not, ANOTHER person called out to me 'hey, I love your style, its so you!' Helpfully dismissing the fact that he could have no idea whether its 'me' or not, I burst out laughing and said 'thanks', and ran swiftly away in an semi bemused, embarrassed/flattered way. I felt like I wanted to shout 'thank Mrs Fisher, she taught me all I know'.
This was all very weird, and I felt a bit exposed, and like the tights and shoes combo had overpowered me to the point where I no longer had control over them. I decided to leave, and try my luck elsewhere. So, I pulled out a subway map, and began to have a little look around, and suddenly I heard 'Are you lost, dear?' This is really common in NY, everyone is so freakin helpful, and as he hadn't yet mentioned my shoes I felt that this was a situation I could control.
I turned, and laughed and said 'Well, no, just not really that sure where I want to go!'
The man standing before me was probably in his mid sixties, wearing shorts, a sportsy top, and for some reason, refused to look me in the eye. He always looked a little to the side of me, as if I was a horse and he was trying to whisper me. 'Well, what kind of place are you looking for?'
I shrugged. 'I don't mind really, just somewhere thats interesting.'
He nodded, looking at the road, 'Someplace interesting? Ok. I'm gonna take you to 9th avenue.'
And he strode off. I, it seemed, had no real choice but to follow.
As we walked, something a little weird happened. He started a long monologue about the fact that he had just run a marathon, memorial day, moved swiftly onto talking about ground zero and new buildings, and in the middle of a sentence added 'and give me your hand.'
I looked round, a little surprised, and before I knew what was happening, without looking at me, this man grabbed my hand and started to,-i can only describe it as- search it. It was if he was checking my hand for cancer. My first, irrational thought was 'he's going to steal my ring!' but then i realised rather swiftly that we weren't in a Dickens novel, he wasn't a wee little tinker and if it came down to it, I could take him. The second these thoughts had stopped processing, he dropped my hand, and continued talking as if nothing had happened, still refusing to look at me.
I wondered if I'd just imagined it. He was still talking 'Now on 9th avenue, I'm going to show you the shops! They've got dresses, they've got shoes, they've got blouses...' I agreed that shops often stocked these items. He stopped. Suddenly. And began pointing to the directions to the left and right of us, showing me where abouts we were. That would all have been fine, and I did appreciate the trouble he was taking, but he'd stopped in the middle of the road. And cars were honking at us.
'Now thats the East, up there you'll find Lafayette and-'
HONK
'I think we should maybe move to-
'Now South, you're gonna hit the brooklyn bridge'
HONK HONNNK
'haha yes, but I really think-'
HONK HONK HONK
Looking at my ear, he began to stride on again. Relieved, I followed hurridly, like a wife who had manage to avoid an embarassing social scene with an abusive husband. 'Now these shops-I'm not gonna come in with you,'
I agreed quite firmly that he wasn't.
'I hate shopping. But they've got everything. They've got shoes, they've got blouses, and I have to say-' he looked nervously at my shoulder, 'those shoes you've got on, they stand out a mile'.
The damn shoes. These shoes are too much for me. A better woman than I should wield them. I felt a bit like I was carrying the one ring to Mordor, but in the very beginning Gandalf had accidently called in on Pippin instead of Frodo.
'Where, where did you get those shoes?'
'well, I got them years ago and-'
he BURST out laughing 'aahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAA!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!'
now, either my delivery of that line was devastating, or the man who set up his brain chamber hadn't read the instructions properly.
'yes,' I said, completely thrown, 'and I suppose with the purple tights, they..er.. they do stand out, I-'
'HAHAHAHAHHAA'
He roared with laughter. He began gasping, and shouting 'I wasn't going to say it! I wasn't! But yes! ohhhh aahahahahaha!'
I literally just had no idea what was going on. The best I could do was think that he thought it looked ridiculous, and I hoped thats what it was. Otherwise I was completely stumped, and he was a mad.
Flailing for word thoughts, I faded to silence, and he continued to giggle to himself.
Finally, finally, I saw a sign for 9th Ave.
'Now these shops!' He said again, 'They;'ve got dresses, they'e got shoes, they've got... things for your fingers! Things for your wrists!'
'Suitability for any body part eh?' I said a little nervously
He agreed fervently.
He stopped again very suddenly. I turned back on myself and waited.
'Now,' he said, staring firmly at my elbow, 'I hate shopping, I'm really sorry, I just hate it. But you see that coffee shop over there?' He pointed to an alley.
'Yep.'
'I'll be sitting there. And I would very much like to have a cocktail with you.'
I thanked him, said I'd think about it, and went in for a handshake. He grabbed my hand again, and kissed it, gave my neck one final stare and walked away.
Jeepers. What power clothing holds eh? I reckon if I strapped these tights and shoes to a passing cat, it could rule the world by Friday. I better not add the headband. There's such a thing as too much power.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Falling, Pride, and shodding changing room lights.
Ok so something ridiculous just happened to me, and I need to tell someone, and here we are as we always are. Me, the keyboard, Adrian and the unfulfilled dream of mayonnaise. Thanks for joining on my self ridiculousness once again.
I'm sorry my last post was so freakin massive, but it was a scientology special after all, and I really do feel those pioneers deserve the extra stretchy word room. Engrams. What an age we live in. I promise though, this one is just a little postlet, a wee crunchy snack in anecdotal foil wrap. So you can get back to revision for Gods sake.
So. Yesterday evening I got drunk with my friend Kate. We went to her apartment, had some wine, got pretty tispy, and well, one thing let to the other and.. (ha. Search elsewhere for your filth you sick minded dogs) we ended up dancing like tangled giraffes to SpiceWorld-still freakin AMAZING by the way and watching You've Got Mail- still.. well.. bless Tom Hanks and his expressive forehead. Meg Ryan's upper face had a LOT of catching up to do.
This morning I woke up, feeling non too spritely, put on quite a lot of makeup to cover up the scientologiriffic deadness of my face and strode out into the morning (afternoon).
Down and down into the subway I went, trying wherever possible not to do too many unneccessary movements such as standing or walking quickly. I began the long underground transfer from one subway to another, and I noticed that there was a man, of about 40, I would say, walking next to me, and looking at me slightly strangely. Turning my head would be a ridiculous and horribly complicated affair in my current state, so I simply continued on in my path and thought to myself, if he thinks I have the gait of a disabled crab, so be it.
Suddenly, he walked over to me, holding a card, and began to speak. and ahahahahaha ohh what this man had to say.
It turned out that this man was a photographer/film director(/barrel monkey, I added silently to myself), he was 'doing an exhibition' ('opening the door to his mum's shed') on nudes. Nudes. And would like me to take his card, in case I was interested in modelling for him. I laughed. A lot. And he got a bit offended saying 'Look, I'm not some joke, I had a lawyer come in just the other day...' he trailed off. I, through my own snorts, assured him that I wasn't laughing at him, this was a laugher of, erm, flattery. I'm just really flattered. And when I'm flattered I laugh. A lot. He calmed down a bit, and started to tell me about the architecture of New York (I don't know why, I was hungoever and the concept of conversation was really really difficult to wrestle with). We got on the same subway, with him talking at me a lot about Brooklyn etc, and me doing smallish nods. Oh Lord, I thought, well, thats nice at least. What an amusing experience. And a small, evil, mostly 14year old part of me couldn't help thinking, wow, someone actually wants to look at me naked, and as ridiculous as the actual situation was, a girl can't help feeling rather gratified about that. Oh dear. If I'd known what was to come.
Halfway through this conversation, a man sitting on the opposite side of the subway randomly started to join in our conversation, hey its new york, everyone's crazy and that, and when photgrapher got off the subway, he came and plonked himself next to me. Jesus, I thought, I'm on bloody form today, obviously the scientologists are actually onto something, perhaps engrams are a pile of dung but the dead in the eyes look is a bloody killer! Eventually, we both got off, we shook hands, and I went on my merry way, feeling rather good about the morning's encounter.
And then.
Sigh.
Well.
I don't have a mirror in my room. In my apartment. It just doesn't have one. I dont really care about that, as there's a small mirror in the bathroom so I can put my contacts in without destroying my own face, and to be honest, what more do you need a mirror for? Oh a lot of things, it turns out. A lot of vital things.
As I was walking back from the subway to my apartment, I caught a reflection of myself in a window in a shop mirror. And, it turns out, that the dress I was wearing, bought only but a week ago, was, quite simply, completely see through. Invisible to the naked (ha) eye when wearing it, but oh so glaringly evident from about 3 feet away. Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, all that gratification didn't seem quite so gratifiying anymore. As I reversed through my memory of the morning, a lot of events made a lot more sense.
You're looking for girls to get naked for a stranger? You choose to look in the Subway? Not a lot of girls want to do that. They think to themselves, we're in a subway. This is not a place of Naked. But hey, look at this girl! She LOVES being naked! She's nakeding right now! look at her, just walking like a nakeder, slowly and solidly. Brilliant! Card her! Card her right now! God only knows how naked she'll be in an actual naked situation.
There's a really chatty girl on the subway, talking to a man about his naked project. She's quite clearly a nakeder. Why not grab your chance when he leaves? She bloody loves it! Shaking hands at the end of the conversation? Pull the other one love, we can all see what kind of girl you are.
Oh God. I'm going to have to burn it. Maybe throw myself on afterwards. Back to the church I go I think. God knows how much money its going to cost me to get rid of this little engram.
I'm sorry my last post was so freakin massive, but it was a scientology special after all, and I really do feel those pioneers deserve the extra stretchy word room. Engrams. What an age we live in. I promise though, this one is just a little postlet, a wee crunchy snack in anecdotal foil wrap. So you can get back to revision for Gods sake.
So. Yesterday evening I got drunk with my friend Kate. We went to her apartment, had some wine, got pretty tispy, and well, one thing let to the other and.. (ha. Search elsewhere for your filth you sick minded dogs) we ended up dancing like tangled giraffes to SpiceWorld-still freakin AMAZING by the way and watching You've Got Mail- still.. well.. bless Tom Hanks and his expressive forehead. Meg Ryan's upper face had a LOT of catching up to do.
This morning I woke up, feeling non too spritely, put on quite a lot of makeup to cover up the scientologiriffic deadness of my face and strode out into the morning (afternoon).
Down and down into the subway I went, trying wherever possible not to do too many unneccessary movements such as standing or walking quickly. I began the long underground transfer from one subway to another, and I noticed that there was a man, of about 40, I would say, walking next to me, and looking at me slightly strangely. Turning my head would be a ridiculous and horribly complicated affair in my current state, so I simply continued on in my path and thought to myself, if he thinks I have the gait of a disabled crab, so be it.
Suddenly, he walked over to me, holding a card, and began to speak. and ahahahahaha ohh what this man had to say.
It turned out that this man was a photographer/film director(/barrel monkey, I added silently to myself), he was 'doing an exhibition' ('opening the door to his mum's shed') on nudes. Nudes. And would like me to take his card, in case I was interested in modelling for him. I laughed. A lot. And he got a bit offended saying 'Look, I'm not some joke, I had a lawyer come in just the other day...' he trailed off. I, through my own snorts, assured him that I wasn't laughing at him, this was a laugher of, erm, flattery. I'm just really flattered. And when I'm flattered I laugh. A lot. He calmed down a bit, and started to tell me about the architecture of New York (I don't know why, I was hungoever and the concept of conversation was really really difficult to wrestle with). We got on the same subway, with him talking at me a lot about Brooklyn etc, and me doing smallish nods. Oh Lord, I thought, well, thats nice at least. What an amusing experience. And a small, evil, mostly 14year old part of me couldn't help thinking, wow, someone actually wants to look at me naked, and as ridiculous as the actual situation was, a girl can't help feeling rather gratified about that. Oh dear. If I'd known what was to come.
Halfway through this conversation, a man sitting on the opposite side of the subway randomly started to join in our conversation, hey its new york, everyone's crazy and that, and when photgrapher got off the subway, he came and plonked himself next to me. Jesus, I thought, I'm on bloody form today, obviously the scientologists are actually onto something, perhaps engrams are a pile of dung but the dead in the eyes look is a bloody killer! Eventually, we both got off, we shook hands, and I went on my merry way, feeling rather good about the morning's encounter.
And then.
Sigh.
Well.
I don't have a mirror in my room. In my apartment. It just doesn't have one. I dont really care about that, as there's a small mirror in the bathroom so I can put my contacts in without destroying my own face, and to be honest, what more do you need a mirror for? Oh a lot of things, it turns out. A lot of vital things.
As I was walking back from the subway to my apartment, I caught a reflection of myself in a window in a shop mirror. And, it turns out, that the dress I was wearing, bought only but a week ago, was, quite simply, completely see through. Invisible to the naked (ha) eye when wearing it, but oh so glaringly evident from about 3 feet away. Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, all that gratification didn't seem quite so gratifiying anymore. As I reversed through my memory of the morning, a lot of events made a lot more sense.
You're looking for girls to get naked for a stranger? You choose to look in the Subway? Not a lot of girls want to do that. They think to themselves, we're in a subway. This is not a place of Naked. But hey, look at this girl! She LOVES being naked! She's nakeding right now! look at her, just walking like a nakeder, slowly and solidly. Brilliant! Card her! Card her right now! God only knows how naked she'll be in an actual naked situation.
There's a really chatty girl on the subway, talking to a man about his naked project. She's quite clearly a nakeder. Why not grab your chance when he leaves? She bloody loves it! Shaking hands at the end of the conversation? Pull the other one love, we can all see what kind of girl you are.
Oh God. I'm going to have to burn it. Maybe throw myself on afterwards. Back to the church I go I think. God knows how much money its going to cost me to get rid of this little engram.
Friday, May 22, 2009
How to kill time (square)... doesn't really work...
This probably isn't the best time for me to begin a blog post packed with anecdotal hilarity, as I am feeling impressively hacked off. Ok, this may not seem a big deal, but my mayonnaise has gone, gone away from the safety of the fridge, and dammit, I need Helmans to survive! its friendly and familiar label reminds me that not everything is different in this strange land! Secondly it is SO FREAKING HOT in this apartment I want to take all my clothes off forever, and if you can believe that is in any way attractive right now, you're obviously not getting just how hot it is in here. And finally, a mouse just ran out of the bathroom. the BATHROOM. the place where clean is supposed to happen. Where does one clean oneself of mice, sweat, and the tears of Helman's gone by, if the bathroom is currently occupied by mice, weeing an pooing and possibly showering all over the shop? (lydia, if you're reading this, can't wait for you to come stay!) So I'm hungry, I'm sweaty, I need a big poo and I'm scared that if I attempt one, a mouse will come and watch me. And i'm not sure what the procedure is if a mouse runs out at you mid.. situation. I'm sure I don't need to get graphic here. You can come up with your own amusing solutions to this problem in a 'oh god imagine if' kind of way, but this is my life now! my life has become a hypothetical question asked to patients when trying to determine just how mental they actually are. Sigh.
Which, actually, leads me onto rather nicely to what I was originally going to talk about. God this writing thing is getting easier every day. (just to annoy me, 'God', or whoever it is made me spell 'easier' wrong like seven times whilst writing that sentence. oh very funny.)
So yesterday, I went to see a show in Time Square. oooh exciting well done me etc. But thats not what I'm going to talk about, ohh noo no. Now, if you remember, those who have been dedicated Tash procrastinators (protashitnators? Doesn't work. Damn.) the last time i attempted to go and watch a show in this frightening, human packed arena, I ended up, lost, scared, alone, and next to a freckled wall of a man slowly destroying the soul of a violin. I had no intention of this happening again. So i made sure I arrived a little early. 2 hours early. Excellent planning indeed, I'm sure you'll agree. So, looking around Time Square, and realising that once again, i was back in the place that silence forgot, I needed something to do. Somewhere to go, for free, to kill some time. What did you do? I hear you rise up and cry as one, where? where did you go? Well to be honest, I was dumbstruck. Had no idea. And then. ohhh and then. A man came up to me, and with a slightly frightening smile, placed a leaflet in my hand. 'theres a free film starting every fifteen minutes!' He said, with really massive teeth, and grinning slightly oddly-couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time- he sort of floated away.
I looked down at the flyer. And it all became gloriously, wonderfully, epically clear to me. It was time for me to explore the world of Scientology.
Arriving at the 'church' (ohh we've only just begun), I found another smiley human, this time in female form, she looked up at my entry, 'Hi!' she said, looking genuinely pleased to see me, 'I'm Jodie!'
'Hi Jodie, I'm Tash. I'm er.. here for the free film?' I emphasised the word 'free', just so that I could later proclaim from the start that I never wanted more than I was promised.
'Its your first time here?'
'oh yes. Yes it is.'
'Great' (smile smile grinny grinny smile smile) 'Just come this way'
So, I was shown into a very very empty room, and Jodie pressed a few buttons and a film started to play. I had a sudden irrational but very genuine fear that I was actually going to end up in a situation similar to that of an episode of The Demon Headmaster, dribbling, wearing a clone suit, and failing to crack the 'octopus' code with a knock knock joke.
Now then. I learned some VERY valuable things from this 20 minute presentation. Things I'm going to tell you, because I bet you don't know them, and your life is probably being ruined, as my life had been ruined, because of it. Did you know that we all have 'engrams'? I didn't. An engram is something your brain stores when it has a negative experience. Some insane person might try and call it a 'memory', but its not, its an engram. And these negative engrams are the reasons for all of your problems. Do you get depressed sometimes? Its engrams. Have you ever sneezed? Probably an engram. Did you get your leg chopped off in a freak gammon slicing accident? DEFINATLY engram territory.
I watched this unravel with a mixture of wonder, slight horror, and a fair amount of disbelief. The great thing about this 'scientific' video, is that proof seems to be something that isn't cool enough to be considered. At any point. Instead, they BLOODY LOVE to use 'examples'. And by examples, i mean use actors, with a voice over the top. Graphs are BORING man, lets get a sexy voice to make up some stuff! There must have been 30 of them
'This man had a car accident' (video of slow motion car accident)
'The paramedics are able to save him' (yadda yadda you can imagine)
It cuts to inside the ambulance, where the two 'ambulance men' are having a wee chatsie about relationships, for some bizarre reason. 'Yo, whatever happened to you and Shaniqua?' (PROMISE this is true)
'awww we broke up man. I just couldnt be involved with something so long term.'
V/O kicks in.
'without knowing it, this whole conversation is inbedded in the victims mind, as part of his traumatic engram. See what happens when he later comes across a situation similar to the crash'
Cue conversation with his girlfriend in a car where for no reason, he randomly yells 'I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE. I JUST CANT BE INVOLVED WITH SOMETHING SO LONG TERM'.
And there you have it. Proof that engrams exist.
So the film ended. And INSTANTLY on cue Jodie walks in through the door like an grinny robot.
'Did you enjoy the film?'
'Oh.. yes. It was, umm very interesting.'
'You just need to fill this in.' She hands me a questionnaire, where I'm to put all my details, and answer questions about the film. I decided to use a cunning psudenym (psydenom? psudenim.. whatever. it was very cunning) and so Natasha Yak was born. I only answered one of the questions, and it was 'what do you think the film was trying to say?' I wrote 'That memories can sometimes affect you.' It was either that or 'That you are all as mad as snakes', and I felt that since they were all so grinny, that would be a little on the mean side
Shit though. It had only been 20 minutes. I still had HOURS. I bit my lip. How could I ride this out?
THEN, i noticed a little check box at the bottom. 'Would you like to complete a free personality test/IQ test?' Did I? Ohhh yes I did. Free air conditioning, comfortable chairs and lots of people being nice to me for no reason. Why not?
Jodie was VERY happy I was staying for the tests. She smiled. I smiled. Everyone else in the building silently reading to themselves from a variety of books with soothing covers smiled. I was shown to a little cubicle, and given the tests. Going into them would be highly boring, but I'll just give you an example of the type of question on the personality test
'Do you think your opinion is as important, or more important, that the opinions of others?
Y/N/maybe'
With so much aching room for interpretation on every question, i just ticked yes. Yes it is.
So. about 40 minuted later I waited nervously for my test results. Well, I say nervously, I actually mean quite breezily, comfortably and grinnily. Finally a young man came over, and said he'd be going over them with me. Now I was quite knocked back by this. I thought it would be the kind of result similar to that in a 'Shout' magazine flow chart test, 'Which summer style is 4 U?' where there are in reality only four possible outcomes, and each one is in fact a type of lip gloss, or perhaps a brain washing book. The idea of actually going into a room with a man and talking about my personality hadnt really occurred to me. But oh well, a few more minutes ticked off eh?
We walked into a room together, where I tried to be charming, witty, a bit overly enthusiastic, basically all the things that had gotten me into so much gosh darn adorable trouble so many times before. But something very very weird happened. No matter what I said, there was literally no reaction on his face. It wasn't like with a dear one, where a lovely smile might appear, or with clean shirt's friend, where a vague fear and slight disgust took over. It was just, well, nothing. I felt like i was trying to throw paint up at a ceiling, but it was so far away it not only didn't hit, it just sploshed right back into my face. Something very weird was going on. Eventually I gave up the pleasantries for lost, and we fell into silence. He then took a look at my personality, which was handly staring up at him from a graph. And oh dear. Oh dear Oh dear. It turned out there were A LOT of things wrong with my personality. It was only lucky that I'd come in at all.
'Oh right,' I said rather weakly, all my charm and smug and such like of knocked out of me, 'oh dear oh dear, so whats wrong then?'
'well.... You're cold. You're irresponsible, you don't listen to the thoughts and feelings of others. I think you have trouble accepting other people's opinions.'
At that point, i decided his opinion was ridiculous. Whew. Thank goodness for that. Still, still got an hour, better just wade in deeper I suppose.
'Right.' I said delicately, 'I can't listen to others? As in, I can't empathise?'
Now I watched a programme on Feral Children the other day. And it said the distinguishing features of human beings as opposed to other animals were two things. Speech, and ability to empathise. Was he saying.. was I... half feral?
'Well, you clearly have some issues with it. He pointed to the bit of graph that showed that i clearly had some issues with it. And indeed, there is was. A downward line. Can't really argue with that, can you?
'Oh... oh dear.'
'Yes. Now, is there anything in particaulr that you'd like to work on in your personality?'
I tried not to say 'become a human?' and instead, tried, TRIED, to give this boy one more chance.
'well, i suppose i could do with being more tactful. I have a habit of being horribly inappropriate at terrible times, and I dont want to go into the working world and on my first day end up naked on a coat stand, holding, you know, a raincoat and a dead swan.'
and SUDDENLY something amazing happened. He almost, ALMOST, giggled. I saw it, behind his eyes, something actually happened there and i thought OH MY GOD! There's someone in there! Right.
What commenced next was, I have some trepidation in telling you, a gruelling 15 minutes, where he tried to get me to talk about my failings, and I was absolutely determined to make him laugh. Determined. God it was tough. This was no amatuer game, I think I broke all my funny in the attempt. But,dammit, this boy had a sense of humour behind that dead. I had seen it. I had SEEN it and he was young! practically my age! He could be saved! And finally, deftly, with a ridiculously complicated joke that is too epic to go into now, but safe to say it involved Harry Potter, a fictional dictator called Egburt Margstar, and the phrase 'and oh how the children shall dance the jigs!' he finally, FINALLY, burst out laughing. I sat back, exhausted but gratified. and almost INSTANTLY there was a knock at the door. Honestly. An sort of surpised and quick knock. The door opened and a woman of about three hundred years peered through, with a half frown on her face.
'Are you finished with the analysis?'
A small flash of guilt appeared on the boy's face, and he rearranged my personality papers, 'erm, no, no not yet'.
there was a small silence. Then the woman turned to me and smiled 'OK, well, see you in a while.'
The door closed. Me and the boy, for just a split second, shared a guilty smile. 'Ok, well, I should probably take you through..' he stood up
'through? through where?
'through to Carol, she'll help you with the next part'
NO! i wanted to yell, no, no, lets go, lets go you and me right now and I shall show you the wonders of the true world! But he was gone, gone back to the engrams, and the world where laughter, apparently, is akin to stabbing a child.
Upon entering the next room, it was clear that there was no saving Carol. Carol was old. Carol was about seven hundred and twelce. Carol was gone.
'So I hear that you want to be more tactful?'
I laughed, and said 'oh yes, yes well I suppose my problem is I occasionally say wildly inappropriate things.'
'......WILDY inappropriate?' She looked at me with deadness.
'Well, yeah, I guess so.'
'Wildy???'
By this point, all of a sudden, I'd had enough. It was about half an hour till the show, this woman was reaching for a massive book and I had a feeling that it wasn't one to give me as a freebie. I was right. It turned out in order to begin fixing my personality, I'd have to buy this book ($17.99) and begin a course ($60) starting the following week. Of course, if she'd looked properly on the graph, she'd see that I don't respond to the opinions of others, and wouldn't have bothered. Probably just would have given me a chewy toy to play with in a garden somewhere. I shook her hand, told her firmly that I didn't need any of that, and thanked her for her time. She looked out at me and smiled, told me that was fine, but insisted I took a website address, and that she got my email (NatashaYak@gmail.com). Before I left this cool chamber of potential mad, I looked around one last time for the man who interviewed me. But he'd gone. Possibly to be punished for indulging in the human sin of humour. Perhaps the alien leader believes not in such a vice. Shame. I felt like I could have saved him. Perhaps I could start up my own church. This L.Ron Hubbard guy seems to be right on the money. Hey, I could write a series of books, get a few films out, brainwash a nation with the power of irrational funnies. Got a backpain? You've not said 8 ridiculous words today. Did your wife break up with you? Probably because you haven't been practicing your guffaw technique. Come one, come all, we can help you here. Turning your engrams into fungrams, and it'll only cost you everything you've got.
Which, actually, leads me onto rather nicely to what I was originally going to talk about. God this writing thing is getting easier every day. (just to annoy me, 'God', or whoever it is made me spell 'easier' wrong like seven times whilst writing that sentence. oh very funny.)
So yesterday, I went to see a show in Time Square. oooh exciting well done me etc. But thats not what I'm going to talk about, ohh noo no. Now, if you remember, those who have been dedicated Tash procrastinators (protashitnators? Doesn't work. Damn.) the last time i attempted to go and watch a show in this frightening, human packed arena, I ended up, lost, scared, alone, and next to a freckled wall of a man slowly destroying the soul of a violin. I had no intention of this happening again. So i made sure I arrived a little early. 2 hours early. Excellent planning indeed, I'm sure you'll agree. So, looking around Time Square, and realising that once again, i was back in the place that silence forgot, I needed something to do. Somewhere to go, for free, to kill some time. What did you do? I hear you rise up and cry as one, where? where did you go? Well to be honest, I was dumbstruck. Had no idea. And then. ohhh and then. A man came up to me, and with a slightly frightening smile, placed a leaflet in my hand. 'theres a free film starting every fifteen minutes!' He said, with really massive teeth, and grinning slightly oddly-couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time- he sort of floated away.
I looked down at the flyer. And it all became gloriously, wonderfully, epically clear to me. It was time for me to explore the world of Scientology.
Arriving at the 'church' (ohh we've only just begun), I found another smiley human, this time in female form, she looked up at my entry, 'Hi!' she said, looking genuinely pleased to see me, 'I'm Jodie!'
'Hi Jodie, I'm Tash. I'm er.. here for the free film?' I emphasised the word 'free', just so that I could later proclaim from the start that I never wanted more than I was promised.
'Its your first time here?'
'oh yes. Yes it is.'
'Great' (smile smile grinny grinny smile smile) 'Just come this way'
So, I was shown into a very very empty room, and Jodie pressed a few buttons and a film started to play. I had a sudden irrational but very genuine fear that I was actually going to end up in a situation similar to that of an episode of The Demon Headmaster, dribbling, wearing a clone suit, and failing to crack the 'octopus' code with a knock knock joke.
Now then. I learned some VERY valuable things from this 20 minute presentation. Things I'm going to tell you, because I bet you don't know them, and your life is probably being ruined, as my life had been ruined, because of it. Did you know that we all have 'engrams'? I didn't. An engram is something your brain stores when it has a negative experience. Some insane person might try and call it a 'memory', but its not, its an engram. And these negative engrams are the reasons for all of your problems. Do you get depressed sometimes? Its engrams. Have you ever sneezed? Probably an engram. Did you get your leg chopped off in a freak gammon slicing accident? DEFINATLY engram territory.
I watched this unravel with a mixture of wonder, slight horror, and a fair amount of disbelief. The great thing about this 'scientific' video, is that proof seems to be something that isn't cool enough to be considered. At any point. Instead, they BLOODY LOVE to use 'examples'. And by examples, i mean use actors, with a voice over the top. Graphs are BORING man, lets get a sexy voice to make up some stuff! There must have been 30 of them
'This man had a car accident' (video of slow motion car accident)
'The paramedics are able to save him' (yadda yadda you can imagine)
It cuts to inside the ambulance, where the two 'ambulance men' are having a wee chatsie about relationships, for some bizarre reason. 'Yo, whatever happened to you and Shaniqua?' (PROMISE this is true)
'awww we broke up man. I just couldnt be involved with something so long term.'
V/O kicks in.
'without knowing it, this whole conversation is inbedded in the victims mind, as part of his traumatic engram. See what happens when he later comes across a situation similar to the crash'
Cue conversation with his girlfriend in a car where for no reason, he randomly yells 'I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE. I JUST CANT BE INVOLVED WITH SOMETHING SO LONG TERM'.
And there you have it. Proof that engrams exist.
So the film ended. And INSTANTLY on cue Jodie walks in through the door like an grinny robot.
'Did you enjoy the film?'
'Oh.. yes. It was, umm very interesting.'
'You just need to fill this in.' She hands me a questionnaire, where I'm to put all my details, and answer questions about the film. I decided to use a cunning psudenym (psydenom? psudenim.. whatever. it was very cunning) and so Natasha Yak was born. I only answered one of the questions, and it was 'what do you think the film was trying to say?' I wrote 'That memories can sometimes affect you.' It was either that or 'That you are all as mad as snakes', and I felt that since they were all so grinny, that would be a little on the mean side
Shit though. It had only been 20 minutes. I still had HOURS. I bit my lip. How could I ride this out?
THEN, i noticed a little check box at the bottom. 'Would you like to complete a free personality test/IQ test?' Did I? Ohhh yes I did. Free air conditioning, comfortable chairs and lots of people being nice to me for no reason. Why not?
Jodie was VERY happy I was staying for the tests. She smiled. I smiled. Everyone else in the building silently reading to themselves from a variety of books with soothing covers smiled. I was shown to a little cubicle, and given the tests. Going into them would be highly boring, but I'll just give you an example of the type of question on the personality test
'Do you think your opinion is as important, or more important, that the opinions of others?
Y/N/maybe'
With so much aching room for interpretation on every question, i just ticked yes. Yes it is.
So. about 40 minuted later I waited nervously for my test results. Well, I say nervously, I actually mean quite breezily, comfortably and grinnily. Finally a young man came over, and said he'd be going over them with me. Now I was quite knocked back by this. I thought it would be the kind of result similar to that in a 'Shout' magazine flow chart test, 'Which summer style is 4 U?' where there are in reality only four possible outcomes, and each one is in fact a type of lip gloss, or perhaps a brain washing book. The idea of actually going into a room with a man and talking about my personality hadnt really occurred to me. But oh well, a few more minutes ticked off eh?
We walked into a room together, where I tried to be charming, witty, a bit overly enthusiastic, basically all the things that had gotten me into so much gosh darn adorable trouble so many times before. But something very very weird happened. No matter what I said, there was literally no reaction on his face. It wasn't like with a dear one, where a lovely smile might appear, or with clean shirt's friend, where a vague fear and slight disgust took over. It was just, well, nothing. I felt like i was trying to throw paint up at a ceiling, but it was so far away it not only didn't hit, it just sploshed right back into my face. Something very weird was going on. Eventually I gave up the pleasantries for lost, and we fell into silence. He then took a look at my personality, which was handly staring up at him from a graph. And oh dear. Oh dear Oh dear. It turned out there were A LOT of things wrong with my personality. It was only lucky that I'd come in at all.
'Oh right,' I said rather weakly, all my charm and smug and such like of knocked out of me, 'oh dear oh dear, so whats wrong then?'
'well.... You're cold. You're irresponsible, you don't listen to the thoughts and feelings of others. I think you have trouble accepting other people's opinions.'
At that point, i decided his opinion was ridiculous. Whew. Thank goodness for that. Still, still got an hour, better just wade in deeper I suppose.
'Right.' I said delicately, 'I can't listen to others? As in, I can't empathise?'
Now I watched a programme on Feral Children the other day. And it said the distinguishing features of human beings as opposed to other animals were two things. Speech, and ability to empathise. Was he saying.. was I... half feral?
'Well, you clearly have some issues with it. He pointed to the bit of graph that showed that i clearly had some issues with it. And indeed, there is was. A downward line. Can't really argue with that, can you?
'Oh... oh dear.'
'Yes. Now, is there anything in particaulr that you'd like to work on in your personality?'
I tried not to say 'become a human?' and instead, tried, TRIED, to give this boy one more chance.
'well, i suppose i could do with being more tactful. I have a habit of being horribly inappropriate at terrible times, and I dont want to go into the working world and on my first day end up naked on a coat stand, holding, you know, a raincoat and a dead swan.'
and SUDDENLY something amazing happened. He almost, ALMOST, giggled. I saw it, behind his eyes, something actually happened there and i thought OH MY GOD! There's someone in there! Right.
What commenced next was, I have some trepidation in telling you, a gruelling 15 minutes, where he tried to get me to talk about my failings, and I was absolutely determined to make him laugh. Determined. God it was tough. This was no amatuer game, I think I broke all my funny in the attempt. But,dammit, this boy had a sense of humour behind that dead. I had seen it. I had SEEN it and he was young! practically my age! He could be saved! And finally, deftly, with a ridiculously complicated joke that is too epic to go into now, but safe to say it involved Harry Potter, a fictional dictator called Egburt Margstar, and the phrase 'and oh how the children shall dance the jigs!' he finally, FINALLY, burst out laughing. I sat back, exhausted but gratified. and almost INSTANTLY there was a knock at the door. Honestly. An sort of surpised and quick knock. The door opened and a woman of about three hundred years peered through, with a half frown on her face.
'Are you finished with the analysis?'
A small flash of guilt appeared on the boy's face, and he rearranged my personality papers, 'erm, no, no not yet'.
there was a small silence. Then the woman turned to me and smiled 'OK, well, see you in a while.'
The door closed. Me and the boy, for just a split second, shared a guilty smile. 'Ok, well, I should probably take you through..' he stood up
'through? through where?
'through to Carol, she'll help you with the next part'
NO! i wanted to yell, no, no, lets go, lets go you and me right now and I shall show you the wonders of the true world! But he was gone, gone back to the engrams, and the world where laughter, apparently, is akin to stabbing a child.
Upon entering the next room, it was clear that there was no saving Carol. Carol was old. Carol was about seven hundred and twelce. Carol was gone.
'So I hear that you want to be more tactful?'
I laughed, and said 'oh yes, yes well I suppose my problem is I occasionally say wildly inappropriate things.'
'......WILDY inappropriate?' She looked at me with deadness.
'Well, yeah, I guess so.'
'Wildy???'
By this point, all of a sudden, I'd had enough. It was about half an hour till the show, this woman was reaching for a massive book and I had a feeling that it wasn't one to give me as a freebie. I was right. It turned out in order to begin fixing my personality, I'd have to buy this book ($17.99) and begin a course ($60) starting the following week. Of course, if she'd looked properly on the graph, she'd see that I don't respond to the opinions of others, and wouldn't have bothered. Probably just would have given me a chewy toy to play with in a garden somewhere. I shook her hand, told her firmly that I didn't need any of that, and thanked her for her time. She looked out at me and smiled, told me that was fine, but insisted I took a website address, and that she got my email (NatashaYak@gmail.com). Before I left this cool chamber of potential mad, I looked around one last time for the man who interviewed me. But he'd gone. Possibly to be punished for indulging in the human sin of humour. Perhaps the alien leader believes not in such a vice. Shame. I felt like I could have saved him. Perhaps I could start up my own church. This L.Ron Hubbard guy seems to be right on the money. Hey, I could write a series of books, get a few films out, brainwash a nation with the power of irrational funnies. Got a backpain? You've not said 8 ridiculous words today. Did your wife break up with you? Probably because you haven't been practicing your guffaw technique. Come one, come all, we can help you here. Turning your engrams into fungrams, and it'll only cost you everything you've got.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
things wrong with my life (mainly aural)
Ohhhh my lord I have been so tired today. My living situation, though relatively clean (Adrian more or less picks up after himself) is not exactly ideal. Its one of those things where the more I find out, the less I want to know. yawwwwwwnnn dammit outside world, WHY are you so gosh darn noisy??
There are several problems with the place that I am living presently. Almost all of them are to do with the outside world and all of them are to do with noise. These are the noises my skillful sleep talent (which, to be fair, is pretty finely honed) has to deal with on a daily and nightly basis
1) What I can only fathom to be an 'Owl and son's old fashioned nice n slow drilling company', as they only begin drilling in the late evening, and can carry on..ohhh i don't know... for hours and hours, with only a short break at about midnight where they go on the search for small voles allowing me to swiftly whack myself with a brick and render myself unconscious.
2) A 24 hour icecream van. Very helpful for stoners with the 4am munchies. Not so helpful to ALL OTHER HUMANS. and it only has one tune. oh god that tune. that tune that is seared into my very nerves. it goes like this- 'ner ner NER NEEER na na NEEER nEEER, na na NER NER NER NER NEEERRRR ner. NA na NER NER, NA NA ner ner, NER ner, NER NER ner, NER NERRRRR.' if you think its annoying now, try imagining it not silent. over and over again. Over and over and over again.
3) My apartment- and in particular, my bedroom window- looks out on, if you can believe it, a school playground. Oh yes, thats right. Round about 8am the little scamps romp about, screaming, wailing, stabbing (i assume) and re-stabbing. Luckily the teacher is on hand to shout at them all very loudly to be quiet a lot, so that keeps things nice and ordered.
4) The drilling. i know I've mentioned it already but it is particularly bad this evening so I thought I'd mention it again, because they certainly will.
5) Oh and car alarms and police cars and fire engines and people fighting and outside traffic- but in comparison to the above, this noise could be one of those setting on an alarm clock for a quiet and peaceful awakening, like 'ocean breezes', or 'frog song'.
6) So thats it for the outside pursuits. In terms of the inside, dammit, I feel guilty for saying it but Adrian, you are still a chatter, and you know it. He tries to keep it from about 8pm-11pm, but sometimes he forgets, the wee tyke, so I lovingly throw a shoe at the wall (as has become or custom) to let him know its time for bedsies.
7) Ok this one was a one off, but it was last night and didn't help me with my sleeping situation. The couple I live with, Sarah and Sam, i think have been having some rough times recently, and last night Sam (who I really really don't know at ALL) took to storming off into the bathroom and weeping very loudly and snottily. My bedroom is right next to the bathroom. Its not that I wasn't sympathetic, but, I thought, would you be any less miserable outside on the streets? Perhaps a bit of drilling might cheer you up? Get an icecream perhaps? Of course I didn't do any of that, what I actually did was so horribly British I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I knocked quietly on the door of the bathroom very awkwardly (no one likes to hear a girl cry all lonely like,) and said 'errm.. Sam?.. would you... would you like a cup of tea?' No really. really. I went there. I was Hugh Grant, and I'd just spilled orange juice all over Julia Roberts. She sniffed, surprised and embarrassed and said 'uh, no, thats alright.'
I hung very awkwardly around the door, and, before I scuttled away whispered 'ok, well, I always find it helps in any situation, I'm around for a bit if you change your mind,' and I Englished off to my room, with a strange mix of relief, embarrassment and sadness that I'd been tea rejected by a crying lesbian in a crisis. She seemed to be alright after that, no more weeping, probably went back to her room and told Sarah how 2 dimensional my personality actually is, they had a good laugh and all was forgiven. Still. Always nice to help.
Had ANOTHER terrible 'meeting with the other kind' i like to call the americans that just cannot and will never get me. I was out for a drink with my friend Justin- one who actually does, thank GOD otherwise I would just spew the crazy on the subway or something. which, actually, wouldnt look out of place at all. Anyway, he invited me for a drink, and introduced me to his 'work friends' (always a slightly dodgy sitation I have found.) One of them had a shirt on of SO MUCH PURE WHITE that I was compelled to day, straight off the bat 'Hi, I'm Tash, and I have to say, that shirt really amazingly white. well done you!' for some reason, he wasn't that up for a 'Daz challenge' conversation, and immediatly, after a quick look at Justin as if to say 'really?' turned away. Undeterred, hey there was still three of them left! I turned to the next one, said hello and shook hands. After witnessing the shirt analysis he seemed a little wary, but I carefully steered away from any physical commentary whilst looking at him, which seemed to work for the best. However, he then turned to Justin, and started to talk about the fact that he's just found out about a blockbuster 'Sherlock Holmes' Movie going into production, starring Jude Law and someone else, who he couldnt remember. My ears pricked up. The idea of Sherlock Holmes action flick is, for me rife, positively RIFE with comic potential, and grinning madly, I eagerly joined in the coversation
'An action flick Sherlock Holmes? As in 'Watson you asshole, shoot first, ask questions later bitch?' I then mimed, MIMED, picking up a machine gun and firing at a squad of oncoming pillow thieves or similar.
silence. Justin, bless him, laughed. Work man, looked at me as if i was ACTUALLY insane. I hoped he didnt think I was planning to turn my mime into a reality. Thats not really what i do.
He turned, if possible, even MORE to Justin, and said 'oh yeah, i remember now, they want Jonny Depp to play Sherlock Holmes.'
I could have kept quiet. But then, i never do, do i?
'Jonny Depp?' I squarked, 'The man with the world's most cavernous cheekbones? He's be great, he could store clues in his very face!'
oh the silence. oh the horrible silence.
This man, honestly, must have have realised at that moment what his own personal hell was. And it was having conversations about the comic potential of films. With me.Forever.
But to be honest, I've had the silence after I've asked someone if they've raped my nan. This, frankly, was nothing. I was going nowhere. 'ha, I can just imagine the trailer *puts on deep american voice* THIS SUMMER, the slippers are coming off and the kettle is on. cut to holmes 'sherlock you mad bastard, just put the pipe down man! PUT IT DOWN! *explosion noise fading to silence*'
Nothing. Maybe he was secretly fuming all along because I didn't tell him he had a clean shirt, and his rebuffing my attempts at humour were a way on punishing me. Bastard. Oh well. When that film comes out and he realises they all talk like me he's going to be REALLY upset. And I wont care. As long as he doesnt weep about it in our bathroom, I'll be sleeping like an angel.
There are several problems with the place that I am living presently. Almost all of them are to do with the outside world and all of them are to do with noise. These are the noises my skillful sleep talent (which, to be fair, is pretty finely honed) has to deal with on a daily and nightly basis
1) What I can only fathom to be an 'Owl and son's old fashioned nice n slow drilling company', as they only begin drilling in the late evening, and can carry on..ohhh i don't know... for hours and hours, with only a short break at about midnight where they go on the search for small voles allowing me to swiftly whack myself with a brick and render myself unconscious.
2) A 24 hour icecream van. Very helpful for stoners with the 4am munchies. Not so helpful to ALL OTHER HUMANS. and it only has one tune. oh god that tune. that tune that is seared into my very nerves. it goes like this- 'ner ner NER NEEER na na NEEER nEEER, na na NER NER NER NER NEEERRRR ner. NA na NER NER, NA NA ner ner, NER ner, NER NER ner, NER NERRRRR.' if you think its annoying now, try imagining it not silent. over and over again. Over and over and over again.
3) My apartment- and in particular, my bedroom window- looks out on, if you can believe it, a school playground. Oh yes, thats right. Round about 8am the little scamps romp about, screaming, wailing, stabbing (i assume) and re-stabbing. Luckily the teacher is on hand to shout at them all very loudly to be quiet a lot, so that keeps things nice and ordered.
4) The drilling. i know I've mentioned it already but it is particularly bad this evening so I thought I'd mention it again, because they certainly will.
5) Oh and car alarms and police cars and fire engines and people fighting and outside traffic- but in comparison to the above, this noise could be one of those setting on an alarm clock for a quiet and peaceful awakening, like 'ocean breezes', or 'frog song'.
6) So thats it for the outside pursuits. In terms of the inside, dammit, I feel guilty for saying it but Adrian, you are still a chatter, and you know it. He tries to keep it from about 8pm-11pm, but sometimes he forgets, the wee tyke, so I lovingly throw a shoe at the wall (as has become or custom) to let him know its time for bedsies.
7) Ok this one was a one off, but it was last night and didn't help me with my sleeping situation. The couple I live with, Sarah and Sam, i think have been having some rough times recently, and last night Sam (who I really really don't know at ALL) took to storming off into the bathroom and weeping very loudly and snottily. My bedroom is right next to the bathroom. Its not that I wasn't sympathetic, but, I thought, would you be any less miserable outside on the streets? Perhaps a bit of drilling might cheer you up? Get an icecream perhaps? Of course I didn't do any of that, what I actually did was so horribly British I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I knocked quietly on the door of the bathroom very awkwardly (no one likes to hear a girl cry all lonely like,) and said 'errm.. Sam?.. would you... would you like a cup of tea?' No really. really. I went there. I was Hugh Grant, and I'd just spilled orange juice all over Julia Roberts. She sniffed, surprised and embarrassed and said 'uh, no, thats alright.'
I hung very awkwardly around the door, and, before I scuttled away whispered 'ok, well, I always find it helps in any situation, I'm around for a bit if you change your mind,' and I Englished off to my room, with a strange mix of relief, embarrassment and sadness that I'd been tea rejected by a crying lesbian in a crisis. She seemed to be alright after that, no more weeping, probably went back to her room and told Sarah how 2 dimensional my personality actually is, they had a good laugh and all was forgiven. Still. Always nice to help.
Had ANOTHER terrible 'meeting with the other kind' i like to call the americans that just cannot and will never get me. I was out for a drink with my friend Justin- one who actually does, thank GOD otherwise I would just spew the crazy on the subway or something. which, actually, wouldnt look out of place at all. Anyway, he invited me for a drink, and introduced me to his 'work friends' (always a slightly dodgy sitation I have found.) One of them had a shirt on of SO MUCH PURE WHITE that I was compelled to day, straight off the bat 'Hi, I'm Tash, and I have to say, that shirt really amazingly white. well done you!' for some reason, he wasn't that up for a 'Daz challenge' conversation, and immediatly, after a quick look at Justin as if to say 'really?' turned away. Undeterred, hey there was still three of them left! I turned to the next one, said hello and shook hands. After witnessing the shirt analysis he seemed a little wary, but I carefully steered away from any physical commentary whilst looking at him, which seemed to work for the best. However, he then turned to Justin, and started to talk about the fact that he's just found out about a blockbuster 'Sherlock Holmes' Movie going into production, starring Jude Law and someone else, who he couldnt remember. My ears pricked up. The idea of Sherlock Holmes action flick is, for me rife, positively RIFE with comic potential, and grinning madly, I eagerly joined in the coversation
'An action flick Sherlock Holmes? As in 'Watson you asshole, shoot first, ask questions later bitch?' I then mimed, MIMED, picking up a machine gun and firing at a squad of oncoming pillow thieves or similar.
silence. Justin, bless him, laughed. Work man, looked at me as if i was ACTUALLY insane. I hoped he didnt think I was planning to turn my mime into a reality. Thats not really what i do.
He turned, if possible, even MORE to Justin, and said 'oh yeah, i remember now, they want Jonny Depp to play Sherlock Holmes.'
I could have kept quiet. But then, i never do, do i?
'Jonny Depp?' I squarked, 'The man with the world's most cavernous cheekbones? He's be great, he could store clues in his very face!'
oh the silence. oh the horrible silence.
This man, honestly, must have have realised at that moment what his own personal hell was. And it was having conversations about the comic potential of films. With me.Forever.
But to be honest, I've had the silence after I've asked someone if they've raped my nan. This, frankly, was nothing. I was going nowhere. 'ha, I can just imagine the trailer *puts on deep american voice* THIS SUMMER, the slippers are coming off and the kettle is on. cut to holmes 'sherlock you mad bastard, just put the pipe down man! PUT IT DOWN! *explosion noise fading to silence*'
Nothing. Maybe he was secretly fuming all along because I didn't tell him he had a clean shirt, and his rebuffing my attempts at humour were a way on punishing me. Bastard. Oh well. When that film comes out and he realises they all talk like me he's going to be REALLY upset. And I wont care. As long as he doesnt weep about it in our bathroom, I'll be sleeping like an angel.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Readings, writings, and pourings of wine.
I'm getting a bit painfully aware that my blogatrons of late have been rather thesp-centric, and for those who care not about the theatre, all I can say is, well gto back to watching porn then, and stop trying to distract yourself from life by listening to my ramblings. My internship (which, i've just realised, i have basically failed to mention at all.. wow.. what the hell have I been going on about for 20 bloody posts? Oh yes. Squirrels and that.) Anyway, my internship is theatre, at some point I was going to have to get round to talking about it, and anyway I'm not actually really going to talk about it so stop being so bloody mardy and put the kettle on.
Right. So theatre. Tonight I was working at my venue (its the chocolate factory in queens, if any of you are popping by later), sort of ish co-managing the evening's reading of a play called 'The Verge'., By co-managing, I obviously mean that me and another girl got wine ready for the intermission, I gave some bits of paper to the very serious girl behind the box office, and I sort of looked at all the actors in a superior and very British type way. Of course, when I talk about this to future employers, the story may be a little different. Possibly may involve me wearing a suit and putting out a fire, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it eh?
Now. 'The Verge'. I'd had a little look at the blurby blurb, and it said something about it being about a woman who makes genetically modified frighening plants in a greenhouse. Oh God. And it was a reading. There wasn't even going to be any shiny movement. As I took my seat, I was imagining the next two hours to consist of a very wordy version of The Little Shop Of Horrors, with all the songs and dancemoves edited out to get to the real crux of the tragic tale. I'd nicked a glass of intermission wine(/'I'd check all the fire exits and safety prosecures'-as this tale goes on record) and was prepared to drink away the proceeding time with the logic that, if they weren't going to move, my wine could at least make them wobble. I took a sip as the lights came up. A man stood, walked to a music stand, at procceeded to talk in the WORST fake British accent possibly I have ever heard. Why is it that Americans 'doing' British seem to think that by making their voices higher, gayer and clipped to the point where you can barely make out their words, they magically transform into someone from Surrey? I took another glug. Oh lord, two hours, I thought.
However. Then something very magical happened. He sat down (that wasn't the magical thing, but it was a bloody relief all the same), a new character arrived and suddenly, I was gone. The play was brilliant. In the simplest terms, it was a very wordy-my favourite type-play about a woman who wants so desperately and so deeply, to stretch for possibilities outside what exists, that the prospect of actually achieving what she wants the most ends up disgusting her. In becoming achievable, they lose any semblance of wonder, and trapped in this paradox she ultimately falls apart. This kind of thinking gets me going in a big way. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was bizarre, and it was funny. The Verge. I've never heard of it, but then, I've heard of about 7 plays- 6 of which I've been in and the other is 'Hedda Gabbler'. Maybe you have. But I bloody bloody freakin loved it. I was utterly absorbed, and these actors were reading from scripts, dressed in jeans and stuttering occasionally over their words. It just didn't matter. I don't even know who wrote it. I could literally just google it now but dammit i'm in a flow and nothing short of a massive need for a wee could stop me now.
So anyway, the point is, it was lovely to be absorbed in something for a change. AND, it was even lovelier to watch something knowing that I didn't know anyone in it, that I hadn't paid, that there was no pressure for it to be good or for me to say interesting and intelligent things about it afterwards. I mean, who was I going to discuss it with? The man next to me on the subway home was a bit too fast asleep to begin a conversation. But it was nice. Refreshing, and kind of surprising.
OH though. There was a BRILLIANT old woman who came to see it, old and grouchy in a 'help me up the stairs for god sake' kind of way. She had never seen anything by the company before, a flyer had just come through her letterbox and on a whim she had decided to come. Which is amazing, and made all of us working there want to be very nice to her in a kind of 'oh look how justififed your decision was' kind of way. The director of the company even, the 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' gentleman behind it all even paid her special attention, which was no small achievement. I knew she was brilliant the moment she turned to David (the director) and said 'So. 'Target Margin'. Strange name for a company. Do you have any link with the 'Target' Stores.' Now the momentary disgust and panic on David's face, immediately washed away by a jovial and highly amused smile was a thing of beauty. You have to understand. For him, that question was basically the equivelant of someone asking Peter Brook whether the 'S' in RSC was the same one as in DFS. It was brilliant. I decided to usher her swiftly to her seat, where she muttered that the actors 'better speak up' as she could tell that 'the acoustics in this room are awful'. She stole a quick look at me as if i was going to have a small heart attack at her using the word 'acoustics', and then added 'my son, is an actor.'
'Oh,' I said politely, 'thats amazing!'
'A BRILLIANT actor', she said fiercely.
I wondered that I had accidently said 'yeah but he's shit', instead of 'that's amazing'.
'I often help him with his voicework.'
'mmmm' I said, 'yes well we're about to start I think so-'
'Its all about the WORDS you see. If you can't here the words-
the light started to go down
'yes, yes, but I think the reading is about to
'You don't mess with Shakespeare! Do you know what I'm telling you?'
I nodded in a very silent way, and smiled a smile that I hoped signified 'that is all fascinating, I do hope to continue this later, but now is the time for being quiet, yes?' it was quite a lot for a smile to achieve in ever approaching darkness, but still.
So the first act happened, and I got up to prepare the wine in a post first act-y glow. The woman shifted over to me, attracted obviously to my youthful optimism, and perhaps slightly more to the bottle of red wine in my hand. I poured her a glass and smiled, 'are you enjoying the play?'
She looked at me as if I'd asked a ridiculous question.
'Do you know how many of them I can hear?'
She was on the front row. The actors were maybe 2 and a half feet away from her.
'erm... well, i, i dont know-'
'Two. Two of them. The rest of them, they dont know how to speak.'
'oh. Oh dear.'
'Can you hear them?' She looked at me in a way that told me I could definately not.
'Well, I... I can hear most of it, I mean..' I paused, I wasn't sure how to say politely that the the only bits I couldn't hear were the silent bits.
'HA!' she motioned for some more wine, 'They don't know how to BREATHE. My son,' she looked up again, 'he's an actor,'
'yes you menti-'
he's an ACTOR, and do you know, he was Puck once. Puck. In Midsummer.'
I fought back the automatic catty Tash response of 'oh really? Summer is lovely to perform in! Which play was it?' and instead said 'oh yes?'
'yes. Puck. One of my favourite plays, you know. And there was one scene, in rehearsal, where he FLEW, Flew across the stage and when he landed, he couldn't say a single word, he was so out of breath'.
It occured to me to ask how she knew this, if it was in rehearsal, but she was way ahead of me,
'I like to go to his rehearsals, you know. To check he is breathing properly, to make sure everything can be heard.'
I felt a sudden deep pity for this poor boy, and wondered whether acting was what he always dreamt of, whether in fact he'd dreamt of being a train driver, but his mother had assured him that the breathing for it was just far too difficult for him to even attempt... realising I was in a bit of a self haze, I hastily asked,
'oh well, erm, what scene was it?'
'what?'
'whats scene was the scene where he had to fly?'
She waved away the question with disgust
'Oh I don't know what it was! But he couldn't say a word. But I helped him. And by the peformance, every word, EVERY word was perfect.' She beamed, and took some more wine. 'But THIS show, i mean, can't hear a thing. Terrible breathing, you know.'
'Oh, well, I'm so sorry, maybe I could have a word with the director-'
She gulped and shook her head, 'Oh i already found her. She knows. I've told her to tell her cast for the second act.'
Its nice to be a helpful audience member. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-manager girl give me the signal that the second act was starting. Determined not to be caught grinning and nodding into the darkness this time around, I began to usher this pillar of womanhood back to her seat. 'You know what the problem is today with people seeing theatre?' I assured her I didn't, as I pointed quite firmly at the seat in front of me. ''the problem is,' she plonked herself back down into the chair and stared up at me with finality, waving her empty glass into the space around her, 'audiences, are getting ignorent-er and ignorent-er'.
On this bombshell, and with the lights dimming, all i could do was nod and grin (dammit), the much louder second act began, and all thoughts beyond that of non musical little shop of horrors floated away from me. Until now of course. What a night. I also saw a very cool looking man with dredlocks walk into a pillar on the way back, but frankly I'm a little tired, my brain is full, and I need a wee. And nothing can tear me from that call, I'm afraid. Safe to say, it was amusing in the most basic and shameful way possible. And with that, I will leave you. goodnight, and try to keep breathing. Apparently its tricker than it looks.
Right. So theatre. Tonight I was working at my venue (its the chocolate factory in queens, if any of you are popping by later), sort of ish co-managing the evening's reading of a play called 'The Verge'., By co-managing, I obviously mean that me and another girl got wine ready for the intermission, I gave some bits of paper to the very serious girl behind the box office, and I sort of looked at all the actors in a superior and very British type way. Of course, when I talk about this to future employers, the story may be a little different. Possibly may involve me wearing a suit and putting out a fire, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it eh?
Now. 'The Verge'. I'd had a little look at the blurby blurb, and it said something about it being about a woman who makes genetically modified frighening plants in a greenhouse. Oh God. And it was a reading. There wasn't even going to be any shiny movement. As I took my seat, I was imagining the next two hours to consist of a very wordy version of The Little Shop Of Horrors, with all the songs and dancemoves edited out to get to the real crux of the tragic tale. I'd nicked a glass of intermission wine(/'I'd check all the fire exits and safety prosecures'-as this tale goes on record) and was prepared to drink away the proceeding time with the logic that, if they weren't going to move, my wine could at least make them wobble. I took a sip as the lights came up. A man stood, walked to a music stand, at procceeded to talk in the WORST fake British accent possibly I have ever heard. Why is it that Americans 'doing' British seem to think that by making their voices higher, gayer and clipped to the point where you can barely make out their words, they magically transform into someone from Surrey? I took another glug. Oh lord, two hours, I thought.
However. Then something very magical happened. He sat down (that wasn't the magical thing, but it was a bloody relief all the same), a new character arrived and suddenly, I was gone. The play was brilliant. In the simplest terms, it was a very wordy-my favourite type-play about a woman who wants so desperately and so deeply, to stretch for possibilities outside what exists, that the prospect of actually achieving what she wants the most ends up disgusting her. In becoming achievable, they lose any semblance of wonder, and trapped in this paradox she ultimately falls apart. This kind of thinking gets me going in a big way. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was bizarre, and it was funny. The Verge. I've never heard of it, but then, I've heard of about 7 plays- 6 of which I've been in and the other is 'Hedda Gabbler'. Maybe you have. But I bloody bloody freakin loved it. I was utterly absorbed, and these actors were reading from scripts, dressed in jeans and stuttering occasionally over their words. It just didn't matter. I don't even know who wrote it. I could literally just google it now but dammit i'm in a flow and nothing short of a massive need for a wee could stop me now.
So anyway, the point is, it was lovely to be absorbed in something for a change. AND, it was even lovelier to watch something knowing that I didn't know anyone in it, that I hadn't paid, that there was no pressure for it to be good or for me to say interesting and intelligent things about it afterwards. I mean, who was I going to discuss it with? The man next to me on the subway home was a bit too fast asleep to begin a conversation. But it was nice. Refreshing, and kind of surprising.
OH though. There was a BRILLIANT old woman who came to see it, old and grouchy in a 'help me up the stairs for god sake' kind of way. She had never seen anything by the company before, a flyer had just come through her letterbox and on a whim she had decided to come. Which is amazing, and made all of us working there want to be very nice to her in a kind of 'oh look how justififed your decision was' kind of way. The director of the company even, the 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' gentleman behind it all even paid her special attention, which was no small achievement. I knew she was brilliant the moment she turned to David (the director) and said 'So. 'Target Margin'. Strange name for a company. Do you have any link with the 'Target' Stores.' Now the momentary disgust and panic on David's face, immediately washed away by a jovial and highly amused smile was a thing of beauty. You have to understand. For him, that question was basically the equivelant of someone asking Peter Brook whether the 'S' in RSC was the same one as in DFS. It was brilliant. I decided to usher her swiftly to her seat, where she muttered that the actors 'better speak up' as she could tell that 'the acoustics in this room are awful'. She stole a quick look at me as if i was going to have a small heart attack at her using the word 'acoustics', and then added 'my son, is an actor.'
'Oh,' I said politely, 'thats amazing!'
'A BRILLIANT actor', she said fiercely.
I wondered that I had accidently said 'yeah but he's shit', instead of 'that's amazing'.
'I often help him with his voicework.'
'mmmm' I said, 'yes well we're about to start I think so-'
'Its all about the WORDS you see. If you can't here the words-
the light started to go down
'yes, yes, but I think the reading is about to
'You don't mess with Shakespeare! Do you know what I'm telling you?'
I nodded in a very silent way, and smiled a smile that I hoped signified 'that is all fascinating, I do hope to continue this later, but now is the time for being quiet, yes?' it was quite a lot for a smile to achieve in ever approaching darkness, but still.
So the first act happened, and I got up to prepare the wine in a post first act-y glow. The woman shifted over to me, attracted obviously to my youthful optimism, and perhaps slightly more to the bottle of red wine in my hand. I poured her a glass and smiled, 'are you enjoying the play?'
She looked at me as if I'd asked a ridiculous question.
'Do you know how many of them I can hear?'
She was on the front row. The actors were maybe 2 and a half feet away from her.
'erm... well, i, i dont know-'
'Two. Two of them. The rest of them, they dont know how to speak.'
'oh. Oh dear.'
'Can you hear them?' She looked at me in a way that told me I could definately not.
'Well, I... I can hear most of it, I mean..' I paused, I wasn't sure how to say politely that the the only bits I couldn't hear were the silent bits.
'HA!' she motioned for some more wine, 'They don't know how to BREATHE. My son,' she looked up again, 'he's an actor,'
'yes you menti-'
he's an ACTOR, and do you know, he was Puck once. Puck. In Midsummer.'
I fought back the automatic catty Tash response of 'oh really? Summer is lovely to perform in! Which play was it?' and instead said 'oh yes?'
'yes. Puck. One of my favourite plays, you know. And there was one scene, in rehearsal, where he FLEW, Flew across the stage and when he landed, he couldn't say a single word, he was so out of breath'.
It occured to me to ask how she knew this, if it was in rehearsal, but she was way ahead of me,
'I like to go to his rehearsals, you know. To check he is breathing properly, to make sure everything can be heard.'
I felt a sudden deep pity for this poor boy, and wondered whether acting was what he always dreamt of, whether in fact he'd dreamt of being a train driver, but his mother had assured him that the breathing for it was just far too difficult for him to even attempt... realising I was in a bit of a self haze, I hastily asked,
'oh well, erm, what scene was it?'
'what?'
'whats scene was the scene where he had to fly?'
She waved away the question with disgust
'Oh I don't know what it was! But he couldn't say a word. But I helped him. And by the peformance, every word, EVERY word was perfect.' She beamed, and took some more wine. 'But THIS show, i mean, can't hear a thing. Terrible breathing, you know.'
'Oh, well, I'm so sorry, maybe I could have a word with the director-'
She gulped and shook her head, 'Oh i already found her. She knows. I've told her to tell her cast for the second act.'
Its nice to be a helpful audience member. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-manager girl give me the signal that the second act was starting. Determined not to be caught grinning and nodding into the darkness this time around, I began to usher this pillar of womanhood back to her seat. 'You know what the problem is today with people seeing theatre?' I assured her I didn't, as I pointed quite firmly at the seat in front of me. ''the problem is,' she plonked herself back down into the chair and stared up at me with finality, waving her empty glass into the space around her, 'audiences, are getting ignorent-er and ignorent-er'.
On this bombshell, and with the lights dimming, all i could do was nod and grin (dammit), the much louder second act began, and all thoughts beyond that of non musical little shop of horrors floated away from me. Until now of course. What a night. I also saw a very cool looking man with dredlocks walk into a pillar on the way back, but frankly I'm a little tired, my brain is full, and I need a wee. And nothing can tear me from that call, I'm afraid. Safe to say, it was amusing in the most basic and shameful way possible. And with that, I will leave you. goodnight, and try to keep breathing. Apparently its tricker than it looks.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The wonder of the theatre
Hello again, my little pyjamas, ohhh ho ho ho have I got a yarn to spin for you this evening. Climb up on daddy's knee and lets have some fun (you are all sick).
Tonight, I went to the theatre (actually I went to the 'theater', but in many ways they are very similar.) I, for 10 of my sweet American shiny-well, papery, at least- dollars, got to see two hours of literally the most bizarre, face scrunching, armpit moistening spectacles I have ever seen in my life. I know you all watched eurovision, so I may have somethingto compete with on the madness front, but really, I'm looking at my hand here, and I'm feelin so damn good I'm reaching for the gold chips. (If by the end of the metaphor you thought I was talking about food, i have, yet again, failed.)
So, to brief you on the venue, it was like quite a scummy- but not impressively scummy- C venue, for those who are noble of the Ed Fringe walk of life. For those who are not, tough. Its late, and I can't be bothered to come up with another comparison. Whatever the words 'C Venue' mean to you now, just picture that in your mind as we do this. If you have dolphins involved, take them out. There are none.
Bearing in mind, as we now all are, the physical limits of the humble lower class C venue, I was alarmed, but rather intriuged, to see a trapeze slowly lower itself down into the tiny black space. Ahh, I thought fondly, the trapeze. At its most impressive when freed of that horribly distracting swinging business.
I was interrupted in my smuggy smug smug train of thought by the sudden appearance of a girl dressed as a garden gnome, with full silvery beard. She climbed onto the trapeze. And then began 'Slowish Vertical Dance of the Incongruent Gnome' (ok fine it was actually called 'Eye of the Tiger', but that makes SO little sense it almost makes me angry, so I'm pretending that the title at least offered me a consoling hand of reason as I slid into a ever deepening pit of baffling.)
The gnome sort of stood on the ropes a bit, stroked her beard quite a lot, and then skipped away, leaving me wondering if she had ever actually been there. Maybe that was the point. (That wasn't the point). As I was trying to process that, a hopelessly eager stagehand (I BET she had a saftey gnome costume and all the moves practised ready to go should gnome 1 sprain her beard.) moved across a projector screen, and a short film, poignantly entitled "bricks" began. The programme had stated proudly that this film had been entirely filmed 'using the Sony Ericsson 810i cell phone'. I quickly realised that I had misread the intention, and what I thought was pride was actually apologetic. I'm pretty sure someone working in a building site had accidently left his phone on film mode, recorded about 8 minutes of mainly wall but with some flashes of sawdust being dropped onto the floor, and had then pressed the 'send to brooklyn theatre festival' button than characterises the 810i. Truly, that is the only logical explanation.
-You see, at this point I was very happy, as I could find perfectly good reasons for how any madness had occurred. But soon, there was no consolation to be found.
I could talk about this event all night, I could tell you tales of fruit basket guarding lizards, of kitchen sink lesbi-dramas that erupt alarmingly into french song, of significantly emotional 'Football' players and their slow motion smoking habits. But I'd feel like I'd be fighting a losing battle. It'd be that bit in tetris where you do the one massive fuck up with the long one, and after that, no matter how you try and keep up, you know in your heart its just not the same. You know when you try to explain to your loved one just WHY the dream with the single potato and the Dove shower gel was so damn frightening, but it just doesn't translate? Yeah. Like that.
So, I will only talk about one more 'piece', though I could go on, I won't, because you're all heartless bastards and don't care that much. But I just want to grant you a small peek into 'Submitted to Pfizer for approval: Dilation #26', a 20 minute exploration of the 'terrifying possibilities' that xray vision could bring for the subject granted it (by eyedrops, somehow. It's theatre! Science has no business here!). I can't really go into the details (no really, I just don't think I have the word skill for it), but safe to say, it turns out that xray vision exploration ends with a half naked woman wrestling a sinister giant eyeball on the floor, while a man in a coat slowly and carefully shreds line drawings of small girls riding horses. I think we all could have come to that conlusion ourselves. Oh God. The massive eyeball. You don't understand. the woman was WRESTLING A MASSIVE EYEBALL. To the soundtrack of Warwick University's production of Macbeth-which I will not go into now. My mind is disturbed enough. I need to go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up it will all have been a dream, and my not being able to explain it properly will seem correct and just.
On another note, I sat next to a chatty-ish man in the theatre, which is fine by me, but I am beginning to get bored. bored of my story. 'oh I'm here doing from england..6 weeks blah blah blah', if ONE more person utters the words 'oh really, what kind of internship?' I think I'm going to eat their hands. This boredom came to a head this evening, when this man asked the question that immediately puts anyone out of the conversation game with me. The question 'So, like, which part of London are you from?' ARGH. I think something went, some fuse, and before I knew what happened, I found myself saying 'Essex, actually. But I live in New York now, been living here for six months'. That's fine, thats ok, I can blag that. He nods. 'oh ok cool. So what do you do?'
Now come on brain, just say you're doing an internship, its ok, just get it over with
'I write for a magazine.'
Thats not really true is it Tash?
'Oh yeah? whats the magazine?'
Whats the magazine, tash?
'Its a theatre magazine..
ok... ok we can handle that-
'theatre.. and cheese'
WHY DID I ADD CHEESE? WHY COULDN'T I BE CONTENT? I am such a twat sometimes I swear to god, i'm so glad I don't know me. You people are idiots.
'Really? Theatre and cheese? Thats AWESOME!'
'Yeah, thanks.'
'So, whats it called?'
Ah. Now. Luckily for me I thrive under pressure, and I have to admit, I was pretty proud of what came out next,
'Its called Ham..let. And cheese- er Sandwich. Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich.'
'Thats AWESOME'
'yes. yes it is.'
Now the sad thing about having a conversation in a theater is that its not like having a conversation in a bar. You can't really subtley glide away in a theatre seat. You can't really go to the toilet and never come back. I've paid my ticket. I'm staying. And now, I'm stuck making small cheese talk to a man I don't know. I was VERY LUCKY in that he obviously knew nothing about either topics, as my theatre knowledge might just have kept me afloat, my cheese knowledge doesn't go beyond 'cheddar is good on crackers' and 'philapdelphia is dead soft'. Sigh. He promised to check out our online publication when he got back. http://www.hamletandcheesesandwich.org/ Maybe it does exist. If not, I hope someday it will.
Thankfully though, there was a conveniently placed eye-wrestling nakeder to attract his attention, and to focus all the possible questions of the universe upon.
And so at the end of the show I managed to slip away,back into my shameful and shadowy non-magaziney darkness, back to my tired old internship, leaving him in suspence, as suspended as a grome-ridden trapeze. Oh lord. I have insane enough dreams when I've been sat at a computer all day long. God only knows whats going to happen tonight.
Tonight, I went to the theatre (actually I went to the 'theater', but in many ways they are very similar.) I, for 10 of my sweet American shiny-well, papery, at least- dollars, got to see two hours of literally the most bizarre, face scrunching, armpit moistening spectacles I have ever seen in my life. I know you all watched eurovision, so I may have somethingto compete with on the madness front, but really, I'm looking at my hand here, and I'm feelin so damn good I'm reaching for the gold chips. (If by the end of the metaphor you thought I was talking about food, i have, yet again, failed.)
So, to brief you on the venue, it was like quite a scummy- but not impressively scummy- C venue, for those who are noble of the Ed Fringe walk of life. For those who are not, tough. Its late, and I can't be bothered to come up with another comparison. Whatever the words 'C Venue' mean to you now, just picture that in your mind as we do this. If you have dolphins involved, take them out. There are none.
Bearing in mind, as we now all are, the physical limits of the humble lower class C venue, I was alarmed, but rather intriuged, to see a trapeze slowly lower itself down into the tiny black space. Ahh, I thought fondly, the trapeze. At its most impressive when freed of that horribly distracting swinging business.
I was interrupted in my smuggy smug smug train of thought by the sudden appearance of a girl dressed as a garden gnome, with full silvery beard. She climbed onto the trapeze. And then began 'Slowish Vertical Dance of the Incongruent Gnome' (ok fine it was actually called 'Eye of the Tiger', but that makes SO little sense it almost makes me angry, so I'm pretending that the title at least offered me a consoling hand of reason as I slid into a ever deepening pit of baffling.)
The gnome sort of stood on the ropes a bit, stroked her beard quite a lot, and then skipped away, leaving me wondering if she had ever actually been there. Maybe that was the point. (That wasn't the point). As I was trying to process that, a hopelessly eager stagehand (I BET she had a saftey gnome costume and all the moves practised ready to go should gnome 1 sprain her beard.) moved across a projector screen, and a short film, poignantly entitled "bricks" began. The programme had stated proudly that this film had been entirely filmed 'using the Sony Ericsson 810i cell phone'. I quickly realised that I had misread the intention, and what I thought was pride was actually apologetic. I'm pretty sure someone working in a building site had accidently left his phone on film mode, recorded about 8 minutes of mainly wall but with some flashes of sawdust being dropped onto the floor, and had then pressed the 'send to brooklyn theatre festival' button than characterises the 810i. Truly, that is the only logical explanation.
-You see, at this point I was very happy, as I could find perfectly good reasons for how any madness had occurred. But soon, there was no consolation to be found.
I could talk about this event all night, I could tell you tales of fruit basket guarding lizards, of kitchen sink lesbi-dramas that erupt alarmingly into french song, of significantly emotional 'Football' players and their slow motion smoking habits. But I'd feel like I'd be fighting a losing battle. It'd be that bit in tetris where you do the one massive fuck up with the long one, and after that, no matter how you try and keep up, you know in your heart its just not the same. You know when you try to explain to your loved one just WHY the dream with the single potato and the Dove shower gel was so damn frightening, but it just doesn't translate? Yeah. Like that.
So, I will only talk about one more 'piece', though I could go on, I won't, because you're all heartless bastards and don't care that much. But I just want to grant you a small peek into 'Submitted to Pfizer for approval: Dilation #26', a 20 minute exploration of the 'terrifying possibilities' that xray vision could bring for the subject granted it (by eyedrops, somehow. It's theatre! Science has no business here!). I can't really go into the details (no really, I just don't think I have the word skill for it), but safe to say, it turns out that xray vision exploration ends with a half naked woman wrestling a sinister giant eyeball on the floor, while a man in a coat slowly and carefully shreds line drawings of small girls riding horses. I think we all could have come to that conlusion ourselves. Oh God. The massive eyeball. You don't understand. the woman was WRESTLING A MASSIVE EYEBALL. To the soundtrack of Warwick University's production of Macbeth-which I will not go into now. My mind is disturbed enough. I need to go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up it will all have been a dream, and my not being able to explain it properly will seem correct and just.
On another note, I sat next to a chatty-ish man in the theatre, which is fine by me, but I am beginning to get bored. bored of my story. 'oh I'm here doing from england..6 weeks blah blah blah', if ONE more person utters the words 'oh really, what kind of internship?' I think I'm going to eat their hands. This boredom came to a head this evening, when this man asked the question that immediately puts anyone out of the conversation game with me. The question 'So, like, which part of London are you from?' ARGH. I think something went, some fuse, and before I knew what happened, I found myself saying 'Essex, actually. But I live in New York now, been living here for six months'. That's fine, thats ok, I can blag that. He nods. 'oh ok cool. So what do you do?'
Now come on brain, just say you're doing an internship, its ok, just get it over with
'I write for a magazine.'
Thats not really true is it Tash?
'Oh yeah? whats the magazine?'
Whats the magazine, tash?
'Its a theatre magazine..
ok... ok we can handle that-
'theatre.. and cheese'
WHY DID I ADD CHEESE? WHY COULDN'T I BE CONTENT? I am such a twat sometimes I swear to god, i'm so glad I don't know me. You people are idiots.
'Really? Theatre and cheese? Thats AWESOME!'
'Yeah, thanks.'
'So, whats it called?'
Ah. Now. Luckily for me I thrive under pressure, and I have to admit, I was pretty proud of what came out next,
'Its called Ham..let. And cheese- er Sandwich. Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich.'
'Thats AWESOME'
'yes. yes it is.'
Now the sad thing about having a conversation in a theater is that its not like having a conversation in a bar. You can't really subtley glide away in a theatre seat. You can't really go to the toilet and never come back. I've paid my ticket. I'm staying. And now, I'm stuck making small cheese talk to a man I don't know. I was VERY LUCKY in that he obviously knew nothing about either topics, as my theatre knowledge might just have kept me afloat, my cheese knowledge doesn't go beyond 'cheddar is good on crackers' and 'philapdelphia is dead soft'. Sigh. He promised to check out our online publication when he got back. http://www.hamletandcheesesandwich.org/ Maybe it does exist. If not, I hope someday it will.
Thankfully though, there was a conveniently placed eye-wrestling nakeder to attract his attention, and to focus all the possible questions of the universe upon.
And so at the end of the show I managed to slip away,back into my shameful and shadowy non-magaziney darkness, back to my tired old internship, leaving him in suspence, as suspended as a grome-ridden trapeze. Oh lord. I have insane enough dreams when I've been sat at a computer all day long. God only knows whats going to happen tonight.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A darkened dark day this day is. And dark.
Quite an interesting day today. Quite an interesting one. I spent half the day realising that I in fact loath myself and all I stand for, and the other half realising that everything I ever secretly hoped for is in fact, a big pile of cat sick. And I burnt my tongue on some tea. Everything I have every believed in has betrayed me.
Actually I think I've done rather well, apparently usually it takes a good few years of living in the golden city to become empty, cynical and blackened like the inside of a lung in a scary 'don't fucking smoke you wankers' advert. But hey, I've always been ahead of the curve soul-blackening wise, so perhaps this was all pretty inevitable. Who knows. Who even cares anymore? I don't. Before I go and drown myself in a river (and by river, I mean the urine of the nearest prostitute, there are no rivers here. Only death. Or anywhere, for that matter. I'm pretty sure they don't exist) I better tell you of the day I have had, so that when the police try to drag Adrian away, you at least can force the cuffs of his furry claws and say no! Twas not the squirrel! the squirrel did no wrong!
So, I spent this morning on a set, helping to dress it, build two dressing rooms and generally move heavyish things from inconvenient areas to areas that will be much more inconvenient tomorrow, leaving me with a job for the morning. Super. Now, I realise that I have the physique of an undernourished bicycle, but dammit, I do enjoy playing with things that make noise, and a staple gun possibly makes one of the most satisfying noises known to man. I spent the day in relative happiness, and satisfaction, much like Danny champion of the world right at the beginning, before the unfortunate poachy bit, when he doesn't know much as he's five years old, but give the lad a drill, everyone's a winner. I was wearing jeans, I knew and understood words like 'rigging' and 'cables', and any words I didn't know tech-wise I announced fairly firmly that 'we don't call it that in England'. It was the perfect crime. So, i hear all (7) of you cry as one voice, why the heartache? Why the loathing? Why the overly indulgent dramatic lead up to the next sentence?
Well. The problem was. There were actors in the room. Actors, I have discovered this day, are bastards. But really though. The first problem came when we were fitting up the dressing room, creating tableclothes, chairs and even mirrors out of gaffer tape alone, and looking at the Actor's Equity rules we discovered that every actor is required to have 30 inches of mirror space each, otherwise they will turn into small beetles and eat through the very wood they are standing on. There wasn't really enough room for that. 25 inches each, perhaps. But to create that kind of distance would require someone (me) to move a LOT of dance-tile flooing type entities, to another room and I knew by now that all THAT meant would be that I'd have to move them somewhere else tomorrow. I wasn't up for it. It didn't matter. Actors have massive faces, and those faces need mirrors. Never mind, I thought, as I created a tractor out of gaffer to lift the mats, rules are rules, no one's fault.
OH also, HA, the equity rules also state that actors are required a small bed to have a nap on, should they get tired of saying lines standing up for an hour, perhaps even an hour and a half. I am an actor, I've done it, we dont need beds. We really don't. We need a good right hook to the face occasionally, but I checked in the rules and that wasn't really mentioned. If we need a sleep, we do what everyone else does, and have a cheeky sleep on the pavement. Helen Mirren is famous for it, and look how well she's done for herself.
Still, I persevered hopefully in my small actor's brain, this is no one persons fault. Rules are ridiculous. Thats the way life is! Actors themselves now, we are good people! Good honest folk who just want to make lovely things happen! Yeah. It turns out that that is all true, and it is possibly the most annoying thing in the world. The actors swanned in, much like I had swanned in about 5 hours earlier, but wearing the scarf I had decided against, in case it made me look a but too much like an actor. There, they sat on the chairs, laughed a bit, drank lattes and looked at a piece of paper together. For about 3 hours. There was no rehearsal, i heard snippets of words like 'meeting' and 'a informal quick chat' and 'hummus'- all words I was all too familiar with. Why were they here? Why were they in this room? this room where I needed to get behind them to stable gun some blacks to a bit of two by four (ohh yeah staple gun funsies, fuck you shakespeare, this was my life now). They. Were. So. Annoying. Annoying in the way only those who are exactly like you can be annoying. I felt every semblence of thespy love slip slowly away. I thought back to every show that I had sat there and watched Lynchy, Griggs, Rhys and everyone else who will never read this so its fine- sat there and watched them do stuff. Stuff I assumed was too complicated, too techy and, frankly, well, a bit too damn tiring to do. So I sat and had an informal meeting with my bit of paper. Maybe run to costies to get some pita bread and a babybel. Oh God. The sins of my formal self.
One of them, a girl possibly even more ethiopian of the wrists than I was, offered to go and get... something... her voice trailed off as she realised she had no idea what she was trying to offer, and I felt a twang of recognition, of the thesp so tangled in her own scarf she can't really do anything to help, even though at least she damn well tried. I shhhed her, and offered her a small hand mirror by way of consoltaion. She seemed happy enough with the trade off.
So, after that morning of disconcerting reflection, I thoughtfully returned to the my theatre's offices, after re-moving all of the dance mats after someone discovered they were in a very inconvenient position.
Now. To anyone who ever thought being a Thesp was far easier than its worth- including myself after the morning of self destruction- this next bit will probably be very satisfying. But for me, it was simply further proof that all of us poor poor acty types were just like a group of cockroaches being chased towards a fire. Hated by all, and ultimately doomed. I spent the afternoon filing. Not very dramatic, I'll give you, but I what I was filing was headshots of actors who had auditioned or applied to audition to the company, and the criteria to file them was the following-
Young White Female
Old White Female
Young Asian Female
Old Asian Female
Young Black Female
Old Black Female.
Young Hispanic Female
Old Hispanic Female.
And that was it. No matter who you are ladies, you will fit into one of these easy catagories. Simple! And the ones where you really can't tell from a photo? Just shove em in anywhere! Eyes a bit slanty? Could be from the sunlight, but just shaft her into Asian- is that a wrinkle I see? SHE'S OLD! This woman, well can't really tell her age but she's wearing a polo neck, probably hiding some tendons eh? OLD AND BLACK she is, wahey!
I couldn't help feel the dead eyes of the shiny photo face actors judge me as I was the most racist I have ever been, but I was assured that this was just how the business was.
But, that wasn't even the worst bit. The worst bit was that every photo also contained a 'Resume', and almost all of them also had a letter, stating their desire to come and audition for David, the Director of the company. And oh, they were some sad sad letters.
'David! It was so great to meet you in that alleyway once, 7 years ago! You're right, it was sunny that day! Anyway, I hear you're doing Measure for Measure, and strangely enough, my mom actually wrote that so...'
'Dear David- its possible you are the most amazing person I have ever met. I saw you buying a cake once, and it was so beautiful I had a small seizure. I'm Ok now though. So OK, in fact, that I thought I'd contact you about...'
'David-Weird coincidence, my name is also David! David, short for Esmerelda. Please let me audition for you David. Please. All the Davids together, eh? '
So Actors, if any of you are out there reading this, welcome to your future. A future where a short sighted foreign chick on a six week internship can decide your ethnic origin, whether you are old or young, and hey, you only get that privilege if you write a letter so full of your own juices that the ink actually drips off the page and burns the skin upon contact. Dark times ahead my friends. Dark dark times.
In lighter news the tea thing was probably my own fault, rather than that of the dark forces of destiny. I gulped in a post limber-lugging manic thirst. Schoolboy error. My tongue feels fine now though, thanks for asking. Perhaps I should be a professional drinker? I hear most people who do that a lot end up on a good road. Oh God. That's it. I'm officially in training, I'm off for a strong Vodka and some toast. The hummus will call, but I will not answer dammit. I will not answer.
Actually I think I've done rather well, apparently usually it takes a good few years of living in the golden city to become empty, cynical and blackened like the inside of a lung in a scary 'don't fucking smoke you wankers' advert. But hey, I've always been ahead of the curve soul-blackening wise, so perhaps this was all pretty inevitable. Who knows. Who even cares anymore? I don't. Before I go and drown myself in a river (and by river, I mean the urine of the nearest prostitute, there are no rivers here. Only death. Or anywhere, for that matter. I'm pretty sure they don't exist) I better tell you of the day I have had, so that when the police try to drag Adrian away, you at least can force the cuffs of his furry claws and say no! Twas not the squirrel! the squirrel did no wrong!
So, I spent this morning on a set, helping to dress it, build two dressing rooms and generally move heavyish things from inconvenient areas to areas that will be much more inconvenient tomorrow, leaving me with a job for the morning. Super. Now, I realise that I have the physique of an undernourished bicycle, but dammit, I do enjoy playing with things that make noise, and a staple gun possibly makes one of the most satisfying noises known to man. I spent the day in relative happiness, and satisfaction, much like Danny champion of the world right at the beginning, before the unfortunate poachy bit, when he doesn't know much as he's five years old, but give the lad a drill, everyone's a winner. I was wearing jeans, I knew and understood words like 'rigging' and 'cables', and any words I didn't know tech-wise I announced fairly firmly that 'we don't call it that in England'. It was the perfect crime. So, i hear all (7) of you cry as one voice, why the heartache? Why the loathing? Why the overly indulgent dramatic lead up to the next sentence?
Well. The problem was. There were actors in the room. Actors, I have discovered this day, are bastards. But really though. The first problem came when we were fitting up the dressing room, creating tableclothes, chairs and even mirrors out of gaffer tape alone, and looking at the Actor's Equity rules we discovered that every actor is required to have 30 inches of mirror space each, otherwise they will turn into small beetles and eat through the very wood they are standing on. There wasn't really enough room for that. 25 inches each, perhaps. But to create that kind of distance would require someone (me) to move a LOT of dance-tile flooing type entities, to another room and I knew by now that all THAT meant would be that I'd have to move them somewhere else tomorrow. I wasn't up for it. It didn't matter. Actors have massive faces, and those faces need mirrors. Never mind, I thought, as I created a tractor out of gaffer to lift the mats, rules are rules, no one's fault.
OH also, HA, the equity rules also state that actors are required a small bed to have a nap on, should they get tired of saying lines standing up for an hour, perhaps even an hour and a half. I am an actor, I've done it, we dont need beds. We really don't. We need a good right hook to the face occasionally, but I checked in the rules and that wasn't really mentioned. If we need a sleep, we do what everyone else does, and have a cheeky sleep on the pavement. Helen Mirren is famous for it, and look how well she's done for herself.
Still, I persevered hopefully in my small actor's brain, this is no one persons fault. Rules are ridiculous. Thats the way life is! Actors themselves now, we are good people! Good honest folk who just want to make lovely things happen! Yeah. It turns out that that is all true, and it is possibly the most annoying thing in the world. The actors swanned in, much like I had swanned in about 5 hours earlier, but wearing the scarf I had decided against, in case it made me look a but too much like an actor. There, they sat on the chairs, laughed a bit, drank lattes and looked at a piece of paper together. For about 3 hours. There was no rehearsal, i heard snippets of words like 'meeting' and 'a informal quick chat' and 'hummus'- all words I was all too familiar with. Why were they here? Why were they in this room? this room where I needed to get behind them to stable gun some blacks to a bit of two by four (ohh yeah staple gun funsies, fuck you shakespeare, this was my life now). They. Were. So. Annoying. Annoying in the way only those who are exactly like you can be annoying. I felt every semblence of thespy love slip slowly away. I thought back to every show that I had sat there and watched Lynchy, Griggs, Rhys and everyone else who will never read this so its fine- sat there and watched them do stuff. Stuff I assumed was too complicated, too techy and, frankly, well, a bit too damn tiring to do. So I sat and had an informal meeting with my bit of paper. Maybe run to costies to get some pita bread and a babybel. Oh God. The sins of my formal self.
One of them, a girl possibly even more ethiopian of the wrists than I was, offered to go and get... something... her voice trailed off as she realised she had no idea what she was trying to offer, and I felt a twang of recognition, of the thesp so tangled in her own scarf she can't really do anything to help, even though at least she damn well tried. I shhhed her, and offered her a small hand mirror by way of consoltaion. She seemed happy enough with the trade off.
So, after that morning of disconcerting reflection, I thoughtfully returned to the my theatre's offices, after re-moving all of the dance mats after someone discovered they were in a very inconvenient position.
Now. To anyone who ever thought being a Thesp was far easier than its worth- including myself after the morning of self destruction- this next bit will probably be very satisfying. But for me, it was simply further proof that all of us poor poor acty types were just like a group of cockroaches being chased towards a fire. Hated by all, and ultimately doomed. I spent the afternoon filing. Not very dramatic, I'll give you, but I what I was filing was headshots of actors who had auditioned or applied to audition to the company, and the criteria to file them was the following-
Young White Female
Old White Female
Young Asian Female
Old Asian Female
Young Black Female
Old Black Female.
Young Hispanic Female
Old Hispanic Female.
And that was it. No matter who you are ladies, you will fit into one of these easy catagories. Simple! And the ones where you really can't tell from a photo? Just shove em in anywhere! Eyes a bit slanty? Could be from the sunlight, but just shaft her into Asian- is that a wrinkle I see? SHE'S OLD! This woman, well can't really tell her age but she's wearing a polo neck, probably hiding some tendons eh? OLD AND BLACK she is, wahey!
I couldn't help feel the dead eyes of the shiny photo face actors judge me as I was the most racist I have ever been, but I was assured that this was just how the business was.
But, that wasn't even the worst bit. The worst bit was that every photo also contained a 'Resume', and almost all of them also had a letter, stating their desire to come and audition for David, the Director of the company. And oh, they were some sad sad letters.
'David! It was so great to meet you in that alleyway once, 7 years ago! You're right, it was sunny that day! Anyway, I hear you're doing Measure for Measure, and strangely enough, my mom actually wrote that so...'
'Dear David- its possible you are the most amazing person I have ever met. I saw you buying a cake once, and it was so beautiful I had a small seizure. I'm Ok now though. So OK, in fact, that I thought I'd contact you about...'
'David-Weird coincidence, my name is also David! David, short for Esmerelda. Please let me audition for you David. Please. All the Davids together, eh? '
So Actors, if any of you are out there reading this, welcome to your future. A future where a short sighted foreign chick on a six week internship can decide your ethnic origin, whether you are old or young, and hey, you only get that privilege if you write a letter so full of your own juices that the ink actually drips off the page and burns the skin upon contact. Dark times ahead my friends. Dark dark times.
In lighter news the tea thing was probably my own fault, rather than that of the dark forces of destiny. I gulped in a post limber-lugging manic thirst. Schoolboy error. My tongue feels fine now though, thanks for asking. Perhaps I should be a professional drinker? I hear most people who do that a lot end up on a good road. Oh God. That's it. I'm officially in training, I'm off for a strong Vodka and some toast. The hummus will call, but I will not answer dammit. I will not answer.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
How to meet people.
Ok. well, this is going to be a pretty short one, for reasons that will become painfully apparent in just moments from now.
Tonight, I went to see my friend's improv show, (a friend! a friend!...oh god, what have i become..) How exciting for me. It was in the back room of a bar, and he was running a little late to meet me, which meant that I was on my own at the bar, for 20 minutes or so. I think we all know by now that this idea doesn't really faze me, if anything, in the last two weeks I have become a champion lonely bar sitter. My only problem is that I am perhaps too good. Looking around for amusement I noticed that all three guys sat next to me had bar mats on top of their beers. Intriuging, my brain thought, why would this be? I poked the nearest one, and asked the the fairly straightforward question, 'Hello, hi. So, why do you guys have beermats on top of your beers?'
Now. The answer the guy gave was entirely normal. He was clearly a very normal nice person, who had come to a bar to watch the game. He told me, in all politeness, it was because that way, the waitress would know not to take them away if they left the table. Sadly, I wasn't really listening, as my mind had already jumped to what I assumed was the natural conclusion, and that, frankly, was all I needed to know. So instead of say, 'ok cool, well thanks a lot!' I nodded my head thoughtfully, and replied 'yeah yeah, and avoiding date rape, I suppose.'
I don't know if you've ever gotten the word 'rape' into the second sentence of an off the cuff conversation, but apparently that was a bit weird. Unfortunately, I had nowhere to go but the inner recesses of my brain, and seeing that my statement had sunk like Aladdin in that bit where he sinks, down I was going. 'haha' I said, realising that I had to say something followin the word 'rape', and not just let it hang in the air, 'But luckily for me, I brought my darts as well as my pills, so you're still not safe, PEEOOWWW, straight in the neck there.'
Straight in the neck there. Oh god. what the hell is wrong with me.
One of the men, the one who had been listening, took pity on me at this vital stage in my self-trauma, and laughed in a sympathetic-ok but be quiet now, you've just said the word rape quite loudly in a crowded bar- kind of way. But I was gone. Jesus. I wasn't even drunk.
Skillfully steering me away from the rape area of the conversation market, he tried to tell me about the rules of basketball, as there was a game on one of the screens, and went so far as to tell me that I should support Orlando, and not Boston, because Boston were bastards and deserved to die. I was so relieved at his use of the word 'die', -at least slightly inappropriate, I figured,- that I gratefully countered with 'Ah, yes, those Boston savages, I'm pretty sure one of them raped my grandma'.- why couldn't I get off rape? He laughed dutifully, and I began to feel like everything might be ok. However. He then pointed to another man, a man I had yet to talk to- YET TO TALK TO- this will become important very soon- and told me that he, the heathen, was a Boston fan. Now, in the world of bar-ish banter, it seemed unlawful to simply leave it there. So I, oh god why did I do this, I hadn't even had half a beer, looked the new man in the eye, his Boston loving eye, and said, by way of introduction-
'hey there, were you the man who raped my grandma?'
There are some things that you just should never ever say when trying to form an aquaintance, and tonight I discovered a couple of what those things were. Safe to say, I decided to depart from that section of the bar fairly quickly, and skipped onwards, to try my luck elsewhere. I'm so sorry, man I never got to talk to. No one should have to deal with that at 10pm on a Tuesday. Oh Lorks. Thank God I'm not a man. I would probably be in prison right about now.
Tonight, I went to see my friend's improv show, (a friend! a friend!...oh god, what have i become..) How exciting for me. It was in the back room of a bar, and he was running a little late to meet me, which meant that I was on my own at the bar, for 20 minutes or so. I think we all know by now that this idea doesn't really faze me, if anything, in the last two weeks I have become a champion lonely bar sitter. My only problem is that I am perhaps too good. Looking around for amusement I noticed that all three guys sat next to me had bar mats on top of their beers. Intriuging, my brain thought, why would this be? I poked the nearest one, and asked the the fairly straightforward question, 'Hello, hi. So, why do you guys have beermats on top of your beers?'
Now. The answer the guy gave was entirely normal. He was clearly a very normal nice person, who had come to a bar to watch the game. He told me, in all politeness, it was because that way, the waitress would know not to take them away if they left the table. Sadly, I wasn't really listening, as my mind had already jumped to what I assumed was the natural conclusion, and that, frankly, was all I needed to know. So instead of say, 'ok cool, well thanks a lot!' I nodded my head thoughtfully, and replied 'yeah yeah, and avoiding date rape, I suppose.'
I don't know if you've ever gotten the word 'rape' into the second sentence of an off the cuff conversation, but apparently that was a bit weird. Unfortunately, I had nowhere to go but the inner recesses of my brain, and seeing that my statement had sunk like Aladdin in that bit where he sinks, down I was going. 'haha' I said, realising that I had to say something followin the word 'rape', and not just let it hang in the air, 'But luckily for me, I brought my darts as well as my pills, so you're still not safe, PEEOOWWW, straight in the neck there.'
Straight in the neck there. Oh god. what the hell is wrong with me.
One of the men, the one who had been listening, took pity on me at this vital stage in my self-trauma, and laughed in a sympathetic-ok but be quiet now, you've just said the word rape quite loudly in a crowded bar- kind of way. But I was gone. Jesus. I wasn't even drunk.
Skillfully steering me away from the rape area of the conversation market, he tried to tell me about the rules of basketball, as there was a game on one of the screens, and went so far as to tell me that I should support Orlando, and not Boston, because Boston were bastards and deserved to die. I was so relieved at his use of the word 'die', -at least slightly inappropriate, I figured,- that I gratefully countered with 'Ah, yes, those Boston savages, I'm pretty sure one of them raped my grandma'.- why couldn't I get off rape? He laughed dutifully, and I began to feel like everything might be ok. However. He then pointed to another man, a man I had yet to talk to- YET TO TALK TO- this will become important very soon- and told me that he, the heathen, was a Boston fan. Now, in the world of bar-ish banter, it seemed unlawful to simply leave it there. So I, oh god why did I do this, I hadn't even had half a beer, looked the new man in the eye, his Boston loving eye, and said, by way of introduction-
'hey there, were you the man who raped my grandma?'
There are some things that you just should never ever say when trying to form an aquaintance, and tonight I discovered a couple of what those things were. Safe to say, I decided to depart from that section of the bar fairly quickly, and skipped onwards, to try my luck elsewhere. I'm so sorry, man I never got to talk to. No one should have to deal with that at 10pm on a Tuesday. Oh Lorks. Thank God I'm not a man. I would probably be in prison right about now.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Learning helps us play!
Hurrah! Isn't nature brilliant? Aren't animals disgusting! Aren't children racist! ALL these exclamations and so much more were addressed in America's Natural History Museum, not only scientifically speaking the nicest smelling museum in the world, but the museum with the largest number of differently coloured walls. (Almost every fact you will hear in this post is made up. I am in a really weird mood, a mood where usually I would have a semi-clothed kitchen naked dance and perhaps sing a soothing verse of 'whole new pants' (the 'a whole new world' song, but almost every noun is replaced cleverly and, may I say, hilarously, with the world 'pants'. example- 'no one to tell us "pants!" or "where's your pants?" or saying we're only dreaming.")
I spent 4 hours (true) in this museum, and I think its safe to say that I now know almost everything there is to know about nature. And to be honest, it all boils down to one, simple fact: Fish are brilliant.
Seriously, I must have spent a LONG time looking at all the different mammals, looking at the subtle shading differences in the fur of weasels, examining the bones of dinosaurs past, imagining them doing dance offs with each other and thinking about how great it would be because all the slothes and monkeys and stuff could climb inside the exposed ribcage of the T-Rex and do partner work whilst the big guy did his Tyranno-solo, and therefore blow the crab breakdance unit quite literally out of the water. I was by no means having a bad time.
But. The second i walked into the section marked 'Fish and That', my whole perspective changed. Fish. Are. Mental. You know Coral Reefs? yeah? the most beautiful places on earth etc, the places that make David Attenborough himself violently wet himself everytime he sees a small postcard with a picture of one on? There are SERIOUS politics going on in there, politics that shits all over the magestiscity of the graceful stag or whatever. In a coral reef, there are levels of battle and truce waging all the time, the glamour hides the sordid and filthy interior. It was like being back at Warwick. But occasionally, the natural war just stops between shark and fish because the shark needs a good clean, and the fish needs some grub. So nature just sets up a cleaning shop of peace where the two get the job done. Insane and wonderful. BUT (i discovered by stepping slightly to the right of this exhibit) there has evolved a 'false cleanerfish' who LOOKS like a peace-mongering dirt muncher, but actually pretends to start washing, and then BITES a massive chunk out of the sharky shark, thus destroying the truce and creating fear, panic and mistrust amongst the fish community. Imagine if you went to went to a friendly shell garage, paid for a carwash and the uniform wearing attendant not only didn't pick up a hose, he broke your window, stole your ipod and punched you in the face for good measure.
Oh and this is just the surface. (well, perhaps a good few feet below the surface to be honest). Book your flight to New York, arrive, get a taxi to the museum of natural history, go straight to the fish exhibit and set up shop. You're done. Money well spent.
I wont go on and on with fish stories all night, because it may, possibly, get dull for those who aren't as (apparently) fish orientated as I am. But come on, I did my time with the rest of the animals. And they're boring. No, not boring, just, well, not fish. And as for humans, GOD we're dull. The human exhibition was essentially 4 rooms of scientists wringing their hands and saying 'look. we evolved ok. Just accept it. Please. Seriously, its true. Look. Look at all this stuff. It happened, Ok? Ok, we'll explain it one more time'
I understand this need for repitition of this fairly clear and valid information in a country whose majority still believe that the great Zoltar vomitted us all out of a giant watering can, but still. Doesn't make for great museum drama. You know what was the best mammal fact I found? hmmm? In like 2 hours of searchign? Wolves mate for life. That's it. That's all we've got.
You have to admit, that CANNOT compare with discovering a type of fish (bear with me- or should i say FISH with me) that smells out a female mate, BITES into her and holds on, over time gets FUSED to the body of the female, their cells collide to the point where the male becomes little more than a floating attached bag of sperm, which the female uses to fertilise her eggs when she chooses. She can have like 4 males living in her at once, just a part of her body. A fitting metaphor for the future of human reproduction? Only time will tell.
You know what else is great about museums? Parents trying to make their kids into something they're not quite ready to be yet. I heard a wonderful exchange between a father and a daughter, about a fairly massive (and to be honest, pretty damn scary), crab.
Father- 'honey? honey? do you see it? Hmmm? And what do you think it does with its babies honey?'
Honey- 'Daddy look! Daddy! look, look its a raccoon!'
Father- 'No honey, look, look at this sign. Can you see what it says? hmmm?
Honey- 'Daddy its ugly.'
Father- 'No but, yes, it it, but you see what happens when it has babies? it takes the babies, and it-
Honey- 'DADDY LOOK, Josh is wearing my hat! Daddy!'
And on it went. As well as the brilliance of watching children fail to learn anything, there was the brilliance of them being terrified by things like native Americans, Amazonians and all the ancient folk, and their parents trying very very hard to prevent them from saying very racist things.
small child 'daddy, whats wrong with his face?'
Panicked adult- 'what do you mean?'
small child- 'his face is all weird, its really smushed and weird'
Adult (looking around and smiling as if to say 'he said it, not me, and he's really cute so lets not arrest him') - 'Ahahaha. hahaha. no no come on now, time to go'.
Oh, there was one other thing that I loved beyond all reason, and it was purely because at the time I saw it I was thinking how many signs I'd seen, how long it must have taken to write all of these signs, and if i was the one writing all these bloody signs I would get seriously narked off after a while and not really put the proper effort in. And then I saw this definition-
'Birds:
Birds are feathered and winged dinosaurs whose closest living relatives are crocodiles.'
Wonderful.
So, i think i'll leave you for this evening with a small and extremely interesting quiz. Interesting if you love fish that is, and I think, by now, we certainly all do. Its always (and when I say always I obviously mean, since this afternoon,) intriuged me how fish are named by being described as other, exceedingly unfish like, animals. Its as if the fish namers are the laziest namers in the naming world. Perhaps they are. Another argument, for another blog. One of the fish below is not a real fish. Can you guess which one? JEEPERS the fun we have on this blog. I mean, I should start charging. Good luck!
The Powderblue Surgeon Fish
The Spotlight Parrot Fish
The Black Blotched Porcupine Fish
The Crown of Thorns Starfish
The Norwich Terrier spinning fish
The Crown Squirrel Fish
The Daisy Parrot Fish
oh and p.s.
There was a Charles Darwin quote on one of the walls, and at the bottom, the sign off read 'by Charles Darwin: Scientist.'
God Bless America.
I spent 4 hours (true) in this museum, and I think its safe to say that I now know almost everything there is to know about nature. And to be honest, it all boils down to one, simple fact: Fish are brilliant.
Seriously, I must have spent a LONG time looking at all the different mammals, looking at the subtle shading differences in the fur of weasels, examining the bones of dinosaurs past, imagining them doing dance offs with each other and thinking about how great it would be because all the slothes and monkeys and stuff could climb inside the exposed ribcage of the T-Rex and do partner work whilst the big guy did his Tyranno-solo, and therefore blow the crab breakdance unit quite literally out of the water. I was by no means having a bad time.
But. The second i walked into the section marked 'Fish and That', my whole perspective changed. Fish. Are. Mental. You know Coral Reefs? yeah? the most beautiful places on earth etc, the places that make David Attenborough himself violently wet himself everytime he sees a small postcard with a picture of one on? There are SERIOUS politics going on in there, politics that shits all over the magestiscity of the graceful stag or whatever. In a coral reef, there are levels of battle and truce waging all the time, the glamour hides the sordid and filthy interior. It was like being back at Warwick. But occasionally, the natural war just stops between shark and fish because the shark needs a good clean, and the fish needs some grub. So nature just sets up a cleaning shop of peace where the two get the job done. Insane and wonderful. BUT (i discovered by stepping slightly to the right of this exhibit) there has evolved a 'false cleanerfish' who LOOKS like a peace-mongering dirt muncher, but actually pretends to start washing, and then BITES a massive chunk out of the sharky shark, thus destroying the truce and creating fear, panic and mistrust amongst the fish community. Imagine if you went to went to a friendly shell garage, paid for a carwash and the uniform wearing attendant not only didn't pick up a hose, he broke your window, stole your ipod and punched you in the face for good measure.
Oh and this is just the surface. (well, perhaps a good few feet below the surface to be honest). Book your flight to New York, arrive, get a taxi to the museum of natural history, go straight to the fish exhibit and set up shop. You're done. Money well spent.
I wont go on and on with fish stories all night, because it may, possibly, get dull for those who aren't as (apparently) fish orientated as I am. But come on, I did my time with the rest of the animals. And they're boring. No, not boring, just, well, not fish. And as for humans, GOD we're dull. The human exhibition was essentially 4 rooms of scientists wringing their hands and saying 'look. we evolved ok. Just accept it. Please. Seriously, its true. Look. Look at all this stuff. It happened, Ok? Ok, we'll explain it one more time'
I understand this need for repitition of this fairly clear and valid information in a country whose majority still believe that the great Zoltar vomitted us all out of a giant watering can, but still. Doesn't make for great museum drama. You know what was the best mammal fact I found? hmmm? In like 2 hours of searchign? Wolves mate for life. That's it. That's all we've got.
You have to admit, that CANNOT compare with discovering a type of fish (bear with me- or should i say FISH with me) that smells out a female mate, BITES into her and holds on, over time gets FUSED to the body of the female, their cells collide to the point where the male becomes little more than a floating attached bag of sperm, which the female uses to fertilise her eggs when she chooses. She can have like 4 males living in her at once, just a part of her body. A fitting metaphor for the future of human reproduction? Only time will tell.
You know what else is great about museums? Parents trying to make their kids into something they're not quite ready to be yet. I heard a wonderful exchange between a father and a daughter, about a fairly massive (and to be honest, pretty damn scary), crab.
Father- 'honey? honey? do you see it? Hmmm? And what do you think it does with its babies honey?'
Honey- 'Daddy look! Daddy! look, look its a raccoon!'
Father- 'No honey, look, look at this sign. Can you see what it says? hmmm?
Honey- 'Daddy its ugly.'
Father- 'No but, yes, it it, but you see what happens when it has babies? it takes the babies, and it-
Honey- 'DADDY LOOK, Josh is wearing my hat! Daddy!'
And on it went. As well as the brilliance of watching children fail to learn anything, there was the brilliance of them being terrified by things like native Americans, Amazonians and all the ancient folk, and their parents trying very very hard to prevent them from saying very racist things.
small child 'daddy, whats wrong with his face?'
Panicked adult- 'what do you mean?'
small child- 'his face is all weird, its really smushed and weird'
Adult (looking around and smiling as if to say 'he said it, not me, and he's really cute so lets not arrest him') - 'Ahahaha. hahaha. no no come on now, time to go'.
Oh, there was one other thing that I loved beyond all reason, and it was purely because at the time I saw it I was thinking how many signs I'd seen, how long it must have taken to write all of these signs, and if i was the one writing all these bloody signs I would get seriously narked off after a while and not really put the proper effort in. And then I saw this definition-
'Birds:
Birds are feathered and winged dinosaurs whose closest living relatives are crocodiles.'
Wonderful.
So, i think i'll leave you for this evening with a small and extremely interesting quiz. Interesting if you love fish that is, and I think, by now, we certainly all do. Its always (and when I say always I obviously mean, since this afternoon,) intriuged me how fish are named by being described as other, exceedingly unfish like, animals. Its as if the fish namers are the laziest namers in the naming world. Perhaps they are. Another argument, for another blog. One of the fish below is not a real fish. Can you guess which one? JEEPERS the fun we have on this blog. I mean, I should start charging. Good luck!
The Powderblue Surgeon Fish
The Spotlight Parrot Fish
The Black Blotched Porcupine Fish
The Crown of Thorns Starfish
The Norwich Terrier spinning fish
The Crown Squirrel Fish
The Daisy Parrot Fish
oh and p.s.
There was a Charles Darwin quote on one of the walls, and at the bottom, the sign off read 'by Charles Darwin: Scientist.'
God Bless America.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A small-ish rant.
Being a girl is annoying sometimes. It's great for many reasons, least of all because you require no justification to spend entire days watching Project Runway Canada, and because the clothes are divided into more sections that 'jeans' and 'Tshirts'. But it can also be annoying.
So yesterday I went to, as many of you saw, move the fuck out of some wood. Me and another girl, Shannon, were on a mission of plank type proportions. I wasn't really that up for it, to be honest, I have a body honed and finely trained for activities such as hiding in a small cupboard, but massive manuel labour is not really my trump card. However, then the massive guy with the van showed up, and things changed somewhat. One thing to know about me, is that I am ridiculously suscepible to reverse psychology. Its almost embarrassing how easy i am to get. The guy showed up, I let out my breath in a 'oh lets just get it over with' kind of way, he looked at both of us and said 'two girls? two girls are gonna move all this?'
and suddenly I was a freakin gladiator.
Never in my life has wood been moved from a van into a nearby storage faciltiy with such speed and grace. I was so on my game that for a brief second I forgot that Americans don't have have sarcasm and said in passing to the driver 'hey, if any of that is too heavy for you just let me know, I'll slow down.' and he looked at me as if I was literally insane and said 'no I'm fine'. But oh well. You can't win em all.
Within not very much time at all considering we were two girls, the wood didn't know what was going on. It was moved, and there was no fuckin argument about it. Yeah. So to celebrate, me and Shannon went to a nearby bar (it was about 2:30, and we figured there was nothing else really we could achieve we so little of the day left) and ordered beers. And then we stayed there for about 5 hours. Now. The thing is about being in a bar with someone else, I've noticed, is that you can talk to them. Which is great. However, when they have to leave to do an evening job, and you're kind of too drunk to really get up yet, you have two options. You either sit swaying slightly to yourself, humming showtunes, or you damn well talk to the nearest person. And I couldn't really remember any show stoppers at the time. The nearest person to me was an actor, whose name now escapes me. He turned to me and smiled and said something witty about the fact they have free cheesepuffs at the bar (you had to be there). I laughed and said something back, and thus it was how conversations generally go. All fine. Now generally my rule with talking to guys at bars is that I can in the 'I have a boyfriend' fact in fairly quickly, and in a non-'GET THE FUCK OFF ME' kind of way, so a 'oh thanks, yeah my boyfriend wears hairclips just like them' type of comment fairly early on, keeps everyone happy. Or so I assume.
Can anyone tell me why boys think girls with boyfriends, when they say they have boyfriends, actually think they mean 'no no this is me being coy, try and hold my hand for no reason and why I take it away put your knee firmly on my thigh.' Perhaps the words I'm saying are the wrong words. Who knows. But its getting kind of tiring and extremely boring. Actor-lets just call him Jed for now- Jed asked me if i wanted to go back to his house for some beers. I couldn't help but notice that we were in a bar, and access to beers, i hoped, was not impossible. He laughed, and said yeah, but the beers at his house would be better. I do what I always do when I find myself in an awkward situation, which was to do my impression of an orc angrily eating a lot of free cheese puffs, and then leave. I went somewhere else, and the entire process began again. I just don't know where I'm going wrong. If i didn't go into bars alone, I would sit in my room and talk to Adrian (it was about time I gave my wall pet a name). But you don't get a lot of women drinking alone in bars, so its not like I can just hone in on a sister and offer to plait her hair. Its a conundrum. But its awfully dull. Boys of the world. Here is an announcement. If a girl is at a bar, and she tells you she has a boyfriend, she is probably not lying for funsies. Oh well. I eventually got home and Adrian was there to comfort me. I fell into bed mumbling 'oh Addy, why are boys so stupid?' Adrian scratched the wall in a comforting sort of way, and made a little eeping sound which I think meant 'go to sleep tarsh. You're drunk. and you've still got your shoes on'. Oh Adrian. You are so wise.
So yesterday I went to, as many of you saw, move the fuck out of some wood. Me and another girl, Shannon, were on a mission of plank type proportions. I wasn't really that up for it, to be honest, I have a body honed and finely trained for activities such as hiding in a small cupboard, but massive manuel labour is not really my trump card. However, then the massive guy with the van showed up, and things changed somewhat. One thing to know about me, is that I am ridiculously suscepible to reverse psychology. Its almost embarrassing how easy i am to get. The guy showed up, I let out my breath in a 'oh lets just get it over with' kind of way, he looked at both of us and said 'two girls? two girls are gonna move all this?'
and suddenly I was a freakin gladiator.
Never in my life has wood been moved from a van into a nearby storage faciltiy with such speed and grace. I was so on my game that for a brief second I forgot that Americans don't have have sarcasm and said in passing to the driver 'hey, if any of that is too heavy for you just let me know, I'll slow down.' and he looked at me as if I was literally insane and said 'no I'm fine'. But oh well. You can't win em all.
Within not very much time at all considering we were two girls, the wood didn't know what was going on. It was moved, and there was no fuckin argument about it. Yeah. So to celebrate, me and Shannon went to a nearby bar (it was about 2:30, and we figured there was nothing else really we could achieve we so little of the day left) and ordered beers. And then we stayed there for about 5 hours. Now. The thing is about being in a bar with someone else, I've noticed, is that you can talk to them. Which is great. However, when they have to leave to do an evening job, and you're kind of too drunk to really get up yet, you have two options. You either sit swaying slightly to yourself, humming showtunes, or you damn well talk to the nearest person. And I couldn't really remember any show stoppers at the time. The nearest person to me was an actor, whose name now escapes me. He turned to me and smiled and said something witty about the fact they have free cheesepuffs at the bar (you had to be there). I laughed and said something back, and thus it was how conversations generally go. All fine. Now generally my rule with talking to guys at bars is that I can in the 'I have a boyfriend' fact in fairly quickly, and in a non-'GET THE FUCK OFF ME' kind of way, so a 'oh thanks, yeah my boyfriend wears hairclips just like them' type of comment fairly early on, keeps everyone happy. Or so I assume.
Can anyone tell me why boys think girls with boyfriends, when they say they have boyfriends, actually think they mean 'no no this is me being coy, try and hold my hand for no reason and why I take it away put your knee firmly on my thigh.' Perhaps the words I'm saying are the wrong words. Who knows. But its getting kind of tiring and extremely boring. Actor-lets just call him Jed for now- Jed asked me if i wanted to go back to his house for some beers. I couldn't help but notice that we were in a bar, and access to beers, i hoped, was not impossible. He laughed, and said yeah, but the beers at his house would be better. I do what I always do when I find myself in an awkward situation, which was to do my impression of an orc angrily eating a lot of free cheese puffs, and then leave. I went somewhere else, and the entire process began again. I just don't know where I'm going wrong. If i didn't go into bars alone, I would sit in my room and talk to Adrian (it was about time I gave my wall pet a name). But you don't get a lot of women drinking alone in bars, so its not like I can just hone in on a sister and offer to plait her hair. Its a conundrum. But its awfully dull. Boys of the world. Here is an announcement. If a girl is at a bar, and she tells you she has a boyfriend, she is probably not lying for funsies. Oh well. I eventually got home and Adrian was there to comfort me. I fell into bed mumbling 'oh Addy, why are boys so stupid?' Adrian scratched the wall in a comforting sort of way, and made a little eeping sound which I think meant 'go to sleep tarsh. You're drunk. and you've still got your shoes on'. Oh Adrian. You are so wise.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The difficulty of judgement
Some of you reading this may be under the illusion that I am a nice person. Although, to be honest if you've read much of my brain vomit over the last couple of weeks (couple of weeks?!!!) you have probably deduced by now my true nature. Cynical, cold and a wishful rodent murderer. Anyway, the point is, if you have somehow retained a good opinion of me, and do not wish that illusion to be shattered- if you think of me as a God perhaps, a God whose fall from grace would render your own lives pointless, I would advise you to close down your computer now and go and have a very thoughtful sandwich or something, until tomorrow's update.
Ok. See you tomorrow. Thanks for stopping by. Just put some cream cheese onto a leaflet if you don't have any bread, honestly, its the fillings that really make it. Thanks again.
All gone? Ok great.
Now. What's going to happen is that I am going to be needlessly cruel about a housemate of mine, a person that I don't really know, and who will probably, in all likelihood, never do me any wrong. So technically, he's already one up on the squirrel.
And why am I going to do this?
Well, i don't really know. You know when you just get a feeling about someone, the same feeling you get when a British guy enters in an American film wearing a black coat, and you just know that he's the one who actually rigged the reading of the will so that his happy go lucky stepbrother and hero gets nothing, even though he's the one that really needs Sir Smigglewick's money because his son was born without arms, and thus needs funding for his 'painters without boundaries' foundation? you know? that feeling. It's tricky to explain, but I just bloody well don't like him.
I'm going to put what little evidence I have against him towards you, and perhaps you can tell me better than I can who is the wanker here, me or him. I'm beginning to suspect that 2 weeks with only my own brain to run things past is making my judgement a little hazy, not least because of when I woke up today and realised I had voluntarily put a picture of my own massive underwear onto the internet without a moment's hesitation.
The housemate I am talking about, you may have realised, is the out of place banker. I see him wearing two kinds of things, one- a suit, and two- a basketball uniform (oh yes there is probably a name but lets just move on shall we?). All fine so far, a normal human, I'm sure you'll agree. On my first day in the house, I was being exceedingly 'lets be friends, yes?' and offered to make him a cup of tea. Not just any cup of tea you realise. I was using P.G bloody tips, smuggled into the country with a hope and a prayer, the stuff I sold on the subway by phone for hundreds of dollars a gram. And I was offering my limited supply to him. He said, 'yeah great'. So, thus it was, and thus I made and thus I brought over. At the time, he was munching on down on a MASSIVE bag on kettle chips, and as I set his tea down on a coaster, he mumbled 'cool thanks,' whilst watching 'the game', some playoffs thing that I have no intention of going into, either here or in the rest of my life. Now. It could be that I am just a stickler for food type things. But you'd offer the crisps. You just would. I mean, this bag was nearly as big as him. And I bet he didn't smuggle it into the country. But come now Tash, I said to myself, as surely as you're saying wordlessly to me now, its just some crisps. Lets not be a massive bitch.
You're right, I was right, and so I let it go, perhaps this was all the food he'd had for the day (it wasn't, he'd had a dock off pizza earlier. I had watched with both hope and then resigned disappointment)
He then, obviously suddenly realised that this offering of tea was a British ritual meaning 'you have to talk to me now, for as long as it takes to drink that.' He tore his eyes from the screen and said 'so, you like sports?'
I sort of inwardly twisted about. I don't. I really really don't. But he was offering conversation, and it would go against everything in me to knock a stranger back from conversation. We know this from previous mishaps. 'Well, you know, I don't mind playing them' (the last time I played a sport was in 2004, and I think it was table tennis.) 'but, I dont get a lot of kicks out of watching them, hahaha'
He snorted,
'yeah and I guess in Britain you guys watch, erm, you know, cricket? Right? And that shit is dull!'
Now. I hate watching cricket. I hate is so much, I would rather watch a 4 hour documentary on why Katie Price is a great business woman then watch 40 minutes of a cricket match. I hate it. I have had arguments with learned people where they tell me things like 'its all about the pyschology of the game' 'its the tactics, they are utterly fascinating', and 'It's like becoming absorbed in a 4 day game of chess!' All of these things I have heard, and all of these things I have rejected. It is boring. For me, that is the end of the matter. However. there is a very big difference between me saying this sport is boring, and this man telling me cricket is boring. I felt as if I'd been having an argument with my mum on the street, had cried out 'mum, STOP phoning random Americans, you are literally mad!' and then a stranger had tackled her roughly from behind, forced her to the floor and screamed 'YOU ARE INSANE BITCH! YOU ARE COMPLETELY FUCKIN INSAAAAANE!'
And that, quite frankly, is not cool.
'well you know, a lot of it is to do with tactics, you know,' I say rather stung, he shrugs.'whatever, you know its just kinda boring,'
'Its more a pyschological game I think.' I mutterly vaguely 'Kind of like chess.'
Can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth.
'ha. yeah. maybe. But, you know.'
And he drinks my tea. And that's kind of the end of the conversation.
Now I have to admit, this is basically all I have on him in terms of person to person contact. But I have also heard him on the phone. Tonight he spent about an hour and a half on the phone, laughing in a really quite bizarrely high pitched voice (you know Doc in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I know i'm being all convoluted, but yeah. Like that). And I hear the odd phrase. The odd phrases like (and these are all word for word)
'yeah, and remember, ahahahaha, that then Jeff kicked him in the face?'
'I don't know man, I'm not sure I should see her anymore after that night where she totally schitzed out on me', fuckin weirdo'
'Ouch, that woulda hurt, if I hadn't just been to the gym man!'
'yeah and then I totally put a rat in her wall.'
Ok maybe one of the above isn't quite authentic. But you get my drift. Oh God I am just a bitch aren't I? A massive bitch with even more massive pants. Oh well.
In other news, all this means that I really am getting quite fond of my squirrel. (I've decided, based on the solid evidence that squirrels don't poo and that rats don't scratch, that is is absoutely not a rat.) He's never said a word against my culture, and I'm almost certain he doesn't drink tea.
I also went to the East Village for most of today. About 27 theatres tucked into mysterious and difficult to find roads- which actually makes it feel much more of an achievement when you finally find them, in comparison to Time square where every bit of theatrical advertising gets burst unceremoniously onto the inside of your eyelids. Bit like a teen flick, where the jock at first goes for the blonde with the massive boobs and wet lips, but inevitably in the end sees the beauty in the slightly shorter brunette with the massive boobs and the lips that get wet halfway through. Ah romance.
Also saw a flyer for Puppetry Kafka. Yeah. I'm going to have to give that one a go.
Ok. See you tomorrow. Thanks for stopping by. Just put some cream cheese onto a leaflet if you don't have any bread, honestly, its the fillings that really make it. Thanks again.
All gone? Ok great.
Now. What's going to happen is that I am going to be needlessly cruel about a housemate of mine, a person that I don't really know, and who will probably, in all likelihood, never do me any wrong. So technically, he's already one up on the squirrel.
And why am I going to do this?
Well, i don't really know. You know when you just get a feeling about someone, the same feeling you get when a British guy enters in an American film wearing a black coat, and you just know that he's the one who actually rigged the reading of the will so that his happy go lucky stepbrother and hero gets nothing, even though he's the one that really needs Sir Smigglewick's money because his son was born without arms, and thus needs funding for his 'painters without boundaries' foundation? you know? that feeling. It's tricky to explain, but I just bloody well don't like him.
I'm going to put what little evidence I have against him towards you, and perhaps you can tell me better than I can who is the wanker here, me or him. I'm beginning to suspect that 2 weeks with only my own brain to run things past is making my judgement a little hazy, not least because of when I woke up today and realised I had voluntarily put a picture of my own massive underwear onto the internet without a moment's hesitation.
The housemate I am talking about, you may have realised, is the out of place banker. I see him wearing two kinds of things, one- a suit, and two- a basketball uniform (oh yes there is probably a name but lets just move on shall we?). All fine so far, a normal human, I'm sure you'll agree. On my first day in the house, I was being exceedingly 'lets be friends, yes?' and offered to make him a cup of tea. Not just any cup of tea you realise. I was using P.G bloody tips, smuggled into the country with a hope and a prayer, the stuff I sold on the subway by phone for hundreds of dollars a gram. And I was offering my limited supply to him. He said, 'yeah great'. So, thus it was, and thus I made and thus I brought over. At the time, he was munching on down on a MASSIVE bag on kettle chips, and as I set his tea down on a coaster, he mumbled 'cool thanks,' whilst watching 'the game', some playoffs thing that I have no intention of going into, either here or in the rest of my life. Now. It could be that I am just a stickler for food type things. But you'd offer the crisps. You just would. I mean, this bag was nearly as big as him. And I bet he didn't smuggle it into the country. But come now Tash, I said to myself, as surely as you're saying wordlessly to me now, its just some crisps. Lets not be a massive bitch.
You're right, I was right, and so I let it go, perhaps this was all the food he'd had for the day (it wasn't, he'd had a dock off pizza earlier. I had watched with both hope and then resigned disappointment)
He then, obviously suddenly realised that this offering of tea was a British ritual meaning 'you have to talk to me now, for as long as it takes to drink that.' He tore his eyes from the screen and said 'so, you like sports?'
I sort of inwardly twisted about. I don't. I really really don't. But he was offering conversation, and it would go against everything in me to knock a stranger back from conversation. We know this from previous mishaps. 'Well, you know, I don't mind playing them' (the last time I played a sport was in 2004, and I think it was table tennis.) 'but, I dont get a lot of kicks out of watching them, hahaha'
He snorted,
'yeah and I guess in Britain you guys watch, erm, you know, cricket? Right? And that shit is dull!'
Now. I hate watching cricket. I hate is so much, I would rather watch a 4 hour documentary on why Katie Price is a great business woman then watch 40 minutes of a cricket match. I hate it. I have had arguments with learned people where they tell me things like 'its all about the pyschology of the game' 'its the tactics, they are utterly fascinating', and 'It's like becoming absorbed in a 4 day game of chess!' All of these things I have heard, and all of these things I have rejected. It is boring. For me, that is the end of the matter. However. there is a very big difference between me saying this sport is boring, and this man telling me cricket is boring. I felt as if I'd been having an argument with my mum on the street, had cried out 'mum, STOP phoning random Americans, you are literally mad!' and then a stranger had tackled her roughly from behind, forced her to the floor and screamed 'YOU ARE INSANE BITCH! YOU ARE COMPLETELY FUCKIN INSAAAAANE!'
And that, quite frankly, is not cool.
'well you know, a lot of it is to do with tactics, you know,' I say rather stung, he shrugs.'whatever, you know its just kinda boring,'
'Its more a pyschological game I think.' I mutterly vaguely 'Kind of like chess.'
Can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth.
'ha. yeah. maybe. But, you know.'
And he drinks my tea. And that's kind of the end of the conversation.
Now I have to admit, this is basically all I have on him in terms of person to person contact. But I have also heard him on the phone. Tonight he spent about an hour and a half on the phone, laughing in a really quite bizarrely high pitched voice (you know Doc in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I know i'm being all convoluted, but yeah. Like that). And I hear the odd phrase. The odd phrases like (and these are all word for word)
'yeah, and remember, ahahahaha, that then Jeff kicked him in the face?'
'I don't know man, I'm not sure I should see her anymore after that night where she totally schitzed out on me', fuckin weirdo'
'Ouch, that woulda hurt, if I hadn't just been to the gym man!'
'yeah and then I totally put a rat in her wall.'
Ok maybe one of the above isn't quite authentic. But you get my drift. Oh God I am just a bitch aren't I? A massive bitch with even more massive pants. Oh well.
In other news, all this means that I really am getting quite fond of my squirrel. (I've decided, based on the solid evidence that squirrels don't poo and that rats don't scratch, that is is absoutely not a rat.) He's never said a word against my culture, and I'm almost certain he doesn't drink tea.
I also went to the East Village for most of today. About 27 theatres tucked into mysterious and difficult to find roads- which actually makes it feel much more of an achievement when you finally find them, in comparison to Time square where every bit of theatrical advertising gets burst unceremoniously onto the inside of your eyelids. Bit like a teen flick, where the jock at first goes for the blonde with the massive boobs and wet lips, but inevitably in the end sees the beauty in the slightly shorter brunette with the massive boobs and the lips that get wet halfway through. Ah romance.
Also saw a flyer for Puppetry Kafka. Yeah. I'm going to have to give that one a go.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
On a lighter (but more massive) note
Two posts in one day?! You lucky little spaniels.
This isn't really a proper post, please try not to weep heavily onto your mousemat, this is just a little extra to explain the picture currently at the side.
I needed to buy some pants because, quite simply, I have run out of pants. I went to the scariest shop in the world called 'Target'- to those who know it, Jesus Christ what the hell is with target? Its where the soulless go to wear red tshirts and die.
Anyway. I was in a hurry, I needed pants, and so I grabbed a pack of six under a sign that said 'small'- I'm not being vain here, this is America remember. And I bring them home in just the (k)nick(ers) of time. I am literally pant free. Whew.
So the next morning I wake up, unroll a jazzy striped number, and oh. my. god. I have accidently picked up the BIGGEST PANTS EVER. Full of panic and confusion I look at the label, and it looks back at me happily, with a little '9', under 'size'. Now. I don't know American sizing. But judging by these pants I can only assume that they are designed and labelled according to which animal in the world could comfortably wear them, on a scale from one to ten. one being smallish possum, ten being a rhinoceros. And i had racked up a 9. You can think of your own example, I'm sure.
The problem is though, I HAVE NO OTHER PANTS to wear. I'm not spending more bloody money on pants, and I certainly dont have enough other washing to commit to a 'laudromat' visit yet, (meaning 'I am too scared to go as I think I might die there'). So what can I do? I think you know what I do. I wear them of course. I wear the pregnant wildebeest pants and I can tell you one thing. They are breezy. Not in a particularly bad way, just in a.. I'm not sure there should be wind in that area, kind of way. Still. I've got 5 more days to get used to it I suppose.
And with that lovely mental image, I bid you goodnight. Hopefully now a few of you will join me in the nightmares.
This isn't really a proper post, please try not to weep heavily onto your mousemat, this is just a little extra to explain the picture currently at the side.
I needed to buy some pants because, quite simply, I have run out of pants. I went to the scariest shop in the world called 'Target'- to those who know it, Jesus Christ what the hell is with target? Its where the soulless go to wear red tshirts and die.
Anyway. I was in a hurry, I needed pants, and so I grabbed a pack of six under a sign that said 'small'- I'm not being vain here, this is America remember. And I bring them home in just the (k)nick(ers) of time. I am literally pant free. Whew.
So the next morning I wake up, unroll a jazzy striped number, and oh. my. god. I have accidently picked up the BIGGEST PANTS EVER. Full of panic and confusion I look at the label, and it looks back at me happily, with a little '9', under 'size'. Now. I don't know American sizing. But judging by these pants I can only assume that they are designed and labelled according to which animal in the world could comfortably wear them, on a scale from one to ten. one being smallish possum, ten being a rhinoceros. And i had racked up a 9. You can think of your own example, I'm sure.
The problem is though, I HAVE NO OTHER PANTS to wear. I'm not spending more bloody money on pants, and I certainly dont have enough other washing to commit to a 'laudromat' visit yet, (meaning 'I am too scared to go as I think I might die there'). So what can I do? I think you know what I do. I wear them of course. I wear the pregnant wildebeest pants and I can tell you one thing. They are breezy. Not in a particularly bad way, just in a.. I'm not sure there should be wind in that area, kind of way. Still. I've got 5 more days to get used to it I suppose.
And with that lovely mental image, I bid you goodnight. Hopefully now a few of you will join me in the nightmares.
The Exterminator Cometh
Well. In a way he did.
After spending the night plagued by rat dreams (ahaha. yeah thats brilliant) involving the character Jim Halpert from the American Office literally pinging them into my very face, I awoke at 6am to Mr Squirrel (I'm going to go with squirrel for now, as the alternative is too horrible to consider) having yet another raving squirrel party. '4 in a night?' I moan, 'Please, Mr Squirrel, turn off your favourite record (entited 'scratchy scratch scratch, oh yeah all up your wall', with the limited edition secret track 'scuttle about, near your feet then SUDDENLY BY YOUR FACE')
I went to go sleep on the couch, but even with the gentle lull of the New York early morning traffic, I somehow couldn't really drift off. During this emotional and rather frightening time, I kept what little sanity I had by moaning to myself under my breath, clutching my pillow, '9:30. He'll be here. He'll be here and all will be well.' Its at that point I realised that fur coat makers are very misunderstood. They are not cruel people. They are simply people who have spent 2 nights or more with a squirrel in their wall. By about 7am, I was ready to gouge him. And if I could then turn gouging into a lovely hat, or a glove perhaps, and a jolly profit too, well, happiness for everyone.
But, eventually, like a magical glittery ball of hope, 9:30 rolled around. And I heard footsteps on the stairs. It was the first noise I'd heard all night where I didn't want the creator of it to die. I rushed to the door like a child, and in he came. The man who was going to kill the squirrel. I fought the desire to kiss him roughly on the mouth, and instead showed him into my den of unrest. All would be well. All would be bloody well.. well.
And then he opened his mouth.
'ahh yeeees, you see she is still, i hare putting have poison but thee squail she is not gone? I think perhaps I need the cajje'.
Now you have to understand here. I've been awake for a dangerous amount of night (i know i've not broken any records here but dammit i need 8 hours or I fold like a napkin in a damp sink), my ears had betrayed me to my very core all night long, and I literally had NO idea what he just said. None. As I try to process any semblence, I recognised the word 'poison' and the word 'still', and I think 'squail' means 'not rat'. All of these things are positive, so I try to stay calm.
'Yes.' I say anxiously, 'yes its been scratching all night. What can you do?'
For a moment he does nothing, and then, for some reason, he strokes the wall, slowly but firmly. As in, if this were a film, he would be mortal enemies with the squirrel and that stroke would signify 'ah yes old friend. Here we are again'. I'm too tired for this.
'Can you get rid of it?' I ask, a bit louder, 'and', I pause, not sure if i want to know the answer to the next bit, 'is it a squirrel or a rat?'
He continues to look at the wall, thoughtfully. Perhaps squirrels only go for certain coloured walls? 'She scratch, yes?'
She? She?? I'm not prepared to go into the mental attributes of a man who calls his vermin prey to be 'she', but essentially I'm guessing some people in this profession don't have a lot of job satisfaction, and I don't think he was one of them.
'Yes, she- it, scratches. All night. In the wall.' I point to which part of the room is the wall, in case I'm not making myself very clear.
He breathes in, and shakes his head 'is no rat. Vairy differe sound for rat'
This to me, seems to be the same logic as the 'squirrels don't poo' argument of yesterday, but I'm so happy with the answer that I'm not about to go looking for trouble.
'Oh good! Erm, so.. what happens now?'
'I jave to get the caj'
'the...?'
'the caj. For squail. the caj.'
'oh, a- the, the cage! Yes. erm, great.'
And after taking one more long look at that wall, he stormed out again like a wonderful spanish superhero, and I let out a sigh of relief, and put some water on to boil until he came back.
The water boiled. I put it in a cup. I looked at the door. I put a tea bag in. I stirred it round. I looked at the door. I went to get the milk from the fridge. I looked out of the window. I poured milk into the cup. I checked the door still existed. I put the milk back in the fridge. I checked the window was still there. Suddenly, and rather conveniently, I really really needed a cup of tea.
He wasn't coming back, was he? No. No he wasn't.
Then I had to go to work, leave my squirrel's rave nest and just pray that somehow, it would all sort of be fixed by the time I got back. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't. When I got in I was greeted by the sound I now know as squirrels, predrinking. And I can hear it still, as I type this to you good people. I think you should just take a second right now, just to close your eyes and listen for the beautiful beautiful sound of no squirrels. Never again will I take it for granted. If I could buy it on audiotape, I would. Why God? Why me? Its because I don't bloody believe in you isn't it? Clever git.
After spending the night plagued by rat dreams (ahaha. yeah thats brilliant) involving the character Jim Halpert from the American Office literally pinging them into my very face, I awoke at 6am to Mr Squirrel (I'm going to go with squirrel for now, as the alternative is too horrible to consider) having yet another raving squirrel party. '4 in a night?' I moan, 'Please, Mr Squirrel, turn off your favourite record (entited 'scratchy scratch scratch, oh yeah all up your wall', with the limited edition secret track 'scuttle about, near your feet then SUDDENLY BY YOUR FACE')
I went to go sleep on the couch, but even with the gentle lull of the New York early morning traffic, I somehow couldn't really drift off. During this emotional and rather frightening time, I kept what little sanity I had by moaning to myself under my breath, clutching my pillow, '9:30. He'll be here. He'll be here and all will be well.' Its at that point I realised that fur coat makers are very misunderstood. They are not cruel people. They are simply people who have spent 2 nights or more with a squirrel in their wall. By about 7am, I was ready to gouge him. And if I could then turn gouging into a lovely hat, or a glove perhaps, and a jolly profit too, well, happiness for everyone.
But, eventually, like a magical glittery ball of hope, 9:30 rolled around. And I heard footsteps on the stairs. It was the first noise I'd heard all night where I didn't want the creator of it to die. I rushed to the door like a child, and in he came. The man who was going to kill the squirrel. I fought the desire to kiss him roughly on the mouth, and instead showed him into my den of unrest. All would be well. All would be bloody well.. well.
And then he opened his mouth.
'ahh yeeees, you see she is still, i hare putting have poison but thee squail she is not gone? I think perhaps I need the cajje'.
Now you have to understand here. I've been awake for a dangerous amount of night (i know i've not broken any records here but dammit i need 8 hours or I fold like a napkin in a damp sink), my ears had betrayed me to my very core all night long, and I literally had NO idea what he just said. None. As I try to process any semblence, I recognised the word 'poison' and the word 'still', and I think 'squail' means 'not rat'. All of these things are positive, so I try to stay calm.
'Yes.' I say anxiously, 'yes its been scratching all night. What can you do?'
For a moment he does nothing, and then, for some reason, he strokes the wall, slowly but firmly. As in, if this were a film, he would be mortal enemies with the squirrel and that stroke would signify 'ah yes old friend. Here we are again'. I'm too tired for this.
'Can you get rid of it?' I ask, a bit louder, 'and', I pause, not sure if i want to know the answer to the next bit, 'is it a squirrel or a rat?'
He continues to look at the wall, thoughtfully. Perhaps squirrels only go for certain coloured walls? 'She scratch, yes?'
She? She?? I'm not prepared to go into the mental attributes of a man who calls his vermin prey to be 'she', but essentially I'm guessing some people in this profession don't have a lot of job satisfaction, and I don't think he was one of them.
'Yes, she- it, scratches. All night. In the wall.' I point to which part of the room is the wall, in case I'm not making myself very clear.
He breathes in, and shakes his head 'is no rat. Vairy differe sound for rat'
This to me, seems to be the same logic as the 'squirrels don't poo' argument of yesterday, but I'm so happy with the answer that I'm not about to go looking for trouble.
'Oh good! Erm, so.. what happens now?'
'I jave to get the caj'
'the...?'
'the caj. For squail. the caj.'
'oh, a- the, the cage! Yes. erm, great.'
And after taking one more long look at that wall, he stormed out again like a wonderful spanish superhero, and I let out a sigh of relief, and put some water on to boil until he came back.
The water boiled. I put it in a cup. I looked at the door. I put a tea bag in. I stirred it round. I looked at the door. I went to get the milk from the fridge. I looked out of the window. I poured milk into the cup. I checked the door still existed. I put the milk back in the fridge. I checked the window was still there. Suddenly, and rather conveniently, I really really needed a cup of tea.
He wasn't coming back, was he? No. No he wasn't.
Then I had to go to work, leave my squirrel's rave nest and just pray that somehow, it would all sort of be fixed by the time I got back. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't. When I got in I was greeted by the sound I now know as squirrels, predrinking. And I can hear it still, as I type this to you good people. I think you should just take a second right now, just to close your eyes and listen for the beautiful beautiful sound of no squirrels. Never again will I take it for granted. If I could buy it on audiotape, I would. Why God? Why me? Its because I don't bloody believe in you isn't it? Clever git.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
