Or, you know, four. Sometimes two, sometimes five. But three is sort of what I’m going to stick with. Well, three point eight seven, fair enough.
Yesterday was my second night of my little trip to London, and I wanted to get the most out of my time here, so another return ticket for the city centre was bought, and I was on my train. I did three/four things last night, each on its’ own deserving of a small bit of joyous remembrance, together, they ruled. I’ll split my evening up for you.
“If this bookstore had tits, I’d marry it”
First thing I had my tiny little paper-and-letters-loving heart set on was finding Foyles. The most famous bookstore in London boasts four massive floors of stacks, with a claim to having the most titles on sale in Britain. Now, I don’t know about that, but shite, what an enormous amount of books. And how to tackle this? Do you browse, decide and go back for the books you want? Do you grab what you can and let the cashier sort em out later? Do you set up a bunk-bed in a forgotten corner near the coffee-shop and move in permanently?
Obviously, that last option would’ve been my choice anytime, but since I promised my housemate to go sailing in Holland this weekend it wasn’t the most workable option. She’d have forgiven me, without doubt, but still, I decided against residency.
I opted for walking up to the fourth floor, and working my way steadily downward, picking up what I deemed interesting enough for purchase. I set myself a limit of £ 100.00, which amounted in my estimation to something like ten to twelve books, depending on prices. This might seem to be a bit of a wide spread, but I really, reaaally do love books, and even at the current exchange rate I come out cheaper this way than buying the same books in Holland. (10 pounds is about 15 euro, but a ten pound book here would set me back about 20 euro in Holland, so I win)
So there I was, joyfully making my way past philosophers, fantasy, horror, DVD’s, CD’s, coffee table books, and I was in heaaaaven. Grinning, clutching my growing stack of books in my arms as were they so many cuddly toys.
Lovely books. I ended up with nine books and a DVD, totalling 103 pounds and change. I had pop culture, queer horror, entertainment, religious explanation, retelling of legends, general “ book”, graphic novel, comic fantasy and a semi hard-on and a sense of druggedness brought on by the subtle Viagra of dust and paper.
In short, I was happy. (The DVD sucked puppies, by the way, crap movie. But still, happy)
On to the till, where I needed to convince the girl behind it that I was going to be able to configure my new friends in such a way that they would all fit into my bag and I was not going to make use of the British/American tendency to pack every single Item in it’s own plastic bag. Foyle’s. I came, I saw, I came, I shopped. Grandness.
Puppet sex
With a considerably heavier bag hanging of my shoulder, I decided I wanted to see a show. I usually don’t go to movies or suchlike on my own, but they have a running performance of Mama Mia here, and I saw that with my ex-boyfriend a while ago and I wanted to wash the taste of him from my ABBA experiences. Thusly, I bought tickets for a completely different musical.
Quite unsure how that happened, actually, but I was standing at the box office, wanting a ticket to Mama Mia, and I actually bought a ticket to Avenue Q. Interesting choice, but a good one, as it turned out.
On a related note, I was patiently standing in line, last in a line of two, when an American family walked in from the street and asked me if had been there first or if they had been. Since I walked in right after the woman who was at that point being assisted at the counter, I felt pretty confident in saying I was in line before them. This met with general agreement, and then with blatantly cutting in front of me. Politely so, and with a semi-acceptable reason, but it was still strange. They were apparently late to their own show and couldn’t find the theatre. That’s fine; ask someone who knows, by all means, and yes, you can go ahead of me, no problem. But do not ask me if I was there first, if you are going to cut in line anyways.
So, the Americans proceeded to interrupt the (actually very cute and friendly) guy helping the customer and asking him how to get to the theatre. They came to him, because apparently they bought there tickets at that place yesterday, although they had another agent there then.
So he did a good job in multitasking, quite impressive really, while he booked the current customers tickets he simultaneously sketched the American’s route on a map of the area, effectively providing service to two clients at once. I was impressed. Obviously, work in customer service long enough and these things become the norm more than the exception, but I can still appreciate it being done well, one professional to another, so to speak.
Then…disaster struck. Well, disaster… the phone rang. Now, the ticket agent needs to do his job, and pick it up, but that would give him three client-points of entry, all requiring hands, and most people only have about two. So problem.
So he quickly finished the map, told the Americans where to walk to, apologized for the inconvenience to the line, and picked up the phone. No worries as far as I could see, the Americans had there directions, the woman at the counter was buying tickets for another date, and I still had a good forty minutes before my show was going to start.
Apparently, my assessment of the situation was wrong. The American started making trouble. I still don’t really know why, but he did. Started spouting abuse and threats to the agent, who had, as far as I could see, actually done everything possible bar shutting the shop and personally walking them to their theatre. And it escalated, nicely. The agent very subtly mentioned their show was about to start and that it wasn’t his fault that they were late. The American responded to this that they had gotten lost. The agent said that this was out of his hands but that he needed to take this call. The American started the abuse, the agent asked him to piss off. More shouting, more requests for off, and how to bugger it. It was grand. In the end, the Americans left, the agent apologized again to the line, finished the call, and on things went.
It was a shame the boy had resorted to impoliteness himself, but really, I couldn’t fault him anything.
I bought ticket, asked him where I could find the theatre, he did the map thing again, and I went in search for my evenings entertainment.
And entertainment it was. Avenue Q is a bit of a Sesame Street parody, a musical with puppets and “real” people. They don’t go for the kind of realism that the Street does though, the puppets are worn on the arms of the puppeteers, who also provide the facial expressions the puppets can’t. A nice combination of live-action and puppeteering, and very well pulled off I must say. The fact that the puppeteer/actors were actually very cute didn’t hurt the proceedings either.
The show is about Princeton, a puppet recently graduated and moving into a street that has a few human puppets, a few humans, and a few monsters. Monsters being a subset of society, apparently. The fact that monsters are seen as inferior to humans and human puppets allows for one of the best songs in the show; “everybody is a little bit racist”.
This should give you an idea about this thing. Gloriously politically incorrect, very irreverent and truly, truly funny. There is a song about a character wishing to give a lesson to a kindergarten about the Internet, which is interrupted by one of the others with the words “for PORN” in every appropriate place. (“The internet is a high speed network””FOR PORN”, “the internet is used for the sharing of information””FOR PORN”) and there is a scene with puppet sex. No full frontal puppet nudity, but still, definitely sex. And not the crass Team America way either, just healthy, fun, drunk puppet sex.
I think the best characters are the Bad Idea Bears. Incredibly cute and bubbly bears that nonetheless give bad, bad ideas. (“You could look for a job, or get BEER!”, “More drinks, More Fun! Yaaaaay” and one of the best: “its ok you don’t want to hang yourself now, but we are going to leave this rope here, JUST IN CASE”)
They are super.
Very very good show, I hate going to these things on my own but this was a good decision. I hummed a few of the songs on my way back to my hotel and generally felt good about things, as I do still. I hope this show will come to Holland, but if not, I’ll make sure to get friends to London to see it again. It ends in traditional semi sappy goodnaturedness, but that’s ok, sometimes. I can recommend this show to anybody, but you do need a bit of a dirty but open mind to get the most out of it.
“If this restaurant had a dick, I’d cheat on the bookstore with it”
After all that excitement, it was time to grab something to eat and get back to my hotel, after all, it was a school-night and the alarm was going to go off in the morning.
So I decided to look up a little Thai restaurant I had dinner in last time I was over here, because dinner was good then.
I made my way to Liverpool Street Station, walked up Middlesex and entered my preferred place of mealage.
A small, one room restaurant, light wood tables and chairs upholstered with red or yellow leather. The ceiling is exposed tubes and plumbing, but painted black. The walls are cream, decorated with golden wood carvings. On the ceiling are three light fixtures, two large yellow suns, not turned on, and a red ribbony thing with lights along the centre. Most of its lamps have burned out. Seven were working last time I was here, only five now.
I get a table, and order a Thai curry with roasted duck, cause, well, I like duck.
And like it is not strong enough a word.
So my meal arrives swiftly and friendly. A plate with a bowlful of steamed rice, sleepily dreaming to itself of whatever rice dreams of after being steamed. It looks so white and fluffy it’s nearly apologetic, as if it wants to make up for the rest of the meal, without actually checking if a make-up is necessary, which is a shame, as it isn’t.
The other bowl placed in front of me is filled with a murky yellowish liquid, steaming arrogantly to itself. This stuff apologizes to nobody, and it makes no claims on humility. It is yellow, milky, and it smells like the fall of a decadent civilization. Spices, curry, the meaty smell of roasted duck all lift up from the uniform and still surface as the ghosts of mermaids.
I ladle a good bit of the milky yellowness on to the pile of rice, which soaks up the liquid and leaves me looking at lychees, green peppers and roasted duck, naked without their protective camouflage.
Because I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, I spoon my way in there.
And I die. This is an incredible meal. The duck is moist and sweet, the lychees are fresh and give a very rich flavour to the dish, and the peppers are nice and crisp, and spicy enough to keep things interesting. The rice is steamed to perfection and after its initial bashfulness now wants a piece of the textural action, and the rest of the ingredients gladly give it the leeway it desires.
A great meal, finished off with a melon ice cream which is fresh and sweet and exactly what one would wish for in weather like this. I pay my bill, have a nice conversation with the waitress, get complimented on my English, which is always nice, and make my way to the hotel.
3.8 End of the evening
As it is really, really warm here and I had just had some nice spicy food I didn’t really see myself going to sleep yet, and since there is a DVD player on my laptop I opted to watch a movie. First, Bollywood and Vine, cross-dressing romantic comedy that tries, and that has its charming moments, but really, not a good movie. Ah well, can’t have everything, right?
I switched over to Urbania, a movie I had been looking for for a while, starring Dan Futterman in a sort of urban legend/revenge movie. And actually, it’s quite good. Dan plays a gay man who is trying to get over the loss of his lover, but we don’t really find out if the loss is due to a death or a break up, but the hints point towards death. He is travelling the streets looking for stories. Asking people to tell him theirs and him telling them others. Cut-scenes give us a take on well known urban legends. The baby left on the car roof, the stolen kidney, the microwaved dog.
I like Dan Futterman; I think he is a very good looking man in a way that keeps him normal and human. I haven’t seen much of him, mostly sit-com work and series, and as such I have never really thought of him as much of an actor. Now, I need to reprise my opinion. He puts down the role he is given incredibly well, managing to convey recognizable and complex emotion with simple facial expressions. He is sweet and kind, but lost, and menacing, and vengeful but we never find out really how vengeful until the very end, where we are left a bit unsure of what happened. Other actors are quite good as well, with the exception of Alan Cummings, who does fine with the material provided but mostly delivers a standard time-filler performance.
I can’t say that this is a complete step in my night, because my laptop-power ran out at a few minutes before the end of this movie. I am going to try it again tonight, we’ll see. I got all I needed from it, and I’ll be watching it at home soon enough I’m sure.
Then, I showered to get the days sweatiness of me, dried my hair, and went to bed.
One more night here, I gathered there is an after-work drink tonight, I’ll see what I’m going to do afterwards.
For now, I can only say:
Grtz,
Kevin.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
London, my bitch be thee
Well, sort of. And righteously so.
I am currently on my third visit to London, having been sent out here for a week of "getting to know people" in the London branch of my company.
The first time I was here was only for a few days, with friends, the second time was workrelated, and so is this time.
Now Londen, as has been previously posted here, fucks up my sense of direction. I am usually very good with finding my way but last time I was here I got royally lost. Subway directions completely eluded me, despite maps and logic, and I would give myself no more than a 60% chance of actually locating anything within a two hour walk, and this does incorporate the simple fact that ANYTHING in central London is no more than fortyfive minutes on foot.
But now, slowly but surely, I am catching my bearings. I figured out the underground maps (not that hard, unless you would happen to be me, which I am) and I can find my way around a good deal better than last time. I admit that the immediate Soho/Picadilly circus parts are still a bit baffling, but I usually end up where I want to be with an error margin of one or two streets. Last time I was here I had the same error marging, but now I get to where I was planning to go whereas before I kept misguidingly circling my destination wothout ever actually reaching it untill I got fed up and went home, or to the nearest bookstore to drown my sorrows. Some people go to pubs, I go to bookstores. To each his own, right?
But enough about logistics, let's get to the whining.
It's so incredibly dirtily warm here... Really. It's warm in Holland as well now, summer and all, and I don't mind that much, but it's so humid that everything feels dirty and sweaty. Now, I don't mind either dirty or sweaty, but together there are just a limited amount of places I like seeing them and "on the way to work" is not on that list.
My hotel is literally one street over from the entrance to the office, it is not even a three minute walk, walking slowly, and I was sweaty and gross on that short distance. Heavily annoying.
Speaking of my hotel... it is RIGHT NEXT to a railway. It's a good hotel, and the shower is amazing, but located very, very badly. it is a good thing the wheather is thusly that sleeping is only possible after things have cooled down a bit which happens after the trains stop running, but still... Apart from that, it tries to be designy and stylish but just about manages to pull of "nice". The elevator wals and some of the pillars and stuff around pretend to be upholstered woth leather, but since touch tells you it is the kind of leather that is actually made of plastic, it loses its' spiffyness quite quickly.
The room is fine, nothing fancy, the bathroom is ok, the shower has a water pressure that you find in English hotels but somehow never in actual English homes. In other words, the natives are showering in a drizzle, I am showering in a deluge.
It's grand. Truly. Of course the wheather insures that you are first dry, and then sticky again before a towel has had a chance to touchflesh, but still.
But, so, London. Truly a remarkable city. Of course it is a theme park now, LondonWorld(tm), where you get exactly what you expect within seconds of entering, with added tourists. But then, that can be said about any town of any size or import really, and since I am a tourist I can't complain.
And tourist I am. And loving it I do. I could try not to smile when looking at the architecture and give of a good "seen it all before" vibe, but really, I wouldn't want to. The city is in some points breathtaking in it's beauty and character, and you would have to be a right dumbass not to appreciate beauty when it presents itself.
So I keep the goofy grin when I stand on the elevator upwards form the underground, thank you very much. And I'll stay and look at the view of a small arch crossing a street and framing a stunning little park, if you don't mind.
Besides, the grin got me hit on yesterday by about five people, so again, I can't really complain.
Well, tonight I am going to catch a show or something, and check out Foyles, a famous bookstore. I'll let you know how it went.
I am currently on my third visit to London, having been sent out here for a week of "getting to know people" in the London branch of my company.
The first time I was here was only for a few days, with friends, the second time was workrelated, and so is this time.
Now Londen, as has been previously posted here, fucks up my sense of direction. I am usually very good with finding my way but last time I was here I got royally lost. Subway directions completely eluded me, despite maps and logic, and I would give myself no more than a 60% chance of actually locating anything within a two hour walk, and this does incorporate the simple fact that ANYTHING in central London is no more than fortyfive minutes on foot.
But now, slowly but surely, I am catching my bearings. I figured out the underground maps (not that hard, unless you would happen to be me, which I am) and I can find my way around a good deal better than last time. I admit that the immediate Soho/Picadilly circus parts are still a bit baffling, but I usually end up where I want to be with an error margin of one or two streets. Last time I was here I had the same error marging, but now I get to where I was planning to go whereas before I kept misguidingly circling my destination wothout ever actually reaching it untill I got fed up and went home, or to the nearest bookstore to drown my sorrows. Some people go to pubs, I go to bookstores. To each his own, right?
But enough about logistics, let's get to the whining.
It's so incredibly dirtily warm here... Really. It's warm in Holland as well now, summer and all, and I don't mind that much, but it's so humid that everything feels dirty and sweaty. Now, I don't mind either dirty or sweaty, but together there are just a limited amount of places I like seeing them and "on the way to work" is not on that list.
My hotel is literally one street over from the entrance to the office, it is not even a three minute walk, walking slowly, and I was sweaty and gross on that short distance. Heavily annoying.
Speaking of my hotel... it is RIGHT NEXT to a railway. It's a good hotel, and the shower is amazing, but located very, very badly. it is a good thing the wheather is thusly that sleeping is only possible after things have cooled down a bit which happens after the trains stop running, but still... Apart from that, it tries to be designy and stylish but just about manages to pull of "nice". The elevator wals and some of the pillars and stuff around pretend to be upholstered woth leather, but since touch tells you it is the kind of leather that is actually made of plastic, it loses its' spiffyness quite quickly.
The room is fine, nothing fancy, the bathroom is ok, the shower has a water pressure that you find in English hotels but somehow never in actual English homes. In other words, the natives are showering in a drizzle, I am showering in a deluge.
It's grand. Truly. Of course the wheather insures that you are first dry, and then sticky again before a towel has had a chance to touchflesh, but still.
But, so, London. Truly a remarkable city. Of course it is a theme park now, LondonWorld(tm), where you get exactly what you expect within seconds of entering, with added tourists. But then, that can be said about any town of any size or import really, and since I am a tourist I can't complain.
And tourist I am. And loving it I do. I could try not to smile when looking at the architecture and give of a good "seen it all before" vibe, but really, I wouldn't want to. The city is in some points breathtaking in it's beauty and character, and you would have to be a right dumbass not to appreciate beauty when it presents itself.
So I keep the goofy grin when I stand on the elevator upwards form the underground, thank you very much. And I'll stay and look at the view of a small arch crossing a street and framing a stunning little park, if you don't mind.
Besides, the grin got me hit on yesterday by about five people, so again, I can't really complain.
Well, tonight I am going to catch a show or something, and check out Foyles, a famous bookstore. I'll let you know how it went.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
SFNU
Occasionally the impulse to put words to emotion is thwarted by the fact that the emotion itself is so overpowering, so strong, so incredibly THERE that the words you wish to use either do not accurately describe the emotion you're feeling, or they simply refuse to line up to be fired away.
A good example of this is the well known tendency of fourteen year olds with their first crush to only be able to discuss cheeses and frogs while around the object of their affection. Which is sad, really, there you are, all of fourteen, in walks the most beautiful girl you have ever seen, blond hair shining in the slanting sunlight, skin as fresh as the dew on roses, desire fills your brain, your blood-cells become heart-shaped and fluttery, your heart drops into your stomach, which isn't that bad, because your stomach is in your throat, and your brain is doing loopings in azure skies over a tropical island.
And you pluck up the courage to talk to her, you walk up to her, you move up close, she looks into your eyes, and the words in your brain are somewhat along the lines of "Hello, I just wanted to say you are very pretty, I would like to know if you would go out with me sometime?"
But you actually say: "Hi, I have bread, do you like frogs? I have frogs... Ok bye..." and then you are likely to punch her or steal her books or whatever. The emotion is there, but the words don't match and so you can't say them. Simple, everybody's been there.
Off course, the words in your brain are NOT “Hello…-…sometime?” These words are merely what you deem most prudent and wise to spout at that specific point in time, given the restraints of modernity, fashion and common sense. After all “Tussen droom en daad staan wetten in de weg, en praktische bezwaren” (Transl: Between fantasy and reality laws intervene, and practical constraints)
The words that are actually, really, deeply in your head would most likely run along the lines of…(and here I launch in to something I have been wanting to say to someone for a long, long time but never have and never will, obviously, as most people would simply understand or think anyway, guess what, you are right)
“You, to me, are more than life itself, more than the world I exist in, more than the fantasies in which I do not. You are what I wake up for in the morning, dream of at night and think about when the sun burns all other thoughts out of my mind. Should you not be in this world, for me it has no reason, no honest explanation of what should be the simplest of equations. You are what I long for, yearn for during the absence of you. You are what I hate, I love, I loathe. You simply are my everything, my life, my boat, my meal, my bed. Be my knight and damsel, but be my dragon too, be the castle I protect, the army that lays siege, the washerwoman and the stain. Belong to me but never be my possession, ask me to be yours but hold no sway over my heart.”
This is what you cannot say because it will sound corny and stupid, but you think it, and someday you will wish to have said it anyway. And then you will.
This weekend, regretfully, I did not fall into a teenage crush. Quite, quite, the opposite actually. But still, no words to really describe it. I am going to try though, that I am.
My housemate invited me to go along to the local pool-hall with a former co-worker of hers, and I went. Somewhat against my better judgement, I admit. I had been planning on spending the evening in with a movie and some solitude, but I went out. Bad plan? Yes.
It started very, very quickly to go downhill form the moment I met the Co-worker. I am going to call her Slippers.
Slippers? Why Slippers? Because the first thing she wanted to do is swing by her house to put on her “dressy” flip-flops. (The dutch name for flip-flops is “slippers”, thus, slippers)
DRESSY flip-flops? What? WHAT? What the freaking screaming puppyrodgering disastrous dope-addled obscenity flinging FUCK is a dressy flip-flop? Flip-flops are, at best, a beach-apparel type thing. When I see a flip-flop wearer I am immediately trying to see if I can spot the roll of toilet-paper because these shoes are MEANT for walking to the communal toilets on a campsite.
Now, I know they are fashionable. I know people are wearing these things EVERYWHERE now. But really, does anybody actually think these things will ever be dressy? Will there ever be a black-tie event where people will be considering whether black-tie also means you should wear your patent leather flip-flops?
There will probably be, the world is fucked up enough to allow it…
But yes, she wanted to put on her dressy thongs (Australian for flip-flops). And why? Not to look nice or anything, but because, in her own words, “if she was going to step into glass it wouldn’t reach her foot”
What? What? Once more please? If you are scared of stepping in glass don’t wear footwear that leaves YOUR ENTIRE FOOT UNCOVERED!
Or, you know, don’t step into glass, that usually helps me. When I see shards of glass on the floor, I avoid them until I have a duster and pail or a damp towel or, best option, an employee of the establishment I am in to clean up the glass. Then, when I am satisfied the glass is all gone from that particular place, I will STILL NOT STAND THERE unless it really, really cannot be avoided.
And I will be wearing good, nice shoes, not flip-flops.
No worries, I can survive clothing stupidity. Sometimes… But I tried to do so this time. (failed, as you see the blog here before you that should show my coping with this situation has left me with some residual anger)
And then commenced a sextette of poolgames of such an atrociously low quality and standard that an entire pantheon of Gods of Pool has sprung into existence, been angered, smote the unbelievers, and submitted to regretful void once more in the space of two hours at most. Oh my god did she suck at this game.
Now, as in most things, in playing pool I consider myself average to fair. I might not be the bestest player in the world, and I to having a good deal of luck a good deal of the time, but occasionally I can pull of a shot that would invest some awe and wonderment in most onlookers. This, I think, is typical for most people.
Most people, but not this girl. This girl who has clearly “learned” to play pool as a seductive measure and never progressed beyond that point. Everything about here screamed “I need someone to lean over me and grab this stick for me so I can make a shot”
Which is all nice and well, but while playing with a girl and a man of questionable heterosexuality it might not be the best course of action, it might just, you know, really really really piss them off…
So, after a few games of giving helpful advise which was then absolutely ignored (try hitting the red one with the white one….) we gave up an cycled home.
But not before she managed to innocently and unknowingly put the last barbed sting in my already torn and beaten mental flesh… She discussed a pair of pants she bought which where “neutral coloured, and made of a shiny…fabric”
Honestly, my knuckles wrapped around the steering bar of my bike where so white I feared I would split my skin and eject bone-shards from my hands.
Neutral coloured… does…not….exist. Simply. Doesn’t. It can be grey, or khaki, or black, or blue, fair enough, but neutral coloured is nothing. NOTHING. It amounts to answering “plaid” when someone asks you your favourite colour.
I was so upset I could not get thing into words... my anger, should I have been able to force it past my vocal cords would have forced her to take her own life, but it resisted. All that came out was a meaningless string of letters and sounds. "the....s...ug...di...fn...th...tk..."
I am convinced that I was very, very close to discovering a new word there, a combination of letters never seen before that would nonetheless put all my emotions of hate, anger, rage and loathing into perspective en relevant coherence. I would merely have to mutter the word, "SFNU" and her brain would independently of the rest of her understand wha tit had done and self-implode.
Regretfully and painfully, I did not find the combination. But I will keep trying..
A good example of this is the well known tendency of fourteen year olds with their first crush to only be able to discuss cheeses and frogs while around the object of their affection. Which is sad, really, there you are, all of fourteen, in walks the most beautiful girl you have ever seen, blond hair shining in the slanting sunlight, skin as fresh as the dew on roses, desire fills your brain, your blood-cells become heart-shaped and fluttery, your heart drops into your stomach, which isn't that bad, because your stomach is in your throat, and your brain is doing loopings in azure skies over a tropical island.
And you pluck up the courage to talk to her, you walk up to her, you move up close, she looks into your eyes, and the words in your brain are somewhat along the lines of "Hello, I just wanted to say you are very pretty, I would like to know if you would go out with me sometime?"
But you actually say: "Hi, I have bread, do you like frogs? I have frogs... Ok bye..." and then you are likely to punch her or steal her books or whatever. The emotion is there, but the words don't match and so you can't say them. Simple, everybody's been there.
Off course, the words in your brain are NOT “Hello…-…sometime?” These words are merely what you deem most prudent and wise to spout at that specific point in time, given the restraints of modernity, fashion and common sense. After all “Tussen droom en daad staan wetten in de weg, en praktische bezwaren” (Transl: Between fantasy and reality laws intervene, and practical constraints)
The words that are actually, really, deeply in your head would most likely run along the lines of…(and here I launch in to something I have been wanting to say to someone for a long, long time but never have and never will, obviously, as most people would simply understand or think anyway, guess what, you are right)
“You, to me, are more than life itself, more than the world I exist in, more than the fantasies in which I do not. You are what I wake up for in the morning, dream of at night and think about when the sun burns all other thoughts out of my mind. Should you not be in this world, for me it has no reason, no honest explanation of what should be the simplest of equations. You are what I long for, yearn for during the absence of you. You are what I hate, I love, I loathe. You simply are my everything, my life, my boat, my meal, my bed. Be my knight and damsel, but be my dragon too, be the castle I protect, the army that lays siege, the washerwoman and the stain. Belong to me but never be my possession, ask me to be yours but hold no sway over my heart.”
This is what you cannot say because it will sound corny and stupid, but you think it, and someday you will wish to have said it anyway. And then you will.
This weekend, regretfully, I did not fall into a teenage crush. Quite, quite, the opposite actually. But still, no words to really describe it. I am going to try though, that I am.
My housemate invited me to go along to the local pool-hall with a former co-worker of hers, and I went. Somewhat against my better judgement, I admit. I had been planning on spending the evening in with a movie and some solitude, but I went out. Bad plan? Yes.
It started very, very quickly to go downhill form the moment I met the Co-worker. I am going to call her Slippers.
Slippers? Why Slippers? Because the first thing she wanted to do is swing by her house to put on her “dressy” flip-flops. (The dutch name for flip-flops is “slippers”, thus, slippers)
DRESSY flip-flops? What? WHAT? What the freaking screaming puppyrodgering disastrous dope-addled obscenity flinging FUCK is a dressy flip-flop? Flip-flops are, at best, a beach-apparel type thing. When I see a flip-flop wearer I am immediately trying to see if I can spot the roll of toilet-paper because these shoes are MEANT for walking to the communal toilets on a campsite.
Now, I know they are fashionable. I know people are wearing these things EVERYWHERE now. But really, does anybody actually think these things will ever be dressy? Will there ever be a black-tie event where people will be considering whether black-tie also means you should wear your patent leather flip-flops?
There will probably be, the world is fucked up enough to allow it…
But yes, she wanted to put on her dressy thongs (Australian for flip-flops). And why? Not to look nice or anything, but because, in her own words, “if she was going to step into glass it wouldn’t reach her foot”
What? What? Once more please? If you are scared of stepping in glass don’t wear footwear that leaves YOUR ENTIRE FOOT UNCOVERED!
Or, you know, don’t step into glass, that usually helps me. When I see shards of glass on the floor, I avoid them until I have a duster and pail or a damp towel or, best option, an employee of the establishment I am in to clean up the glass. Then, when I am satisfied the glass is all gone from that particular place, I will STILL NOT STAND THERE unless it really, really cannot be avoided.
And I will be wearing good, nice shoes, not flip-flops.
No worries, I can survive clothing stupidity. Sometimes… But I tried to do so this time. (failed, as you see the blog here before you that should show my coping with this situation has left me with some residual anger)
And then commenced a sextette of poolgames of such an atrociously low quality and standard that an entire pantheon of Gods of Pool has sprung into existence, been angered, smote the unbelievers, and submitted to regretful void once more in the space of two hours at most. Oh my god did she suck at this game.
Now, as in most things, in playing pool I consider myself average to fair. I might not be the bestest player in the world, and I to having a good deal of luck a good deal of the time, but occasionally I can pull of a shot that would invest some awe and wonderment in most onlookers. This, I think, is typical for most people.
Most people, but not this girl. This girl who has clearly “learned” to play pool as a seductive measure and never progressed beyond that point. Everything about here screamed “I need someone to lean over me and grab this stick for me so I can make a shot”
Which is all nice and well, but while playing with a girl and a man of questionable heterosexuality it might not be the best course of action, it might just, you know, really really really piss them off…
So, after a few games of giving helpful advise which was then absolutely ignored (try hitting the red one with the white one….) we gave up an cycled home.
But not before she managed to innocently and unknowingly put the last barbed sting in my already torn and beaten mental flesh… She discussed a pair of pants she bought which where “neutral coloured, and made of a shiny…fabric”
Honestly, my knuckles wrapped around the steering bar of my bike where so white I feared I would split my skin and eject bone-shards from my hands.
Neutral coloured… does…not….exist. Simply. Doesn’t. It can be grey, or khaki, or black, or blue, fair enough, but neutral coloured is nothing. NOTHING. It amounts to answering “plaid” when someone asks you your favourite colour.
I was so upset I could not get thing into words... my anger, should I have been able to force it past my vocal cords would have forced her to take her own life, but it resisted. All that came out was a meaningless string of letters and sounds. "the....s...ug...di...fn...th...tk..."
I am convinced that I was very, very close to discovering a new word there, a combination of letters never seen before that would nonetheless put all my emotions of hate, anger, rage and loathing into perspective en relevant coherence. I would merely have to mutter the word, "SFNU" and her brain would independently of the rest of her understand wha tit had done and self-implode.
Regretfully and painfully, I did not find the combination. But I will keep trying..
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Mindfuck movie and the blackening of my name
Aaaaah yes, mindfuck movies. I love them. Movies that leave a person reeling, with too much to think about and too little answers. And there are quite a few of them, to be sure. I can mention Yeux d'Enfants, or The Dreamers, but even Lord of War or Party Monster can induce the general feeling of disorientation and the inclination towards cogitation.
And now, I can safely add Hard Candy to my lists.
And yes, righteously so. Now I am not saying that it is a technically great movie, and it might, will, not be everybody's cup of tea.
But the subject matter is great. It does remind me of Death and the Maiden, and righteously so, but sometimes there is a message that cannot be told too often, or too rigorously. Sometimes lessons do need to be learned by everybody.
This is a movie about pedosexuality, the sexual attraction to children. Now, in basics, I have nothing against those who are attracted to children. I see sexual preference in any way as no different or inherently better than others. Such is my thing in life. Hetero, Homo, Lesbian, the wish to be rogered by horses or ducks, all the same to me. I can and will not judge or punish anyone for his preference.
That being said, and I hope people are still reading this and see me explain my point, I am only talking about PREFERENCE. I can and will judge, and if necessary punish you for the ACTIONS you take to alleviate your yearnings.
Example: If one fancies sex with women, one can have sex with emotionally and physically available women, or one can shake hands with the bishop to any number of websites, or internal fantasies. No harm done either way.
Example2: Should one fancy sex with horses, one can buy a house next to a stable and spend one's days polishing the one eyed gopher to their hearts content and the sounds of whinnying and hooving. No worries. TOUCH a horse in a way you are not ONE FREAKING HUNDRED percent sure the horse wants to be touched and you should be punished.
Same applies to children. One cannot help a preference, no harm. You can move next to a school and listen to them play all day, no worries. You could even make pictures of children, perhaps, and "utilize" these for your pleasure, although I find this questionable, but if there is no way whatsoever that the child should ever know about this, fair enough.
But touch a child, watch child-porn (where a child has been touched) or do anything to cause harm to a child, and death should come on swiftest wings, albeit after extensive torture.
And don't get me wrong, I am not talking about a sixteen year old who knows damn well what he is doing but is by law deemed out of your reach. Arbitrary choices concerning ages of consent interest me not.
I am talking about those that are physically and emotionally too young or weak (when compared to yourself) to resist, put up a fight, or verbally or otherwise counter your desires.
If my point is unclear, I am willing to expand, this is a subject I would hate to be misinterpreted on. Please message me if you think I am too obtuse or unclear.
But, back to the movie, the movie is about a 32 year old man and a 14 year old girl who meet after a few weeks of chatting online. From the start it is clear that these two have plans on each other, and that He is enough of a predator to make use of the fact that She clearly wants to look older and braver than she really is.
He gets Her home, and the fun starts. And with fun, I mean mindfucking.
I am not going to go into details here, not because it will spoil the movie, the movie itself advertises quite clearly what is going to happen and multiple reviews have "given away" a few of it's surprises, so me spoiling it a bit won't hurt that much. It's just that details are inconsequential to the main part of the feeling this movie will hit you with.
The acting, simply put, is phenomenal. The girl especially handles the numerous close ups in a way that had chills run down my spine. Cinematography is very important here, the location and light have been used to it's best advantage, and very beautifully so.
The movie is uncomfortable, much of it is filmed in extreme close-up, and it is intimate and private in a way not many movies dare to be. I think there were only five "real" parts in the entire movie, and I am counting the waiter, so that says something. And yet it works. The closeness and intimacy make the situations more personal, one feels like one is looking in on something that one should not be seeing. It makes it all more real, acceptable.
Which is good, in a bad way.
See this movie, seriously, it is better, much, much better, than all the no-brained crap that is filling the theatres at this point in time, and it WILL give you something to talk about.
On another, more personal note, one can finally google my name and come up with results! Seriously. I'll save you the trouble, I'll give you the link. www.tele2nee.nl .
It's in Dutch, and I won't go into context, but suffice it to say I am pictured as a customer service employee that has kicked, raped and dismembered a Mormon tabernacle choir during a interview with a customer.
Great stuff, really. See it to believe it. I did post a comment, I hope he leaves it up there, otherwise I will repost here, but it will be in Dutch.
I don't actually think I have much native English readers, but it is nice to dream, is it not?
Grtz,
Kevin.
And now, I can safely add Hard Candy to my lists.
And yes, righteously so. Now I am not saying that it is a technically great movie, and it might, will, not be everybody's cup of tea.
But the subject matter is great. It does remind me of Death and the Maiden, and righteously so, but sometimes there is a message that cannot be told too often, or too rigorously. Sometimes lessons do need to be learned by everybody.
This is a movie about pedosexuality, the sexual attraction to children. Now, in basics, I have nothing against those who are attracted to children. I see sexual preference in any way as no different or inherently better than others. Such is my thing in life. Hetero, Homo, Lesbian, the wish to be rogered by horses or ducks, all the same to me. I can and will not judge or punish anyone for his preference.
That being said, and I hope people are still reading this and see me explain my point, I am only talking about PREFERENCE. I can and will judge, and if necessary punish you for the ACTIONS you take to alleviate your yearnings.
Example: If one fancies sex with women, one can have sex with emotionally and physically available women, or one can shake hands with the bishop to any number of websites, or internal fantasies. No harm done either way.
Example2: Should one fancy sex with horses, one can buy a house next to a stable and spend one's days polishing the one eyed gopher to their hearts content and the sounds of whinnying and hooving. No worries. TOUCH a horse in a way you are not ONE FREAKING HUNDRED percent sure the horse wants to be touched and you should be punished.
Same applies to children. One cannot help a preference, no harm. You can move next to a school and listen to them play all day, no worries. You could even make pictures of children, perhaps, and "utilize" these for your pleasure, although I find this questionable, but if there is no way whatsoever that the child should ever know about this, fair enough.
But touch a child, watch child-porn (where a child has been touched) or do anything to cause harm to a child, and death should come on swiftest wings, albeit after extensive torture.
And don't get me wrong, I am not talking about a sixteen year old who knows damn well what he is doing but is by law deemed out of your reach. Arbitrary choices concerning ages of consent interest me not.
I am talking about those that are physically and emotionally too young or weak (when compared to yourself) to resist, put up a fight, or verbally or otherwise counter your desires.
If my point is unclear, I am willing to expand, this is a subject I would hate to be misinterpreted on. Please message me if you think I am too obtuse or unclear.
But, back to the movie, the movie is about a 32 year old man and a 14 year old girl who meet after a few weeks of chatting online. From the start it is clear that these two have plans on each other, and that He is enough of a predator to make use of the fact that She clearly wants to look older and braver than she really is.
He gets Her home, and the fun starts. And with fun, I mean mindfucking.
I am not going to go into details here, not because it will spoil the movie, the movie itself advertises quite clearly what is going to happen and multiple reviews have "given away" a few of it's surprises, so me spoiling it a bit won't hurt that much. It's just that details are inconsequential to the main part of the feeling this movie will hit you with.
The acting, simply put, is phenomenal. The girl especially handles the numerous close ups in a way that had chills run down my spine. Cinematography is very important here, the location and light have been used to it's best advantage, and very beautifully so.
The movie is uncomfortable, much of it is filmed in extreme close-up, and it is intimate and private in a way not many movies dare to be. I think there were only five "real" parts in the entire movie, and I am counting the waiter, so that says something. And yet it works. The closeness and intimacy make the situations more personal, one feels like one is looking in on something that one should not be seeing. It makes it all more real, acceptable.
Which is good, in a bad way.
See this movie, seriously, it is better, much, much better, than all the no-brained crap that is filling the theatres at this point in time, and it WILL give you something to talk about.
On another, more personal note, one can finally google my name and come up with results! Seriously. I'll save you the trouble, I'll give you the link. www.tele2nee.nl .
It's in Dutch, and I won't go into context, but suffice it to say I am pictured as a customer service employee that has kicked, raped and dismembered a Mormon tabernacle choir during a interview with a customer.
Great stuff, really. See it to believe it. I did post a comment, I hope he leaves it up there, otherwise I will repost here, but it will be in Dutch.
I don't actually think I have much native English readers, but it is nice to dream, is it not?
Grtz,
Kevin.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Walk-out
Last weeks I have been to a number of movies. This is not in itself really that interesting, because I go to a number of movies each week. Last week though, I went to a movie I walked out on. This does not happen. Ever. The movie can’t be so bad that I will try to sit it through, watch for a silver lining, see if there is anyone cute enough to stick around for. This usually gets me through the hour and a half most movies measure.
And this week has been an interesting movie week. Some movies I’d been looking forward to, some I have NOT been looking forward to but still enjoyed, and THAT movie, the movie that made me physically ill.
And the movie in question you ask? What movie was so bad you had to walk? What movie should we avoid?
I’ll tell you, even though mentioning the movie or typing it’s name summons up waves of pain and nausea from my poor little wrecked body. Because that’s the kind of person I am, I sacrifice much of myself for you, my gentle readers.
Ok, here goes.
The Break-Up.
Ouch… pain… pain.. I am trying to type even though my fingers are cramping and spasming, even though my head threatens to explode, even though my heart is throbbing with despair and my blood sings songs of retribution and violence.
This movie is BAD. Not badly acted, because it was actually quite well acted, not badly scripted, because it was very well scripted, not badly filmed, because, well, you get the drift.
And perhaps this movie would have been better if it had even the one technical flaw, even the one highly improbable scene, even a character that was a little out there, but it hadn’t. And precisely that makes it insufferable.
The premise of the movie is a break-up, two people who have been in a relationship for a while but when cracks begin to show try to make each-others lives a hell in a small condo in a big town.
Which is a good premise, everyone has had a break-up, so it’s instantly recognizable, and a lot of good movies have come from break ups. War of the Roses, She-Devil, Scorned, I can name a few. Only one of those three was actually a good movie, but ALL THREE were better than the pile of drivelled manure that is The Break-Up.
As I said, I walked out of the movie, so I have only seen the first thirty minutes, but those were enough to fill my heart with a specific type of pain I was ready to kill myself to get rid of.
Why? Well, simple. A good break-up movie is a movie about a relationship between two people whom you like enough to want to see them happy, but where you can also see that both are wrong enough for each other that you can look forward to a good deal of snideness and righteous indignation.
And what is the bad thing here? Simple, there is a couple, who are bad for each other. Or basically, there is a couple, and HE is bad for HER. He is, quite simply, the most annoying, aggravating, ungratefull piece of shite ever to be vomited out of the malignant braintumor of a screenwriters godlessly sentient afterbirth.
In the 30 minutes I watched I have seen him crash on a couch and pull of his shoes five minutes before the dinner party his wife had painstakingly set up, only to quickly go showering just when the guests arrive so as not to have to help her in any specific way. This is annoying to say the least, and with annoying I mean that if my boyfriend should ever try that I will personally nail his balls to a stucco’d wall and let him know that the fire ants are on their way.
He also managed to PURPOSEFULLY fuck up a simple request the girlfriend asked of him, got out from setting the table by using the “but if you do it you’ll get the accomplishment of doing something all by yourself”, and to hazzle up a ongoing conversation about a pool table that nearly had me in tears, of anger, rage, and sadness.
Oh, by the way, should any of you be considering a relationship with me, or find yourself in such a situation (my heart bleeds for you) and you use the abovementioned excuse (“…all by yourself…”) I will personally kill you, your family, your friends, your pets, the friends of your friends and your favourite supermarket cashier. I will then proceed to delve into the black arts, resurrect you and yours, and start over.
Now usually when someone threatens someone else, the reaction is “I’d like to see you try” and in this case I can honestly tell you: “no, you would not see me try, because I will kill you before you have seen me. And If I won’t kill you soon, I will tear out your eyes, and still you will not see me try.”
I hated this movie. And I don’t hate. Really. People say I have too good a worldview, I can forgive almost everything I have watched a mormon mother disown her gay son and all I could think was that this person wanted the best for her kid within the view she had of the world. So I couldn’t hate her, just feel sad. But I HATE this movie. I was sad, true, but mostly I felt a distinct flaming bout of despisement. Honestly, I hated this movie enough for me to completely cut through all ties with whomever expressed a liking to this movie. If any of my friends or family would have said they liked this load of crap I would kick them out of my house and my life.
Well, this is it, for now, I will try to do more movies soon, but my fingers are raw and bloody from doing this movie. Which I hated. (I’m sorry but I did)
Regards,
Kevin.
And this week has been an interesting movie week. Some movies I’d been looking forward to, some I have NOT been looking forward to but still enjoyed, and THAT movie, the movie that made me physically ill.
And the movie in question you ask? What movie was so bad you had to walk? What movie should we avoid?
I’ll tell you, even though mentioning the movie or typing it’s name summons up waves of pain and nausea from my poor little wrecked body. Because that’s the kind of person I am, I sacrifice much of myself for you, my gentle readers.
Ok, here goes.
The Break-Up.
Ouch… pain… pain.. I am trying to type even though my fingers are cramping and spasming, even though my head threatens to explode, even though my heart is throbbing with despair and my blood sings songs of retribution and violence.
This movie is BAD. Not badly acted, because it was actually quite well acted, not badly scripted, because it was very well scripted, not badly filmed, because, well, you get the drift.
And perhaps this movie would have been better if it had even the one technical flaw, even the one highly improbable scene, even a character that was a little out there, but it hadn’t. And precisely that makes it insufferable.
The premise of the movie is a break-up, two people who have been in a relationship for a while but when cracks begin to show try to make each-others lives a hell in a small condo in a big town.
Which is a good premise, everyone has had a break-up, so it’s instantly recognizable, and a lot of good movies have come from break ups. War of the Roses, She-Devil, Scorned, I can name a few. Only one of those three was actually a good movie, but ALL THREE were better than the pile of drivelled manure that is The Break-Up.
As I said, I walked out of the movie, so I have only seen the first thirty minutes, but those were enough to fill my heart with a specific type of pain I was ready to kill myself to get rid of.
Why? Well, simple. A good break-up movie is a movie about a relationship between two people whom you like enough to want to see them happy, but where you can also see that both are wrong enough for each other that you can look forward to a good deal of snideness and righteous indignation.
And what is the bad thing here? Simple, there is a couple, who are bad for each other. Or basically, there is a couple, and HE is bad for HER. He is, quite simply, the most annoying, aggravating, ungratefull piece of shite ever to be vomited out of the malignant braintumor of a screenwriters godlessly sentient afterbirth.
In the 30 minutes I watched I have seen him crash on a couch and pull of his shoes five minutes before the dinner party his wife had painstakingly set up, only to quickly go showering just when the guests arrive so as not to have to help her in any specific way. This is annoying to say the least, and with annoying I mean that if my boyfriend should ever try that I will personally nail his balls to a stucco’d wall and let him know that the fire ants are on their way.
He also managed to PURPOSEFULLY fuck up a simple request the girlfriend asked of him, got out from setting the table by using the “but if you do it you’ll get the accomplishment of doing something all by yourself”, and to hazzle up a ongoing conversation about a pool table that nearly had me in tears, of anger, rage, and sadness.
Oh, by the way, should any of you be considering a relationship with me, or find yourself in such a situation (my heart bleeds for you) and you use the abovementioned excuse (“…all by yourself…”) I will personally kill you, your family, your friends, your pets, the friends of your friends and your favourite supermarket cashier. I will then proceed to delve into the black arts, resurrect you and yours, and start over.
Now usually when someone threatens someone else, the reaction is “I’d like to see you try” and in this case I can honestly tell you: “no, you would not see me try, because I will kill you before you have seen me. And If I won’t kill you soon, I will tear out your eyes, and still you will not see me try.”
I hated this movie. And I don’t hate. Really. People say I have too good a worldview, I can forgive almost everything I have watched a mormon mother disown her gay son and all I could think was that this person wanted the best for her kid within the view she had of the world. So I couldn’t hate her, just feel sad. But I HATE this movie. I was sad, true, but mostly I felt a distinct flaming bout of despisement. Honestly, I hated this movie enough for me to completely cut through all ties with whomever expressed a liking to this movie. If any of my friends or family would have said they liked this load of crap I would kick them out of my house and my life.
Well, this is it, for now, I will try to do more movies soon, but my fingers are raw and bloody from doing this movie. Which I hated. (I’m sorry but I did)
Regards,
Kevin.
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