Tuesday 200 - #17
“Hurry up, or I’ll be late for the carnival.”
“Jesus Michael, shut up and stand still or I’ll shove these sheets down your throat,” Sarah said, wrapping my arm. “Why a mummy? A ghost’d be so much easier.”
I reminded my dimwitted twin we’d been studying Egypt, and Mrs. Kreske asked the class (at least those who weren’t grounded) to dress accordingly.
“Why not Cleopatra? You’d look pretty in eye liner and a wig.” She tied off the strip and tore another from the old sheet.
“Very funny, but no. Besides, Wroble called dibs.”
“Ah, little Jimmy. He ask you out yet?”
“Fuck off. Just wrap me so I can go, or I’ll tell Mom you were blowing Doug again.”
That shut her up. She finished my costume while I imagined her boyfriend, leaning back against the dryer, my sister kneeling before him.
Sarah’s reputation as blow job queen of our sophomore class had evaded Mom’s radar, at least till Ma found Doug getting starched in our laundry room.
Unlike my sister, I’d mastered discretion. So I couldn’t tell Sarah how perfectly Douglas learned her oral tricks. Or that he was at the carnival, waiting to unwrap his Halloween treat.
:: :: ::
Last week's Tuesday 200.
October 30, 2006
All of a sudden I've got a big pile of fiction to read ...
Because CB has
requested demanded that I'm able to discuss it with him post haste. It's been on my shelf forever. I got a reading copy before it even came out, and I know so many people that have loved it. I just never sat down and gave it the time.
When the Stars Come Out
Because all the cool Famous kids are doing it.
The Devil in Amber
Because it's the sequel to one of my favorite books in the past 2 years. The Vesuvius Club was absolutely hysterical.
Alternatives to Sex
Because he wrote The Object of My Affection, which is one of my favorite novels.
Plus, I'm still working on a re-read of High Fidelity for a writing workshop.
Oh well, it's good to be back in the ADD bookclub.
October 27, 2006
Forget all Your Troubles
It is a little known fact that Petula Clark is actually Julianne Moore's mother.
"Downtown" was my favorite song when I was little. I guess I'll have to go see her, since I couldn't get the Scissor Sisters tickets I wanted for that night.
Been a busy week ...
Went on two interviews.
Helped break up a bar fight at The Black Cap last night. Some guy in a suit went ballistic because someone called him "a wanker." Those Brits and their tough skins.
Season 7 of The West Wing arrived, as did Famous Author Rob Byrnes' new novel.
Have another interview on Monday.
And oh look at the time. I've got guests coming over in an hour and the flat's a disaster.
So why am I blogging?
October 24, 2006
Tuesday 200 - #16
“So Mags, have you ever done it with a midget?” Kappa asked.
I almost choked on my cotton candy. We were wandering around the carnival, taking in this summer’s collection of bells and whistles. Same old clackety roller coasters and puke-inducers. The only things new were a couple of air-brushed copyright infringements. Donald Duck and Scooby Doo hiking together on the backdrop of the Mini-Himalaya racers. Who knew that Disney and Warner Brothers were co-branding?
“No, I don’t share your Munchkinland orgy fantasy,” I shouted over the panicked screams of Cyclone riders, maybe a little too loudly. A teen mother shot me a dirty, but knowing, glare and steered her kids away from us.
“Look, there’s Otis.” We’d met Otis a couple seasons back. He'd lost two fingers on his left hand in some freak Tilt-a-Whirl mishap. He saw us, grinned and tossed us a double-digit wave.
Truth told, we were more interested in carnies than the carnival. The perfect scuzz husbands. Hard working, strong-armed, sinewy-backed transients, in need of a hot bath and a good fuck. Not necessarily in that order.
But we didn’t do that. We were good girls. Especially when the carnival wasn’t in town.
:: :: ::
October 23, 2006
And You Can Get Noodles, Too
There's always a long queue at the Wagamama's near my flat. Perhaps this has something to do with it ....
Feel free to play along if you like.
PLEASE LEAVE THE FOLLOWING IN ALL ‘PEOPLE COLLECTION’ POSTS
Remember that it isn’t always the sensational stuff that writers are looking for, it can just as easily be something that you take for granted like having raised twins or knowing how to grow beetroot. Mind you, if you know how to fly a helicopter or have worked as a film extra, do feel free to let the rest of us know about it
Here we go ...
I was a junior bowler, and made my television debut on a program called "Pinbusters", hosted by baseball Hall-of-Famer Don Drysdale. He asked me a question and I answered, "okey dokey." Kids at school teased me for months for saying that, because it sounded faggy.
In grade school, there was this kid named Roger who terrorized me. Vindication was mine, sort of, in a little league baseball game when I struck him out. I thought for sure he'd beat me up for that, and I'd hide behind cars when I'd see him walking home from school.
I was doing extra work on the cinematic masterpiece If Lucy Fell. I mustered previously unknown bravery and walked up to Sarah Jessica Parker. "Excuse me, we have a mutual friend and I just wanted to say hi." A boy I had dated in hometown Cincinnati was, at the time, going out with a music professor at CCM, who taught SJP. We ended up chatting for about a half-hour. She was lovely, and no bigger than a bar of soap. We smoked a lot ... Merits, I think.
When I was 11, I was diagnosed as a juvenile diabetic. Orange County's leading pediatric endocrinologist said I'd be on insulin injections, for life, within 2 years. Six months later, he had a heart attack and retired. I never saw him again. I took oral meds for a couple years and had monthly blood tests, never once having any problems. 30 years later, my blood sugar remains perfect but I still can't watch whenever I have blood drawn.
And what tidbits might most people know about you? For character research purposes only, of course.
October 22, 2006
The Breadcrumbs of My Mind
Do you ever end up thinking about something and wonder, “where the hell did that come from?”
We were at The Box yesterday, waiting on a healthy lunch (served by a very heatlhy Brazilian bicep-boy) and thumbing through magazines. I found myself singing “Ya Never Know” from Little Shop of Horrors (Ronnette and Seymour’s part, not Mushnik’s). As you do.
“Oh, sorry.” I switched to a quiet hum and wondered where the song came from. I hadn’t listened to it for months. So I rewound my thought process, trying to figure out what conjured Seymour and Audrey.
Ah, it was simple. Sort of. I had run my tongue through the gap left from last year's dental drama. That reminded me of being at Menier Chocolate Factory, where my bicuspid broke during dinner before Tick, Tick … Boom. And, as we're all aware, Menier is going to revive Little Shop next month.
Zam! Kazap! Don’t it go to show ya never know. Mystery solved.
Do you ever do that? Find yourself thinking about something and wondering how you got there? And then playing Miss Marple with your memory, backtracking in your brain? Or am I in fact, as Larry so lovingly put it, "just strange"?
Try to Remember
the month of September, when we ...
... went to a wedding in Canada
It was all fantastic.
October 20, 2006
Wanna See My Nicole Kidman Impersonation?
She's one of those people you see on stage and just know you want to take to the pub and share a few pints with. Sarah Kendall's going to be at Soho Theatre next week. All y'all in or around London should make a point to go.
I saw her this summer at Edinburgh Fringe and she was great. She did a bit of her show at last Tuesday's Comedy Camp, and it was equally as funny the second time. I think that gives credence to her talent as an engaging story teller.
Also brilliant on Tuesday night was Kitty Flannigan. All of you Singapore readers will get their chance soon, as she's on her way overseas. The rest of you, just make a mental note and come see her when she's in your neighborhood.
October 19, 2006
With One Nip
Elaine Page is on Paul O'Grady right now. Oh. My.
I know, I know. Get a job.
Did she really go to her plastic surgeon and say "make me look like Geri Halliwell?"
Keep Looking Up
This arrived in me inbox today. The sender doesn't know the source ("It came from my ex"). Do you think he's trying to tell him something?
October 18, 2006
Just A Gigolo
I watched The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone today. It was the 2003 version with Helen Mirren in the title role, as opposed to the 1961 film starring Vivien Leigh (which is not available on LoveFilm ... the UK version of NetFlix). If anyone has access to a copy, please let me know. An insane actress playing an insane actress just has to be good.
For those unfamiliar, it's based on Tennessee Williams' 1950s novella. The story's about the "drifting" Karen Stone, a fading American stage actress, who finds herself in Rome having an affair with an Italian rentboy. It's an excellent read, and I recommend it highly. If you can read it in Rome, in bed with an Italian rentboy, all the better.
So here's what I found odd. There are two main Italian men in the film. In today's version, they're played by a Frenchman and a Brazilian. Apparently there are no Italian actors.
Maybe the director said, "I insist on no one playing their own nationality." The Contessa (the shrewish pimp to the rentboys) is played beautifully by Anne Bancroft. Helen Mirren pulls off the American crazy lady with aplomb. Sort of like Norma Desmond on Prozac.
Speaking of pulling off, one can't complain about watching Olivier Martinez naked and sweaty (all the more reason to take against Kylie). And an unshaven, beggarly, homeless Rodrigo Santoro, consumed with desperate longing, reaching into his fly and rubbing his gray underwear ... well ...
October 17, 2006
Tuesday 200 - #15
Mom: William, for the last time, get outside and cut the grass.
William: Soon as the movie’s over.
Mom: I can’t understand why you sit in front of that TV instead of getting some fresh morning air. There are plenty of neighbor boys to play with.
William: None that want to play with me. Besides, it’s a classic. I like to think of it as a documentary.
Mom: What’s it called?
William: Mildred Pierce.
Mom: Stupid old movies. I swear I should get your eyes tested again. Can you even see color?
William: Red. All the time.
Mom: The grass. Now.
William: Can’t Richie do it? He’d love it. He’s said so a million times.
Mom: You know very well your brother can’t mow the lawn. What would the neighbors say?
William: That occupational therapy was paying off?
Mom: Hush. I can just hear ‘em, “A power mower is not a toy for a half-blind, retarded midget.”
William: Richie’s not a midget. Just got that one leg shorter than the other. And there’s a push mower in the garage.
Mom: WILLIAM! GRASS! NOW!
William: Yes, Mildred.
Mom: That is not my name. And grab me a beer before you go.
:: :: ::
Last week's Tuesday 200.
Welcome to the Hoodie
MSNBC reports ...
David Banda flew via Johannesburg from Malawi overnight with one of the U.S. pop star’s bodyguards and her personal assistant and arrived at London’s Heathrow airport at around 6:30 a.m. local time.
She's gonna be a great mom. "Have the bodyguard and a PA pick him up. I'll be at yoga."
Can you imagine how traumatized that child is right now? One week he's starving in Malawian and now he's being whisked on private jets with armed guards and a hoodie over his head, plopped into a town-mansion.
He's heard very little English (I'm assuming) and all these white people, with new and varying accents (especially his new mum's), are saying "you're the new prince, we love you, welcome to pop royalty. Your new mommy will be with you as soon as she sorts out all the legal ramifications. Oh, and put this red string on your wrist. But let's not make this a public circus."
I'm sure that he'll have a better life than if he had to stay in Africa without aid, that is as long as she actually gets to keep him. It's just a lot to put a kid through for what seems to be a "look at me, I can do anything" stunt.
October 16, 2006
I kind of feel bad for my neighbor.
Can't a material girl just
buy adopt an African orphan in peace? I mean, really, you make all that money overcharging for non-air-conditioned concerts and then you can't even spend it.
Oh wait, he's not an orphan ... he has a father. And an uncle who can read and write, who wants a free trip to Marylebone.
And then there's that silly problem of laws, both African and English.
The paparazi's hanging out by her front door tonight. Don't they realize she'll go in and out of the mews entrance? That's where all the security cameras are.
October 12, 2006
See No Evil
Channel 4's promo trailer for tonight's The Blunkett Tapes ends with the tagline, "from the man who saw it all."*
That's not right.
* For international readers who don't keep up with UK politicos, David Blunkett is blind.
October 11, 2006
Coup De Vil
I saw a schoolgirl today with the funniest backpack.
The pattern was dalmation fur, and it had a plastic applique of Pongo, Perdita, and one of the 99 puppies, all happily posing behind a big pink heart. I'm not sure if it was official Disney or a knock-off.
In either case, someone in manufacturing design has a twisted sense of humor.
Why would the dogs be so perky when placed on a background of their own hides?
And wouldn't Cruella De Vil be pleased to know her master plan has come true?
October 10, 2006
Guys and Dolls
What's scarier than Patrick Swayze as Nathan Detroit?
Davecat says, "I think what my father finds really difficult with my relationship with Sheshawn is that she's not alive. It's all well and good if you're creeped out by dolls. But I have to live with a person who is creeped out by them. As a result, Sheshawn spends 99.8% of her time in my room."
"When she first came into my life it was just sex, sex, sex. But now that's tapered off to words, and we're just there for each other. She's an anchor."
:: :: ::
Everard talking about one of his dolls ... "We had a late night. She's still in bed now, sleeping it off. That's her sleeping face. I have to change her faces. They're certainly better than no female company at all."
Talking about his deceased mother ... "Some of us don't know how to cope with it when somebody dies ... she's probably prefer it if I had a real woman. But I think she'd rather I had real dolls and remain completely without any female company at all. But the dolls have improved my quality of life. Immensely, really."
Wow. Nothing Bates-ian going on here. Nope, move right along. Nothing to see.
At least you can promise them this and promise them that and they'll never develop a bad, bad cold.
And if you're interested, dolls can be guys, too. (NSFW)
Tuesday 200 - #14
It’s like one of those art films. No soundtrack, just the buzz of tourists and helicopters.
“Have you had your fifteen minutes?” shouts the madman.
Typical Griffith Park whack job. Fat undulates beneath his bright yellow tee. Brown stains creep down the rear of his gray sweats. Grime grows from his fingers up past his elbows.
Was my fifteen minutes really only two nationals and three episodes of The West Wing? Just thinking about that last night. How did he know?
I pass a crowd of hipsters who mutter in German.
Ducking behind a tree, I tap a bump onto the back of my hand. It’s gone in a flash, a comforting burn in my nostril. Chemical-fresh breath’s just a few drips away.
Probably should’ve gone to that audition. Oh well.
The yellow-breasted Warhol inquisitor holds court on a bench, smoking a hand-rolled.
People swirl around him, speaking Italian. A family jabbers in Spanish. A Japanese couple walks by, two cameras each, lost in unintelligible chatter.
“You just don’t want to!” he bellows, pointing toward me.
Nobody speaks English anymore. No one but the greasy fingered loon who screams thoughts I’m trying to stifle.
And no one yells “cut.”
:: :: ::
So I’m looking at the new 6-pack of toilet paper that’s siiting amdist some groceries Larry brought home last night.
“Thirst Pockets”, in big yellow letters, is splayed across the clear plastic packaging, with “shhhhhlurp technology” written underneath. I’m not making this up.
“That’s a disturbing selling proposition for toilet paper,” I think to myself. And what’s that animal under the logo? A baby elephant?!? Geez, what kind of gastro-intestinal woes could you have that calls for Dumbo to hose you down and “thirst pockets” to shlurp yourself clean? That must have been one nasty curry.
I pick up the package to take it to the bathroom, making a mental note to use the guest bath for the next few days.
Oh. It’s a 3-pack of paper towels.
I feel much better about the world now.
October 9, 2006
I was up for a consulting gig that would have suited me perfectly. The opportunity came out of the blue last week (an old colleague Googled me), and it was just what the employment doctor ordered ... a short-term contract to get me back into work mode.
I got my hopes up. Counted chickens. All that.
Said colleague called this morning to let me know "they decided to go internally after all."
Typical marketing marketing people:
Head of Investment Admin ... "We've got a new team coming in and they need spice up their USPs to be on par with existing brand."
Marketing Manager ... "We have too much work, we can't do any more for your team, we'd like to, but we're already stretched too thin."
New Head of Investment Admin ... "Okay, that's fine. We can outsource it. I know someone who'd be perfect and you'll love working with him."
Marketing Manager ... "What? You're taking work away from us that might make us look good? We'll handle it after all."
:: :: ::
I was disappointed for a few hours. Feeling blue. You know, a little self-conscious anxiety that results in non-specific sadness. And my iPod was out of gas, so I couldn't even listen to The Drowsy Chaperone.
So I sat down in St. James Park, watched the ducks and swans, and thought about all the things I'm grateful for. The list is plentiful. It even includes not having a job and therefore having time to watch the ducks and swans.
Odd how a foul mood got better while watching the fowl.
Sometimes all it takes is being thankful. Three hours later, I had two new contacts for sourcing new jobs.
And, to all my Canadian friends and family ... HAPPY THANKSGIVING, eh.
October 8, 2006
If, and I by no means wish for this to happen, we all get put back into concentration camps, there should be a special patch (e.g., green triangle = criminal, yellow star = Jewish, pink triangle = homosexual) for theatre directors who can take a perfectly good script with better-than-adequate actors and then screw it all up with their “concepts.”
I recommend a green triangle in a black box (or square).
London theatres have recently launched revivals of WWII stories. Cabaret will officially open later this week, and I shared my thoughts on it a couple weeks ago. Hopefully they've all found their groove for first night.
Down the road, Alan Cumming is currently taking his “I got my star” turn at Trafalgar Studios in a moving, if not often overwrought, revival of Martin Sherman’s gut wrenching play Bent.
It’s an amazing script, calling for the actors to take a brutal journey from a life of concentrated camp to life in a concentration camp. It’s also the story of one of the most self-serving, manipulative, ego-driven survivalists in theatrical history.
Alan Cumming’s Max will do most anything to survive, including denouncing his lovers, his lifestyle, and ultimately himself. It is a horrific situation he finds himself in … knowing he’s a gay man in a caste where a pink triangle is the lowest badge on the totem pole. A badge he himself will commit unimaginable crimes in order to avoid.
Cumming delivers as the distraught Max, although there are a number of “oh wait, watch me act” moments that could be tightened up. Every person who’s ever taking an acting class has been told to “take their moment”, not to rush whatever emotion their working towards. In a pivotal confession at the end of Act One, Mr. Cumming could have been directed to take a few less moments of hand wringing and nose wiping and get on with the monologue. Once he gets there, he’s electrifying.
Newcomer Chris New, as Horst, gives an equally heartbreaking performance, despite falling into the yelling trap a few too many times.
Throughout the production, there’s a heightened sense of melodrama. And, given the subject matter, I’m not sure that’s entirely out of place. But for heaven’s sake guys, can’t anybody remember that there are more ways to show anger/frustration/despair/rage/etc WITHOUT CONSTANTLY SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER? The director (Daniel Kramer) is only 29, surely he’s not hard of hearing already? There were so many times when I thought I was watching young, testosterone-fueled acting students screaming early John Patrick Shanley scenes at each other.
Pay no attention to the script that gives you lines such as “don’t touch me, they’ll see us” while in a campgournd, and then yell at each other like you’re George and Martha stropping around the campfire.
Heed not the text that says “don’t joke” immediately after your “not now I have a headache” line … go ahead and make it really angsty and angry and without any humor at all.
Never mind that there are SS officers nearby, watching every your move, waiting to shoot you. Jump right into that screaming match.
There were a number of moments when I was tempted to shout either “Stop Acting!” or “Stop Shouting!”.
That said, Max does have a beautifully quiet moment in Act Two, while sitting amongst his stones, as if he was in his garden. I thought for certain he was going to begin quoting Bette Davis’ Judith Traherne in Dark Victory. Melodramatic indeed.
Like Cabaret, Bent is a script that works on its own. It doesn’t need Alan Cumming’s ass flashed (twice) for a cheap joke that is ignored 15 minutes later (if it’s too sore to sit on now, it’s gonna be a little sore an hour later). It doesn’t need 8-foot tall gas jet of flame during a scene change, that immediately withers into an eternal-flamelike campfire for Max and Rudy (an adorable yet tragically devoted Kevin Trainor). It certainly doesn’t need Keystone Gestapo officers acting like crazed circus clowns.
Is there some rule in British theatre that you can only portray Nazis as retarded clown or cartwheeling gymnasts? I realize they are not likeable characters, but isn’t that inherent in the script and/or history?
Perhaps the director is equating his version of Nazi soldiers with the brutal “let’s make this a party” soldiers that have come to light in such cases at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo. If that’s the case, then yes, there are indeed correlations. Do certain directors not trust their audiences enough to see this? Must they hit us over the head with their allegories, at the expense of a tighter show?
No such overt references were necessary in the RSC’s recent production of The Crucible or in the Donmar’s Mary Stuart. I left those productions depressed about the social situations that still happen hundreds of years later (corruption, moral and political turpitude, modern-day witch hunts). I left this production (as well as Cabaret) upset about unnecessary staging excesses.
Speaking of unnecessary staging ... how about putting a bitter old (whose shouting makes us realize she's VERY ANGRY) drag queen downstage left, playing the whole post-performance scene into her dressing room mirror. That way everybody on stage never really gets to make eye contact, they can just play their scene into the imaginary angle of the invisible looking glass. Ugh.
That said, Bent definitely worth seeing (Cabaret notsomuch), especially if you don’t know or have not seen the play. And like the new Cabaret, you get a healthy dose of full-frontal … although the playful Kit Kat chorus boy trumps the tall German wearing nothing but Gestapo boots and a black cock ring.
Clearly, shaved heads were di rigeur for men in concentration camps. I’m not so sure if shaved pubes and balls were quite as authentic, or necessary, for German soldiers.
Oh, and if you don't think they're marketing this for modern-day camp boys, make sure to check out the "boys from bent" photoshoot in the Gallery section of the Bent website. A cast in white pants -- totally related to the show.
MAK keeps telling me I should get this game, as it's always a hit at parties.
Apparently the U.S. version is different.
October 5, 2006
Some of the best sketch comedy I've seen is on That Mitchell and Webb Look. It's smart and silly, without going completely over the top in every scene.
Episode 4 is on BBC2 tonight, complete with the German version of "Numberwang".
There's lots more on YouTube.
Me and My Hand
Today (Wednesday) was all about getting in touch with inner parts of me I don't access very often.
1. My inner empowered computer geek
I watched the 1am-2am episode of 24 (Season 4). It's the one where Chloe (one of my new heroes) gets shoved into field work, decidedly against her will and better judgment.
Skip ahead if you don't want to read a spoiler from 18 months ago.
If you watch the show, you know it's the paragon of the cliffhanger. So Chloe's in a bad way and about to be killed by a very very bad man and there's less than a minute to go. Perfect cliffhanger. We've even gone to split screens, so you know it's about to be "thanks for watching, see you next week."
Final seconds, Chloe gets the combination to unlock the rifle, rolls out of her CTU car and blasts the shit out of the bad guy. All she needed was some black paint under her eyes and she'd be Rambo. Totally unexpected, totally fantastic.
I could do nothing but cheer, laugh and applaud. All alone in the flat, the cats looking at me like I’d gone mad.
Then it was a quick shower and off to the Duke of York's Theatre, where I got in touch with ...
2. My inner Communist sympathizer
I actually wouldn't have minded a trip to the woodshed with him. He's much better looking in person than in the IMDB photos.
Turns out he's playing in Rock 'n' Roll, which I'd been meaning to see. It's the best straight play (that's a non-musical, for those of you snickering at the back of the class) I'd seen in quite a long time. Very Stoppard , but also very accessible, even for dolts like me who don't know too much about the Communist occupation of Czechoslovakia.
Rufus' portrayal of Jan was mesmerizing. Sinead Cusack was brilliant in the first act, but I couldn't get past how old (at least for her character, who was supposed to be a good decade younger than the gray-wigged Sewell) she looked in the second. Even Margo Channing had to draw the line somewhere.
I'm sure it will have a B'way transfer in the next season or two, but if you can see it with this cast, I heartily recommend. There’ll be heaps of awards heading its way.
By then it was dinner time (it's a 3-hour show), so I met Derek for a quick Joe Allen dinner. Then it was off to Wembley Arena to visit ...
3. My inner lesbian
Pink put on quite the show. She’s near the top of the “I want to go out drinking with her” list, and I haven't seen so many girl-loving-girls since the last time I was at Women’s' Week in Provincetown. Only thing missing was a case of Bud and a football. And maybe Chloe with a semi-automatic to prevent the dad in the row behind us from marching his three pre-teen daughters out at exactly 10:15 pm. They were adorable. Knew all the words to every song, were really well behaved, and were having a total blast.
Then, all of a sudden, they're walking down the steps toward the exit. Seemed Dad had said "time to go" and off they went, missing a good five or six songs at the end. Bless.
All in all, I couldn't have asked for a better 24 hours.
October 3, 2006
Tuesday 200 - #13
I totally promised I’d email everyday, but it’s been totally busy. Sucks you couldn’t come. Your mom’s such a bitch (but hey, you knew that, right? Heh). It’s not like you were the only one who set the school on fire. Totally sucks you got caught. Heh heh.
Fuck … dude … it’s cool right? Nobody reads this account but you, right? I hope so. So anyway … this ski trip is totally awesome. Snowboarding rocks. There’s this instructor, Heidi, she totally wants to blow me.
Everybody is really cool and the chicks dig my American accent. I can’t understand much of what anybody’s saying, but whatever. I just pretend I’m in one of those faggy art movies that you tell me I should like. Truth, I just stand there and then all of a sudden five smokin' Swiss chicks wants to make out with me. But I’m holding out for the hot instructor. Only cock block is this fairy goat herding guy she likes. Such a total geek. Once I get her away from him and her Grandpa McGrumperfuck it will be 'Alpine' (that’s my new word for golden … start using it now).
:: :: ::
October 2, 2006
Return to Lender
I got a letter from my bank today, addressed to "occupant." It said they'd been informed that I was no longer at this address and could whoever lives there please forward on bobzyeruncle's whereabouts.
So I rang them up to assure them, that yes, I did in fact abide at the abode on record.
"Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. It's all cleared up."
So off I trod to the local branch, to deposit a check and some cash.
The teller counted my currency, then just stared at her monitor, moving her mouse about and clicking to no avail.
"Computer says no."
There's still an "inhibit" on my account. So off I was whisked to the secret room, where I had to pull proof of identity and residence out of my
ass messenger bag. Ironically (and unbeknownst to me), I had a recent bank statement in my bag.
"You took a deposit from me two weeks ago," I said, pointing to transaction on the statement.
Apparently between then and now there had been mail returned to them as "no longer at this address."
I wonder if Larry's giving me a hint, via the bank.
October 1, 2006
Crazy with a Z
Liza was on Parkinson last night.
I don't know if it was a fluke or the work of a cunning PR person, but there is a way to get Ms Minelli on a talk show and not have her appear mad as Helena Bonham Carter.
Here's the trick: bring out Sharon Osborne as the next guest.