Weight was gained by me. Not a lot of it, and not unappreciated at that, but gained nonetheless. The weight in question is attributable to a small, light blue and very fake gemstone, set in a metal bar.
This bar, then, now resides jammed in the curve of my right ear.
I, of reasonably sound mind and soon to be desecrated (some more) body, had decided to get my ear pierced. A plan I had been running around with for a while now, but finally decided needed to come to fruition.
A bout of internetty research and suchlike taught me about the pros and cons, as well as some of the hygienic consequences of having a piece of metal forcefully injected in a part of ones body. A talk with the multipiercedness that is Housemate taught me of how to gauge the relative painfulness and some of the techniques used as seen from a receptive perspective. Last but not at all least where the talks with Boyfriend about whether it might be a tremendously bad idea.
All these things together, but surely most the input of Housemate and Boyfriend, combined with a last-moment coin-toss made me reasonably sure of my intent here. There was a piece of metal out there with my name on it, so to speak.
The internetty research continued then, after all, like having a tattoo set, you want this done by people you at least trust well enough to handle your body in a very intimate way, and in a place you can walk into without feeling scared or apprehensive. A calm mind and body after all are very conductive to a pleasant experience, in as much as it is possible when somebody is going to insert a foreign object in a place on you.
But I found a place. Dare2wear. (www.dare2wear.info, not quite sure if I am right to point you towards it here, but hey, good word of mouth is good word of mouth after all) What drew me to these people first of all was the amount of information they had on their site about the process, which I highly appreciated. I also liked the style of jewellery they import and have available. Calling them for more information landed me on their answering machine and the voice on it was very nice, which really cemented me in my choice.
So off I went, accompanied by the magnificence that is Boyfriend (Who is making me breakfast as I type this… I gush…) who had very kindly offered to advance me the money needed for this undertaking as my salary had not been actually arrived in my accounts and I am very much a “decision made, action NOW” person.
Arriving at a close door in first instance, as they proprietress of the store had stepped out for a few minutes. In all fairness, a good thing. As this was my first piercing I was rather nervous, had completely neglected to eat anything of any substance, and needed to pee like there was no tomorrow. Also, Boyfriend still needed to get me the promised money or at least have it in is wallet so I could feel like a good kept boy. So, anyways, having ingested an apple, a snickers bar and having had no pee whatsoever, we tried the store again, and it was open now.
A small store, with jewellery on the walls and in display cabinets. There was a girl in before me getting something pierced as well, and the general demeanour and outlook of the person doing the piercing was again very reassuring, moving around her tools with reference and explaining what she was doing very well. I was not sorry I chose this place. And am still not, at this point in time, all be it only a day after the fact.
So, the way cleared before me to get my poor ear hurt beyond all hurt it has ever experienced, I discussed my intentions with the women going to do the hurting. She was very advisory about different options before me, ring or bar, and the healing properties and likelihoods of both. Deciding on a bar, providing it could be sparkly, I signed the documentation and wavers stating I knew roughly what I was doing, and sat down to pick a colour of my sparkly bit.
I picked a dark red ball, my hair was pinned out of the way and selected from the tray of tools was a wooden toothpick. I must have looked momentarily frightened, as a swift explanation was given about the toothpick, namely that is was to be used to mark the spot where the needle was eventually going to pierce the pristine delicacy of my cartilage. Marked, disinfected and ready I awaited the needle.
Taking care of my breathing, explaining all that she was doing, the good person ready to insert a new hole on my body picked up her needle and put it against my ear, then swiftly putting it through a couple of layers of skin and bone.
I am not going to pretend it didn’t hurt, because it did. I am going to try to give you a sort of situational ketch of where I would place the hurt, roughly indicated by the response given to a hurt, in a sort of rough list.
· Banging your head on a kitchen cabinet: “AuCRAPDAMMITFOCKINGKITCHENTHIGNAUAUAU…*teary eyed*Au…crap.. mutter… au.
· Cutting your finger: “Au..Au.. AUAUAUAUAUAUAUFUCKAUDAMMITAUUUUAUITELLSYAAU..AU…au…”
· Getting pierced: „AU!auw..auw..auw..auw..“
· Getting a scraped knee: „Shhhhhhh.... Crap. Au.
· Getting tattoo’d: Hmmm, this is ok, this is ok, this is ok, this is ok, this is UNPLEASANT…UNPLEASANT….UNPLEASANT…Oh, this is ok again, this is ok..”
So as can be seen above, I would rate getting pierced at roughly halfway through the list of “things that hurt” as far as hurting is considered.
Anyways, out goes the needle, in goes the little bar, and on should have gone the sparkly bit.
One good/bad thing here was the fact that the little red sparkly bit that was supposed to go on the end of the little bar in my ear wasn’t designed to do just that. It was designed to go on a ring. But I have no ring in my ear at this point, I have a bar. The mortified piercer starts going through her box o’ sparkly bits, and I along with her, selecting ones that have all seemed to have suddenly lost their holes. Now lest this smacks of unproffessionality, not checking in advance, I have to say I actually really appreciated this time. It took my mind off the piece of metal in my ear, and I had very little difficulty relaxing and moving on in the situation, and it was clearly not the fault of the piercer.
I decided that another colour was just as well for me, after all, I am planning to amass a collection of piercings, and I could (and very likely will) always go back to retry getting my dark red body enhancement. So a sparkly blue was selected, screwed unto my new airport detector issue. (typing this I suddenly realise I have to fly to Munich in a week and this thing is not supposed to go out for the next two months or so… Interesting. Well, it will not be a problem)
Anyways, bar and ball firmly in their bleeding place, my hair was let loose again and immediately covered this new unbalance of my body. This was designed to happen, as I am not about to cut my hair anytime soon and the piercing was and is supposed to be only seen every now and then when I sweep my hair back. (those who know me know I do this all the time, but hey, a boy has to have it’s pretence of discretion) But it still felt like kind of a shame to cover it straight away. Another customer suggested I could just get a really long bar, but I decided the Madonna look would never really be mine.
Anyways, the hair also kept prying eyes of the fact I had a very bloody ear. Well, slightly bloody, but for an ear that has never been bloody since the midwife washed it clean, it feels like a lot of blood. I did decide to not wash the blood off straight away, but to give the piercing and the wound around it some time to get used to each other, and the skin some time to close around the metal stranger. This might not be everybody’s, but I am happy with this tack, sure, I had a bloody ear the rest of the night, but this morning there is little or no swelling and almost no pain, and it feels clean, so to speak, even though I am not touching the piercing yet. About to go shower, so I might add something to this blog about excrutiating pain sometime soon.
So I am pierced now, a little extra bit of sparkle in my ear, and I am mighty pleased. I would point everyone who decides to do the same to Dare 2 Wear, as my experience with the store was excellent.
I am now off to by some antibacterial soap and one of those plastic light-shades they put over dogs’ heads when they had surgery. Not so much for myself, but my great and wonderful boyfriend (who really poaches a mean egg, must be said) has accidentally brushed, and in some instances actually put his hand right on, my new addition, and since it is still rather sore, this needs to end.
Signing off for now, And stripes at 11001, which config symbolises the now partial imbalance of my face, as the piercing is to the right. Superficially as I am, I picked the right ear because my left eyebrow is better and I didn’t want the right side to feel left out.
Greetings,
Kevin.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
“La plus expresse marque de la sagesse, c'est une esjouissance constante”
Which translates roughly as “That which best denotes wisdom is constant enjoyment”?
I have long considered having the French phrase above tattooed somewhere on my body, as a reminder that life is a gift that can only be truly appreciated in all it’s facets when taken with wisdom, knowledge and the willingness to learn.
On the other hand, I am 25 years old now, hardly have my life in order, still a little damp behind my ears because I have no idea how to pick out a good towel. What claim have I got to wisdom? A favorite quote of mine denotes knowledge as knowing a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom as knowing not to use it in a fruit salad. Wisdom therefore knowing how to use the information stored in a brain.
Current philosophical theorizing gives wisdom as a more developed form of common sense, the ability to use available knowledge to come to good judgment.
Knowledge I possess, some useful, some less so, but what of wisdom then? Can I make a claim of being wise? As the song has it, I have studied the poets and the analysts, and searched through the occasional book on human behaviour (which I will remain spelling with that blasted “u” no matter what my spell-check has to say about it).
Yet I feel no closer to wisdom. Perhaps because of the reading and movies I have done and seen, in fact.
Literature and film give us a veritable deluge of characters and types who possess a wisdom given to them by learning, age and experience. Merlin and Viviane from Arthurian legend, The Dark Crystal’s Mystics and Audra, Christianities three wise men who understood to follow the star to Jesus’ birthplace, and a score of teachers, guides, sages and whatnot more. How can one not be daunted?
Especially in a time when showings of common sense seem few and far between, in global life as well as daily life. This statement is very hypocritical, and yet not so. If I myself do not always follow the dictions of common sense, can I expect others to do so in my stead? Perhaps not. In the same breath, if others do not follow the advisors on their shoulders well, can I be expected to do so?
Echoes of my mother swirl through my brain typing that, asking me if I would jump of a bridge if everybody else did, and my valiant denial of doing just that tries bravely to outdo their clamor.
I was planning on using a certain much maligned but re-chosen head of state as an example of the lack of common sense in the world. I will not, mostly because the man has had enough shit poured over him in the last few years, and because that horse is well and truly dead. But also because I myself live in a country almost famous for a certain type of government, that now seems unable to form any type of government. It used to be that elections were held occasionally, and that problems arising could be solved internally. The fall of a cabinet was a rare thing that would be met with derision and scorn.
But now, the last three cabinets have fallen. Where elections used to be held every four years, the first cabinet of our current interim minister lasted for all of 87 days.
Can we as a country not seem to be able to muster the information and experience needed to make a good decision? Apparently not.
And is this strange? A while ago I was with some friends in a bar. In this bar also was a table filled with late studenty type people. Some of these people decided to leave early, but paid for their drinks not with the waitress that had been serving them, but at a bar at the other side of the building. So obviously, when the waitress camee with the bill, the drinks of the early departees were still on it. And the stragglers refused to pay. And the waitress, with no real way to confirm the drinks paid for at the other bar were in fact the drinks that were now surplus on her accounts untill the registers were made up that evening, didn’t really want to take them of the receipt.
And this entire situation was easily avoidable had one, just, only, merely one of the people at the table rubbed two braincells together and tell their friends to just leave the money so the bill could be paid in full. Really, one just wants to start banging heads together, but one also fears it would do little damage.
And I myself am not always much better. Last Christmas Boyfriend and myself had what could be described as a “little spat”. I am a good deal more flirty and physical than he is with friends, and this makes him somewhat uncomfortable. Well, my side makes him uncomfortable, his side he is fine with.
This is known and understood, and yet the situation ended up with me kissing someone else right in front of him. In jest, and total jest, but still this is something I should have realized would upset him greatly, and I really should just have not done that. I didn’t realize, though, and I did. And it, predictably, did.
So why did it happen? I had the knowledge of his discomfort, but apparently not the wisdom to stop it from happening? Sure I thought it would not be a big deal, and for me, it really would not have been. But I should still have taken his feelings into account more, and not judge him as I judge myself. The knowledge was there, but using it effectively was far beyond me at that point.
There is even a high likelihood he will less than appreciate finding this little tidbit retold here, which goes to show even more that I should not make much claims to wisdom. On the other hand, we have weathered that particular storm without much damage to property, and are still going strong together, so perhaps I can break the occasional jug here.
Epicurus stated that the way to happiness in life was to create and maintain a state of sensory satisfaction. He did not, as is commonly misunderstood, advocate indulgence, he merely advised that to remain happy one should ensure that the senses are fulfilled and that this fulfillment can go on. By indulging one overfeeds, and thus creates dissatisfaction when the indulgence ends.
This to me seems a good way to handle things. And, given the title of this piece, a wise way. To ensure that you can fulfill your desires as and when they come up, but to not overly train them into inevitable dissatisfaction sounds to me like an enjoyable way of living.
And enjoyment, as said, is a good indicator of wisdom.
In the end, I don’t think I will ever feel any closer to wisdom than I feel right now. Wisdom is not a constant in anybodies life, it is something that comes and goes. Good decisions can be made by arguably less wise people, and the other way around can occur quite easily as well. All I can do and will try to do is to use what little knowledge I gain, and use it to the best of my abilities.
This does mean that it will for a while yet remain presumptuous of me to take the quote that started this all and use it as a tattoo. I am as yet unsure of what will replace it, as I do want to have another inking done, but hey, I am young still, this will come with time.
Until we are there, stripes at 01100: “Enjoy”,
Kevin
I have long considered having the French phrase above tattooed somewhere on my body, as a reminder that life is a gift that can only be truly appreciated in all it’s facets when taken with wisdom, knowledge and the willingness to learn.
On the other hand, I am 25 years old now, hardly have my life in order, still a little damp behind my ears because I have no idea how to pick out a good towel. What claim have I got to wisdom? A favorite quote of mine denotes knowledge as knowing a tomato is a fruit, and wisdom as knowing not to use it in a fruit salad. Wisdom therefore knowing how to use the information stored in a brain.
Current philosophical theorizing gives wisdom as a more developed form of common sense, the ability to use available knowledge to come to good judgment.
Knowledge I possess, some useful, some less so, but what of wisdom then? Can I make a claim of being wise? As the song has it, I have studied the poets and the analysts, and searched through the occasional book on human behaviour (which I will remain spelling with that blasted “u” no matter what my spell-check has to say about it).
Yet I feel no closer to wisdom. Perhaps because of the reading and movies I have done and seen, in fact.
Literature and film give us a veritable deluge of characters and types who possess a wisdom given to them by learning, age and experience. Merlin and Viviane from Arthurian legend, The Dark Crystal’s Mystics and Audra, Christianities three wise men who understood to follow the star to Jesus’ birthplace, and a score of teachers, guides, sages and whatnot more. How can one not be daunted?
Especially in a time when showings of common sense seem few and far between, in global life as well as daily life. This statement is very hypocritical, and yet not so. If I myself do not always follow the dictions of common sense, can I expect others to do so in my stead? Perhaps not. In the same breath, if others do not follow the advisors on their shoulders well, can I be expected to do so?
Echoes of my mother swirl through my brain typing that, asking me if I would jump of a bridge if everybody else did, and my valiant denial of doing just that tries bravely to outdo their clamor.
I was planning on using a certain much maligned but re-chosen head of state as an example of the lack of common sense in the world. I will not, mostly because the man has had enough shit poured over him in the last few years, and because that horse is well and truly dead. But also because I myself live in a country almost famous for a certain type of government, that now seems unable to form any type of government. It used to be that elections were held occasionally, and that problems arising could be solved internally. The fall of a cabinet was a rare thing that would be met with derision and scorn.
But now, the last three cabinets have fallen. Where elections used to be held every four years, the first cabinet of our current interim minister lasted for all of 87 days.
Can we as a country not seem to be able to muster the information and experience needed to make a good decision? Apparently not.
And is this strange? A while ago I was with some friends in a bar. In this bar also was a table filled with late studenty type people. Some of these people decided to leave early, but paid for their drinks not with the waitress that had been serving them, but at a bar at the other side of the building. So obviously, when the waitress camee with the bill, the drinks of the early departees were still on it. And the stragglers refused to pay. And the waitress, with no real way to confirm the drinks paid for at the other bar were in fact the drinks that were now surplus on her accounts untill the registers were made up that evening, didn’t really want to take them of the receipt.
And this entire situation was easily avoidable had one, just, only, merely one of the people at the table rubbed two braincells together and tell their friends to just leave the money so the bill could be paid in full. Really, one just wants to start banging heads together, but one also fears it would do little damage.
And I myself am not always much better. Last Christmas Boyfriend and myself had what could be described as a “little spat”. I am a good deal more flirty and physical than he is with friends, and this makes him somewhat uncomfortable. Well, my side makes him uncomfortable, his side he is fine with.
This is known and understood, and yet the situation ended up with me kissing someone else right in front of him. In jest, and total jest, but still this is something I should have realized would upset him greatly, and I really should just have not done that. I didn’t realize, though, and I did. And it, predictably, did.
So why did it happen? I had the knowledge of his discomfort, but apparently not the wisdom to stop it from happening? Sure I thought it would not be a big deal, and for me, it really would not have been. But I should still have taken his feelings into account more, and not judge him as I judge myself. The knowledge was there, but using it effectively was far beyond me at that point.
There is even a high likelihood he will less than appreciate finding this little tidbit retold here, which goes to show even more that I should not make much claims to wisdom. On the other hand, we have weathered that particular storm without much damage to property, and are still going strong together, so perhaps I can break the occasional jug here.
Epicurus stated that the way to happiness in life was to create and maintain a state of sensory satisfaction. He did not, as is commonly misunderstood, advocate indulgence, he merely advised that to remain happy one should ensure that the senses are fulfilled and that this fulfillment can go on. By indulging one overfeeds, and thus creates dissatisfaction when the indulgence ends.
This to me seems a good way to handle things. And, given the title of this piece, a wise way. To ensure that you can fulfill your desires as and when they come up, but to not overly train them into inevitable dissatisfaction sounds to me like an enjoyable way of living.
And enjoyment, as said, is a good indicator of wisdom.
In the end, I don’t think I will ever feel any closer to wisdom than I feel right now. Wisdom is not a constant in anybodies life, it is something that comes and goes. Good decisions can be made by arguably less wise people, and the other way around can occur quite easily as well. All I can do and will try to do is to use what little knowledge I gain, and use it to the best of my abilities.
This does mean that it will for a while yet remain presumptuous of me to take the quote that started this all and use it as a tattoo. I am as yet unsure of what will replace it, as I do want to have another inking done, but hey, I am young still, this will come with time.
Until we are there, stripes at 01100: “Enjoy”,
Kevin
Monday, February 12, 2007
On pressure and old structures, felt and visited
I have been remarkably remiss in my blogging lately, for which I apologize. The reason for my nonblogginess is not that very little happened to write about, but that more than enough happened to write about, and I felt pressured by myself to give you people as chronological a recounting as possible. Since this is hardly a real possibility for me, I write better about the things that just happened as they are still fresh in my mind, I got stuck.
So I decided to start of the new, non chronological blogging with a random rant, after which I will try to writ things in the order whit which they occur in my somewhat convoluted brain. That way, I ensure a reasonable blogging thickness, with a good chance of a rant every now and then, and some actual views into my strange but energizing life.
On whiz ze zchow…
A few weekends ago I, for the first real time in my life, had the choice to do the Bridget Jones thing and go away with Boyfriend for a weekend mini-break. More specifically, a weekend mini-break to London. Since I like London very much, and I like Boyfriend even more so, this was not a chance I would let pass, obviously. Given the fact he was also volunteering to pay for things there, providing I would just pay to actually get there, I was not going to complain about the situation anytime soon.
As it turns out, a friend of him lived in London, so we had a place to crash, and this for the small price of taking them out for a good dinner.
So plans were made, and guestrooms were appropriated. What was also done was the booking of tickets to two shows currently playing in London. I like musicals and musical theatre, Boyfriend was also not completely unwilling to give things a shot, and so we booked places for Avenue Q, already seen by me but wordofmouthed so hard I could hardly decline going again, and Spamalot, the Monthy Pythin musical. I myself am not really a fan of the Pythe, but hey, sometimes one has to do what one’s significant other wants to do, and I didn’t really mind going to see it anyways.
After a short and reasonably uneventful flight into the capital of Britain, I took a train to Tower Gateway, the stop close to the tower of London and in general my first stop going into this town. I like the tower, both it’s history and the way it looks, and to my mind no visit to London is complete without taking at least a swift peek at it when alighting there. No need to go in as Boyfriend was waiting for me around the subway station there and we had some ways to go still to get to the house of the aforementioned friend.
For those of you who have been to my house, I live roughly 45 minutes away by bus from the center of Amsterdam, which in Holland means you most likely live in a completely different town. In fact, I live two towns over from our Capital. In London, however, it means you are not even hardly out of town Center, which is funny, as almost anywhere in the real centre of London is less than half an hours walk from everywhere else in the centre of London. But anyway, having made the track to Putney, we found their house, took over the guestroom, met some new people, and went out to dinner, a good dinner, at a local Italian.
The Saturday was when it all happened, two shows booked, some shopping to be done, Boyfriend hadn’t been to London before so some sightseeing and subwaytravelling was also needed when possible, and of course some pictures needed to be taken.
The first show, Spamalot, was an experience. Not least because the show itself is quite good. Well, because it isn’t, really. As musicals go it is ok, and everybody goes into it with an enourmous effort, but really it is a rehash of Python jokes that we have all seen before, and at that it is not very well done. A shame, perhaps, but hey, something almost unavoidable. Still, it is a very enjoyable show.
Or at least it would have been. Had we had tickets anywhere near the stage. As it was, we had tickets closer to my house here in Holland. Which I could, incidentally, see, we were that high up.
Now let this not be seen as criticism aimed at the loveliness that is Boyfriend. The show was an “unknown”, as in there was no way of knowing it was going to be good or not, and as such forking out for the most expensive tickets might well have been (and would have been) a waist of money. Furthermore, he is from a country with a rather egalitarian view of things, which leads to the fact that apparently no seats in theatres there are really crap, only less desirable.
Well, these seats were… well, crap. Or they would have been crap, had any species of animal been able to survive the altitude to perform such actions. I myself was getting shorter of breath by the time we had climbed three or four floors up, and I had the distinct urge to shout “Ricola” when we were sort of halfway there. It was a good thing our theatre provided sherpas were willing to carry some of the books just purchased.
Anyways, after finally having crossed the snowline and slicing away the frozen remains of the guests perished there before us, we found that we were seated at an acoustically great spot. The sound was excellent where we were, if the stage was only the size of a postage stamp. On the other hand, a cleavage filled postage stamp, so perhaps I shouldn’t complain as much.
The show itself turned out to be, as said, ok. The seatprice was well worth it, and the fun to be had about the basic seatplace was worth it twice over.
A swift dinner and some more walking around later we took our seats for Avenue Q, a much better musical in my humble opinion, and the places, this time booked by me, were a good deal better accordingly. Boyfriend, as expected, had a great time, and I had a great time with him, so all was well.
The next day was regretfully already the return day, and after a good night spent at my place the weekend was sadly over. Not much exciting was done, to be honest, but it was a wildly enjoyable weekend I hope to do over sometime soon, if with different musicals, and perhaps from an hotel or suchlike actually a bit closer to the centre. But hey, beggars can't be choosers and all that.
Well, this as a quick “yes I am back to blogging-blog” Will try to keep updates coming again at a regular basis. Apologies this one was not all that interesting and a bit journallike. Will also strife to do better next time.
Grtz,
Kevin.
So I decided to start of the new, non chronological blogging with a random rant, after which I will try to writ things in the order whit which they occur in my somewhat convoluted brain. That way, I ensure a reasonable blogging thickness, with a good chance of a rant every now and then, and some actual views into my strange but energizing life.
On whiz ze zchow…
A few weekends ago I, for the first real time in my life, had the choice to do the Bridget Jones thing and go away with Boyfriend for a weekend mini-break. More specifically, a weekend mini-break to London. Since I like London very much, and I like Boyfriend even more so, this was not a chance I would let pass, obviously. Given the fact he was also volunteering to pay for things there, providing I would just pay to actually get there, I was not going to complain about the situation anytime soon.
As it turns out, a friend of him lived in London, so we had a place to crash, and this for the small price of taking them out for a good dinner.
So plans were made, and guestrooms were appropriated. What was also done was the booking of tickets to two shows currently playing in London. I like musicals and musical theatre, Boyfriend was also not completely unwilling to give things a shot, and so we booked places for Avenue Q, already seen by me but wordofmouthed so hard I could hardly decline going again, and Spamalot, the Monthy Pythin musical. I myself am not really a fan of the Pythe, but hey, sometimes one has to do what one’s significant other wants to do, and I didn’t really mind going to see it anyways.
After a short and reasonably uneventful flight into the capital of Britain, I took a train to Tower Gateway, the stop close to the tower of London and in general my first stop going into this town. I like the tower, both it’s history and the way it looks, and to my mind no visit to London is complete without taking at least a swift peek at it when alighting there. No need to go in as Boyfriend was waiting for me around the subway station there and we had some ways to go still to get to the house of the aforementioned friend.
For those of you who have been to my house, I live roughly 45 minutes away by bus from the center of Amsterdam, which in Holland means you most likely live in a completely different town. In fact, I live two towns over from our Capital. In London, however, it means you are not even hardly out of town Center, which is funny, as almost anywhere in the real centre of London is less than half an hours walk from everywhere else in the centre of London. But anyway, having made the track to Putney, we found their house, took over the guestroom, met some new people, and went out to dinner, a good dinner, at a local Italian.
The Saturday was when it all happened, two shows booked, some shopping to be done, Boyfriend hadn’t been to London before so some sightseeing and subwaytravelling was also needed when possible, and of course some pictures needed to be taken.
The first show, Spamalot, was an experience. Not least because the show itself is quite good. Well, because it isn’t, really. As musicals go it is ok, and everybody goes into it with an enourmous effort, but really it is a rehash of Python jokes that we have all seen before, and at that it is not very well done. A shame, perhaps, but hey, something almost unavoidable. Still, it is a very enjoyable show.
Or at least it would have been. Had we had tickets anywhere near the stage. As it was, we had tickets closer to my house here in Holland. Which I could, incidentally, see, we were that high up.
Now let this not be seen as criticism aimed at the loveliness that is Boyfriend. The show was an “unknown”, as in there was no way of knowing it was going to be good or not, and as such forking out for the most expensive tickets might well have been (and would have been) a waist of money. Furthermore, he is from a country with a rather egalitarian view of things, which leads to the fact that apparently no seats in theatres there are really crap, only less desirable.
Well, these seats were… well, crap. Or they would have been crap, had any species of animal been able to survive the altitude to perform such actions. I myself was getting shorter of breath by the time we had climbed three or four floors up, and I had the distinct urge to shout “Ricola” when we were sort of halfway there. It was a good thing our theatre provided sherpas were willing to carry some of the books just purchased.
Anyways, after finally having crossed the snowline and slicing away the frozen remains of the guests perished there before us, we found that we were seated at an acoustically great spot. The sound was excellent where we were, if the stage was only the size of a postage stamp. On the other hand, a cleavage filled postage stamp, so perhaps I shouldn’t complain as much.
The show itself turned out to be, as said, ok. The seatprice was well worth it, and the fun to be had about the basic seatplace was worth it twice over.
A swift dinner and some more walking around later we took our seats for Avenue Q, a much better musical in my humble opinion, and the places, this time booked by me, were a good deal better accordingly. Boyfriend, as expected, had a great time, and I had a great time with him, so all was well.
The next day was regretfully already the return day, and after a good night spent at my place the weekend was sadly over. Not much exciting was done, to be honest, but it was a wildly enjoyable weekend I hope to do over sometime soon, if with different musicals, and perhaps from an hotel or suchlike actually a bit closer to the centre. But hey, beggars can't be choosers and all that.
Well, this as a quick “yes I am back to blogging-blog” Will try to keep updates coming again at a regular basis. Apologies this one was not all that interesting and a bit journallike. Will also strife to do better next time.
Grtz,
Kevin.
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