Look good in Leather - Cody Chestnut
You've been on a bus. So have I. I take the bus rather regularly. However, the bizarre occurrences which took place on the bus on which I travelled today positively disturbed me into thinking that I might just not be alone in being the only insane person in this world.
I get onto one of those lovely double decker buses. If you've never been on one, I'd recommend it. The top deck seems to always have seats, and, as one person pointed out today, it has an emergency exit which can be opened easily via the handle. This emergency exit is followed by a ten foot drop. Not exactly my dish of the day.
Anyway, on with the story. I get on the bus, and as usual, I go upstairs. There were very few people on the top deck today. In fact, I could probably count them all with my fingers, if I had three hands. I sat down, and was immediately struck with a strangely annoying chirping sound. I presumed it was a baby, as it was coming from the vicinity of two girls.
Upon further inspection (out of the corner of my eye), it wasn't a baby, especially with the frequency and strangeness of the noise, but it was coming from the two girls. One girl was talking quite normally to the other girl, and after the first girl asked a question, there was a chirping reply. Oh, maybe the other girl had a speech disablement that for some strange reason meant that she could only communicate through chirps. Under this assumption, I cast a glance over the top deck.
In front of me, there were the majority of the population of the top deck. They consisted of a number of untalketive, and straight backed people, who were obviously embarrassed by the chirping sound emanating from the girl, and an old man, who was half asleep and didn't seem to have even heard the chirping noise.
Behind me, that population of the top deck was a mere three. A mother, and two sons, probably about 9 and 13. The mother was sitting calmly and quietly. And the two sons? The windows were fogged up, so, what were they doing? They were scribbling the words "Shut Up" with an arrow pointing at the chirper on every available fogged up window behind the two girls.
Then, one of the boys walks determinedly to the front of the top deck, and where there's the front fogged up windscreen, for all to see, he writes in huge writing "POO" on the glass. No reaction from the zombie straight backed audience. I just burst out laughing. Still no reaction to the laughing maniac who was laughing at the word "Poo" on a window.
Slowly, the bus emptied. Finally, it was just me, and the two girls. Obviously, the chirper wasn't really disabled, as they were having a perfectly intelligible conversation. Evidently, the chirper had had some sort of device in her mouth (which was now removed) which caused the bird-like sound.
The fun wasn't over. The girls were ignoring me (because they don't know me, obviously), and deep in a conversation. I was slightly annoyed because the chirper had deprived me of much needed public transport sleep. So, I started whistling jazz, loudly. Then, after receiving no reaction, I started cursing (mildly) in a talketive voice, as if I were talking to myself. Then I received a break in conversation and a stare. Excellent. I had annoyed them.
I left the bus shortly after, thanking the bus driver, and stepping out to the cold, wet winter of Ireland. Undoubtedly the strangest bus journey I have ever taken a part in. If you ever visit Ireland, go to Dublin, and use the 11 bus route. You might meet a couple of zombie like characters, chirping girls, window graffitiing boys, and a stranger who curses out loud to himself, but don't worry, it's perfectly normal. And thank the bus driver when you have finished your journey - they're nice guys.
Going Home - Dire Straits (kind've approriate, don't you think?)
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The play, the players, and the films.
I've realised the absolute necessity to proofread everything you write.
In my first post to this blog, I wrote some quite unintelligible English, and more indecipherable French. And the Spelling Checker is not AI, so I would have had trouble proofreading it. That said, I do not see any point in writing short posts. They are uninteresting, and quite short. And as every woman knows, good things come in large packages to those who wait.
So, I plan that from now on, my posts won't be quite so indecipherable, but just as random.
I did promise to my readers that I might write a review on the play I attended yesterday, and I was thinking of breaking that promise, seeing as nobody reads the Ramblings of the Random Opinion. But, I'm bored, and therefore, I might just keep that promise in this post.
I went to see a production of Philadelphia, Here I come. An Irish play, by an Irish person, and therefore, a complete genius. I'm serious, an Irishman can write anything, and be hailed as a genius around the globe. Look at James Joyce. Pure drivel, yet, pure, genuine, sterling genius.
Philadelphia is a play which every person interested in people, drama, acting, or reading should read, and watch.
The protagonist of the play is Gar. Or rather, the protagonists of the play are Gar. Gar Public, and Gar Private, nicely truncated to Public, and Private. Public is the outside character of Gar, the person with whom everybody interacts, sees, and hears. Gar Private is the real Gar, the one he wants to be, the cheeky, smart, emotive character of Gar. The one who, if exposed, Gar would be facing a couple of slaps, and a couple of well hot women.
It is Gar's last day in Ballybeg, Ireland. The next day, he's going to catch the plane to Philadelphia, America. He'll work in a Hotel, and he's never going to be coming back home, unless, of course, he becomes rich and famous, and somehow manages to find the time in his lifestyle to visit his quagmire of a village.
Fortunately, very few people seem to care if Gar goes or not. His Father is seemingly indifferent, his former Girlfriend is married, and seems like a nice girl, his friends don't seem to give a shit, and his housekeeper will miss him, but she puts a mask on to conceal the fact that she's going to miss him.
Throughout the development of the play, we find out that everyone in this town are undeveloped slobs. Isn't that wonderful? All the characters seem to have their own Private which isn't even allowed speak because they are drowned in their own perceived inadequacies. It's kind've sad, yet at the same time good that everybody living in the town are all underdeveloped swine. I think it's a good thing, then nobody is regarded as to being in anyway more special than anybody else.
So, the play, it was well acted. Private was a rather enjoyable character, and very well acted. Public who could be regarded as the secondary protagonist was acted just as well, if not better. Public is a very hard type of role to play, and it was portrayed well in this version. Of the other actors, I would have said that the one that played SB, the father, was the best. It was very excellently played by whoever it was that played it. He gave an excellent portrayal of the character, and it worked quite well.
I have to say that, I very much enjoyed the production altogether.
And so, in the last few words I have to say, I shall talk about other things. How about film? I like film, my non-existent readers like film, so I'll talk, about film.
Winter approaches. And although the WGA strikes have darkened the sky, there are films produced to be released into the Cinemas in the Winter film season of the year. So, what am I looking forward to most?
Well, Mr Magorium's Wonder Emporium is coming out, but I doubt I will pay to watch Dustin Hoffman blither on screen, and Natalie Portman (however much I might like her) smile continuously for 90 odd minutes.
No Country for Old Men. Unfortunately, I haven't seen this film yet. It's out, but I have yet to see it. As it is directed by the Brothers Coen - the greatest geniuses behind Modern Cinema, I will most certainly invest into seeing this film.
Fred Claus... Em, no. I invest in the Silver screen. I am not a millionaire, and it in not in my interests to spend money on a film at which I can laugh at home. I might actually rent this one. The trailer is well crafted.
War Dance. A Documentary. And I am very tempted to watch it.
American Gangster. Ridley Scott, Denzel Washington, Russel Crowe. There are already three good reasons to watch this film. Does one want any more?
Saw IV. Absolutely not.
Gone Baby Gone. The controversy of the Madeline case, paired with this film, and the unforgettable trailer makes me yearn to see that day this comes out where I live.
I'm Not There. This film looks interesting, however, it does not appeal to me so much as I would invest in a cinema ticket to watch it.
Alvin and the Chipmunks. I may watch this in the cinema for reminiscing sakes. I remember their songs, and they were hilarious.
And finally:
Teeth. I will be seeing this film in the cinema. It looks God damned hilarious.
And so, (finally) I end this post.
In my first post to this blog, I wrote some quite unintelligible English, and more indecipherable French. And the Spelling Checker is not AI, so I would have had trouble proofreading it. That said, I do not see any point in writing short posts. They are uninteresting, and quite short. And as every woman knows, good things come in large packages to those who wait.
So, I plan that from now on, my posts won't be quite so indecipherable, but just as random.
I did promise to my readers that I might write a review on the play I attended yesterday, and I was thinking of breaking that promise, seeing as nobody reads the Ramblings of the Random Opinion. But, I'm bored, and therefore, I might just keep that promise in this post.
I went to see a production of Philadelphia, Here I come. An Irish play, by an Irish person, and therefore, a complete genius. I'm serious, an Irishman can write anything, and be hailed as a genius around the globe. Look at James Joyce. Pure drivel, yet, pure, genuine, sterling genius.
Philadelphia is a play which every person interested in people, drama, acting, or reading should read, and watch.
The protagonist of the play is Gar. Or rather, the protagonists of the play are Gar. Gar Public, and Gar Private, nicely truncated to Public, and Private. Public is the outside character of Gar, the person with whom everybody interacts, sees, and hears. Gar Private is the real Gar, the one he wants to be, the cheeky, smart, emotive character of Gar. The one who, if exposed, Gar would be facing a couple of slaps, and a couple of well hot women.
It is Gar's last day in Ballybeg, Ireland. The next day, he's going to catch the plane to Philadelphia, America. He'll work in a Hotel, and he's never going to be coming back home, unless, of course, he becomes rich and famous, and somehow manages to find the time in his lifestyle to visit his quagmire of a village.
Fortunately, very few people seem to care if Gar goes or not. His Father is seemingly indifferent, his former Girlfriend is married, and seems like a nice girl, his friends don't seem to give a shit, and his housekeeper will miss him, but she puts a mask on to conceal the fact that she's going to miss him.
Throughout the development of the play, we find out that everyone in this town are undeveloped slobs. Isn't that wonderful? All the characters seem to have their own Private which isn't even allowed speak because they are drowned in their own perceived inadequacies. It's kind've sad, yet at the same time good that everybody living in the town are all underdeveloped swine. I think it's a good thing, then nobody is regarded as to being in anyway more special than anybody else.
So, the play, it was well acted. Private was a rather enjoyable character, and very well acted. Public who could be regarded as the secondary protagonist was acted just as well, if not better. Public is a very hard type of role to play, and it was portrayed well in this version. Of the other actors, I would have said that the one that played SB, the father, was the best. It was very excellently played by whoever it was that played it. He gave an excellent portrayal of the character, and it worked quite well.
I have to say that, I very much enjoyed the production altogether.
And so, in the last few words I have to say, I shall talk about other things. How about film? I like film, my non-existent readers like film, so I'll talk, about film.
Winter approaches. And although the WGA strikes have darkened the sky, there are films produced to be released into the Cinemas in the Winter film season of the year. So, what am I looking forward to most?
Well, Mr Magorium's Wonder Emporium is coming out, but I doubt I will pay to watch Dustin Hoffman blither on screen, and Natalie Portman (however much I might like her) smile continuously for 90 odd minutes.
No Country for Old Men. Unfortunately, I haven't seen this film yet. It's out, but I have yet to see it. As it is directed by the Brothers Coen - the greatest geniuses behind Modern Cinema, I will most certainly invest into seeing this film.
Fred Claus... Em, no. I invest in the Silver screen. I am not a millionaire, and it in not in my interests to spend money on a film at which I can laugh at home. I might actually rent this one. The trailer is well crafted.
War Dance. A Documentary. And I am very tempted to watch it.
American Gangster. Ridley Scott, Denzel Washington, Russel Crowe. There are already three good reasons to watch this film. Does one want any more?
Saw IV. Absolutely not.
Gone Baby Gone. The controversy of the Madeline case, paired with this film, and the unforgettable trailer makes me yearn to see that day this comes out where I live.
I'm Not There. This film looks interesting, however, it does not appeal to me so much as I would invest in a cinema ticket to watch it.
Alvin and the Chipmunks. I may watch this in the cinema for reminiscing sakes. I remember their songs, and they were hilarious.
And finally:
Teeth. I will be seeing this film in the cinema. It looks God damned hilarious.
And so, (finally) I end this post.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
And so, the Writer's Strike rant...
Currently, I'm listening to The Nosebleed Section, by the Hilltop Hoods.
I would like to congratulate the oldest blogger in the world, who is 95 years of age. Nice ripe age.
Tomorrow, I'll be going to see a production of Philadelphia, Here I Come, and I have to say, I'm rather excited. I might give a review of it here if I feel like it.
However, today, I wish to talk about the issue which is on every film lovers lips this week. The WGA writers strike. For those of you who don't know, WGA stands for the Writer's Guild of America. It is the union of writers.
Basically, writers get a raw deal. Some people seem to think that anybody involved in the film industry has a solid gold house, and a rocket car. No one does. A small percentage even has a Ferrari. Why? Because it's a normal job. It has hours, and wages.
Only the most ignorant of people think that the cameraman for the Dolly shot in Die Another Day is a millionaire. He's a normal, average, reasonably paid guy, who probably has a wife and kids. I didn't look him up. But that's my portrait of him.
The average writer's pretty much the same. They have to pay the mortgage, stretch their lump payments over months, maybe even years, before they make another break.
Most people go to work, 9 to 5, return home, cuddle their wife/husband, tell their kids to do their homework, go to bed, have sex, pay the bills, pay the mortgage, and work, nine to five, and get paid $25,000 a year.
Writers stay at home (sometimes), cuddle their wife/husband unless there's a bit of tension, tell their kids to do their homework, go to bed (or not), have sex (if they have time), pay the bills (if they have the money), pay the mortgage (or dream about doing so), and work, three hours some days, 24 the next, everyday, of every week, of every year. They can get paid between $0 and $200,000 a year.
In a good year, a writer might sell about four spec scripts. At a minimum price of $4,000, that's $16,000 from that. So, you might ask, how the hell can they pay the mortgage, bills, sends the kids to school, and give the partner the pleasures of the bedside?
Royalties. It's a wonderful word. It sounds so... Royal. Rich. Doesn't it? Not really. 4¢. That is the figure. As a writer of a film, you get four cents for every single DVD that is bought of your film. It's coming up to Christmas, so not a great time to be spouting statistics. Let's go with Gladiator. The film's been out for a few years, it was pretty huge, and the Units sold 23,851 approx. in the week starting October 7th. At four cents per DVD, that's $954.04. That's pretty damn good, don't you think? That's their mortgage paid. No bother. If that's what they get every month, they should be happy. Great.
But, they won't get even four cents for every single download of the Gladiator film from the Internet. What does that mean? It means that because of the digital age and everybody downloading films off the Internet, then, when they do pay for them, there isn't going to be any $900. Gone. All they'll get is a credit on the film.
So, basically, the evil movie moguls are going to cut out the writers, and grub at all the profits themselves. What they are too stupid to realise however, is that writers write films.
Writers provide coherence, style, language, humour, and structure to a film or series. Without them, we'd have Big Brother on TV all day segmented by ads for dating agencies.
Writers should be provided with the respect that they deserve, they should be driving petrol guzzling Rolls Royces. They should be sucking down pina coladas as they crouch over their typewriter. They should be accompanied by at least three paid muses and one real one. Paparazzi should be shot on sight, and they should have chauffeurs. They shouldn't have a mortgage, their bills ought to be paid by an undersecretary, they should have medical attention at the Mayo Clinic, and their condoms diamond studded.
And all they want is an extra four cents.
To conclude, I provide a link to a YouTube video (because I don't like embedding), and I wish to inform you that I'm now listening to 'Dude (looks like a lady)'.
http://ie.youtube.com/watch?v=oJ55Ir2jCxk
I would like to congratulate the oldest blogger in the world, who is 95 years of age. Nice ripe age.
Tomorrow, I'll be going to see a production of Philadelphia, Here I Come, and I have to say, I'm rather excited. I might give a review of it here if I feel like it.
However, today, I wish to talk about the issue which is on every film lovers lips this week. The WGA writers strike. For those of you who don't know, WGA stands for the Writer's Guild of America. It is the union of writers.
Basically, writers get a raw deal. Some people seem to think that anybody involved in the film industry has a solid gold house, and a rocket car. No one does. A small percentage even has a Ferrari. Why? Because it's a normal job. It has hours, and wages.
Only the most ignorant of people think that the cameraman for the Dolly shot in Die Another Day is a millionaire. He's a normal, average, reasonably paid guy, who probably has a wife and kids. I didn't look him up. But that's my portrait of him.
The average writer's pretty much the same. They have to pay the mortgage, stretch their lump payments over months, maybe even years, before they make another break.
Most people go to work, 9 to 5, return home, cuddle their wife/husband, tell their kids to do their homework, go to bed, have sex, pay the bills, pay the mortgage, and work, nine to five, and get paid $25,000 a year.
Writers stay at home (sometimes), cuddle their wife/husband unless there's a bit of tension, tell their kids to do their homework, go to bed (or not), have sex (if they have time), pay the bills (if they have the money), pay the mortgage (or dream about doing so), and work, three hours some days, 24 the next, everyday, of every week, of every year. They can get paid between $0 and $200,000 a year.
In a good year, a writer might sell about four spec scripts. At a minimum price of $4,000, that's $16,000 from that. So, you might ask, how the hell can they pay the mortgage, bills, sends the kids to school, and give the partner the pleasures of the bedside?
Royalties. It's a wonderful word. It sounds so... Royal. Rich. Doesn't it? Not really. 4¢. That is the figure. As a writer of a film, you get four cents for every single DVD that is bought of your film. It's coming up to Christmas, so not a great time to be spouting statistics. Let's go with Gladiator. The film's been out for a few years, it was pretty huge, and the Units sold 23,851 approx. in the week starting October 7th. At four cents per DVD, that's $954.04. That's pretty damn good, don't you think? That's their mortgage paid. No bother. If that's what they get every month, they should be happy. Great.
But, they won't get even four cents for every single download of the Gladiator film from the Internet. What does that mean? It means that because of the digital age and everybody downloading films off the Internet, then, when they do pay for them, there isn't going to be any $900. Gone. All they'll get is a credit on the film.
So, basically, the evil movie moguls are going to cut out the writers, and grub at all the profits themselves. What they are too stupid to realise however, is that writers write films.
Writers provide coherence, style, language, humour, and structure to a film or series. Without them, we'd have Big Brother on TV all day segmented by ads for dating agencies.
Writers should be provided with the respect that they deserve, they should be driving petrol guzzling Rolls Royces. They should be sucking down pina coladas as they crouch over their typewriter. They should be accompanied by at least three paid muses and one real one. Paparazzi should be shot on sight, and they should have chauffeurs. They shouldn't have a mortgage, their bills ought to be paid by an undersecretary, they should have medical attention at the Mayo Clinic, and their condoms diamond studded.
And all they want is an extra four cents.
To conclude, I provide a link to a YouTube video (because I don't like embedding), and I wish to inform you that I'm now listening to 'Dude (looks like a lady)'.
http://ie.youtube.com/watch?v=oJ55Ir2jCxk
Monday, October 29, 2007
This Weekend...
Wow.
I sit in front of my computer for the first time since Friday. That's two days. Call me a nerd, but computers are my drug.
I have however, found a new drug. It's called partying for two days straight. I thought I might write it down, because I really never want to forget it really. Consider that I'm crazy, but now ridiculously active at parties unless I'm drunk.
Friday:
Halloween Parties are the best. You dress up as Michael Jackson, get hammered, and win a shot for runner up best costume. The person who won was a bird who dressed up as a cheerleader, kind've expected that a girl with legs that good would win. I can hardly do the moonwalk when drunk. But, hey. T'was good fun.
Saturday:
This was meant to start off as a day where I got up from my friend's couch, had a shower, went into town, and met the girl of my dreams, and then went back home at about 7 or 8 cause she was going to an 18th.
It didn't.
I got up from my friend's couch, had a shower, went to town, met the girl of my dreams. But then it stopped. Why? Because I'm crazy when I have an unlimited travel ticket which'll bring me anywhere in this incredible city where homophobic drunks, flamboyant gays, and religious priests live in harmony. And let's not forget the Hari Krishna. They are sooo cool.
So, I went to the 18th. But in complete and utter style. I was the strange random stranger which noone actually knew. So, we formulated a plan. I was to be the guy to introduce the stripper, and then gatecrash the party. Great fun. So I did.
I gatecrashed another party.
So while I'm at this 18th, I realise I'm like one of only like, four guys at the whole party. The rest were female. So, they don't drink much do they? Now, the party, like any good Irish party, was well stocked with alcohol. So, seeing these three guys and me, the mother comes up to us and goes: "There's a few crates of everything in the back garden. Drink".
I took these words to heart. And I got blissfully drunk. That's always a good thing. Funny, but my mixing of beer, cider, and spirits didn't really have any affect on my health. Hopefully it won't for another twenty odd years or so anyway. It got me drunk though.
I realised that after six hours of straight drinking, that I had to get the last bus out of this place, and get back to my hometown which was the other side of this glorious city. So, I went to the bus stop.
Three buses passed me by. Granted, the first two had lovely big "Out of Service" signs on them. So I wasn't really to angry with those ones. Then I got really pissed. The 31 bus passes me, and I wave my phone light at him, he flashes his lights as if life is great, and passes me out. Bastard. I love him though.
The girl of my dreams texts me (let's call her Lou, as in Mary-Lou, cause I like keeping the characters of my stories anonymous). "You get the bus?", and I'm like, "No". So, I'm invited to get picked up by her brother, and stay over at her house. That's fine, I'm like "Cool". I'm waiting around for about half an hour, I'm a patient guy. But after having a drunken conversation with a guy coming back from work, I get a little bit worried. So I check my phone. Shit! I ran out of battery! Life is so shit.
I'm there standing in the middle of nowhere, being passed out by sneaky busdrivers, and taxi's I can't afford, all on my own. BOLLICKS! I shouted for about twenty seconds. Then I was embarrassed. Why? Because her brother was on the other side of the road, asking me if I was Lou's friend. That was embarrassing. But I was too drunk to go red.
Happy ending eh? Not quite yet.
So, I arrive at Lou's house. And there we are in the Kitchen discussing what to do. She's like due to leave for the airport for to go to Berlin at half-four. So, there we are, thinking. It's too short a time to sleep. So, let's go outside. It's ten past one in the morning, and we go for a walk. It was so nice.
Funny thing is, we realised that we didn't just have three hours. We had four. Why? The clocks changed that night, giving us an extra hour. It's like a weird sort of fate that I just loved. I savoured every moment. Then she left for Berlin.
So, I wake up next morning in Lou's house. I get on the bus home. It was a great night, a brilliant night, a fantastic night. I want it embedded in my memory forever. It's random enough to be a dream, but it's true. That is, if life's not a dream, it's true. It was great. I love life. I love fate.
I love that chap who thought of changing time because it would save electricity during the war, therefore it would save money, and I would have that extra hour with Lou.
And so I will always be reminded of it, I document it here, so that it may never be edited.
And so the remnants of alcohol leave my system, and I am sober again. I listen to Badly Drawn Boy, and it keeps me sane. I'm crazy, weird, and psychopathic. But I'm also human. And I think that's why God loves me so much.
I sit in front of my computer for the first time since Friday. That's two days. Call me a nerd, but computers are my drug.
I have however, found a new drug. It's called partying for two days straight. I thought I might write it down, because I really never want to forget it really. Consider that I'm crazy, but now ridiculously active at parties unless I'm drunk.
Friday:
Halloween Parties are the best. You dress up as Michael Jackson, get hammered, and win a shot for runner up best costume. The person who won was a bird who dressed up as a cheerleader, kind've expected that a girl with legs that good would win. I can hardly do the moonwalk when drunk. But, hey. T'was good fun.
Saturday:
This was meant to start off as a day where I got up from my friend's couch, had a shower, went into town, and met the girl of my dreams, and then went back home at about 7 or 8 cause she was going to an 18th.
It didn't.
I got up from my friend's couch, had a shower, went to town, met the girl of my dreams. But then it stopped. Why? Because I'm crazy when I have an unlimited travel ticket which'll bring me anywhere in this incredible city where homophobic drunks, flamboyant gays, and religious priests live in harmony. And let's not forget the Hari Krishna. They are sooo cool.
So, I went to the 18th. But in complete and utter style. I was the strange random stranger which noone actually knew. So, we formulated a plan. I was to be the guy to introduce the stripper, and then gatecrash the party. Great fun. So I did.
I gatecrashed another party.
So while I'm at this 18th, I realise I'm like one of only like, four guys at the whole party. The rest were female. So, they don't drink much do they? Now, the party, like any good Irish party, was well stocked with alcohol. So, seeing these three guys and me, the mother comes up to us and goes: "There's a few crates of everything in the back garden. Drink".
I took these words to heart. And I got blissfully drunk. That's always a good thing. Funny, but my mixing of beer, cider, and spirits didn't really have any affect on my health. Hopefully it won't for another twenty odd years or so anyway. It got me drunk though.
I realised that after six hours of straight drinking, that I had to get the last bus out of this place, and get back to my hometown which was the other side of this glorious city. So, I went to the bus stop.
Three buses passed me by. Granted, the first two had lovely big "Out of Service" signs on them. So I wasn't really to angry with those ones. Then I got really pissed. The 31 bus passes me, and I wave my phone light at him, he flashes his lights as if life is great, and passes me out. Bastard. I love him though.
The girl of my dreams texts me (let's call her Lou, as in Mary-Lou, cause I like keeping the characters of my stories anonymous). "You get the bus?", and I'm like, "No". So, I'm invited to get picked up by her brother, and stay over at her house. That's fine, I'm like "Cool". I'm waiting around for about half an hour, I'm a patient guy. But after having a drunken conversation with a guy coming back from work, I get a little bit worried. So I check my phone. Shit! I ran out of battery! Life is so shit.
I'm there standing in the middle of nowhere, being passed out by sneaky busdrivers, and taxi's I can't afford, all on my own. BOLLICKS! I shouted for about twenty seconds. Then I was embarrassed. Why? Because her brother was on the other side of the road, asking me if I was Lou's friend. That was embarrassing. But I was too drunk to go red.
Happy ending eh? Not quite yet.
So, I arrive at Lou's house. And there we are in the Kitchen discussing what to do. She's like due to leave for the airport for to go to Berlin at half-four. So, there we are, thinking. It's too short a time to sleep. So, let's go outside. It's ten past one in the morning, and we go for a walk. It was so nice.
Funny thing is, we realised that we didn't just have three hours. We had four. Why? The clocks changed that night, giving us an extra hour. It's like a weird sort of fate that I just loved. I savoured every moment. Then she left for Berlin.
So, I wake up next morning in Lou's house. I get on the bus home. It was a great night, a brilliant night, a fantastic night. I want it embedded in my memory forever. It's random enough to be a dream, but it's true. That is, if life's not a dream, it's true. It was great. I love life. I love fate.
I love that chap who thought of changing time because it would save electricity during the war, therefore it would save money, and I would have that extra hour with Lou.
And so I will always be reminded of it, I document it here, so that it may never be edited.
And so the remnants of alcohol leave my system, and I am sober again. I listen to Badly Drawn Boy, and it keeps me sane. I'm crazy, weird, and psychopathic. But I'm also human. And I think that's why God loves me so much.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Delicatessen
(1991) Starring a load of random French actors.
The French have an amazing ability to make the most unusual things in this world: Facsimiles, The Eiffel Tower, Accents, Bread, Cheese, Cars, and Film.
Facsimiles: That was just random. Invented before the telephone.
The Eiffel Tower: My god.
Accents: Noone even wants to know where that came from. Though they produce hot females.
Bread: Too long to cook in a conventional oven. It's like they're trying to compensate for something.
Cheese: Mmmm.... Brie, Rochefort...
Cars: Ranault, Citroen, The Donkey Cart.
Film:
A mind blowing story. So fictional it's unbelievably true (not really, some people do believe that though). This film is a work of systematic French Art. It's random. What on earth is with the story? It's madness. It's never going to happen. People eating people? Come on. But the French make it seem so normal in a way others just can't make a post apocalyptic world look like (see my future rant on the crapness of Children of Men).
Where do they come up with these ideas? Why is it that the French are the people to come up with everything original in the Film industry? And if they don't come up with it, they make it better. Examples of these points include Delicatessen, Amelie, and Les Choristes, and their unlimited amount of so-called "French films" that exhibit an 'unhealthy' (for former day feminists that is) proportions of the female body, ie. Erotica.
The films make you stop and think. Is there a God? Cause if there is, the world wouldn't be so unfair. My god. Like, how many people notice that the French have everything, and I, on the other hand, have nothing (except this shitty Weblog on a shitty server). It's sickening.
How is it, that every woman in the world seems to fancy butt ugly French men? I can see the logic in every straight guy digging for the hot chicks, but that's from 'a chauvinistic male egotistical point of veiw'. But they're hot, right?
And there is something about their accents that just turn any real man on. You could go on an erection just listening to them. Maybe that's why they rejected me for Sex Talk operator (I don't have a French accent).
No country in the world quite gets the French. Like, who would? Can you imagine a metric week? Okay, I say the decimal in money is grand, but the working week? How can you get away with it? Let's decimalise the second, minute, hour, and day next. Then it really will be weird.
The French know how to make comfort food. They understand the requirement of a little bit of fat in everybody's lifestyle. Don't you notice, all these size zero bitches are all sad, depressed losers? Then you look at the fat French person, and see then gulping down red wine, and guzzling full fat cheeses, and you realise that you only live once, no matter what the Buddhists tell you.
Now. To the film. It was good. It was brilliant. In fact, I should be speaking in present tense, because the film hasn't been banned in any country I live in yet. It was a breath of fresh air.
Imagine sitting in a stone cold, concrete walled cell, with no door and no windows. Then imagine some ridiculously foul smelling and toxic gas entering the chamber by an unknown means, suffucating you. You struggle, bahs your hard head against the wall, and finally break a hole in the wall. Now, breath out all those toxic fumes, then breath in the cool, sweet clear rose scented air. That's the feeling I had after watching this film (metaphorically speaking, of course). After Hollywood thrash (notably Children of Men, on which I will rant... I promise....) it opened my eyes. I was told that there was hope still in the world.
I am now convinced that cinema can be used to make good films. Volountarily, of course. Not because of a cleaver wielding madman laughing manically behind me.
The French have an amazing ability to make the most unusual things in this world: Facsimiles, The Eiffel Tower, Accents, Bread, Cheese, Cars, and Film.
Facsimiles: That was just random. Invented before the telephone.
The Eiffel Tower: My god.
Accents: Noone even wants to know where that came from. Though they produce hot females.
Bread: Too long to cook in a conventional oven. It's like they're trying to compensate for something.
Cheese: Mmmm.... Brie, Rochefort...
Cars: Ranault, Citroen, The Donkey Cart.
Film:
A mind blowing story. So fictional it's unbelievably true (not really, some people do believe that though). This film is a work of systematic French Art. It's random. What on earth is with the story? It's madness. It's never going to happen. People eating people? Come on. But the French make it seem so normal in a way others just can't make a post apocalyptic world look like (see my future rant on the crapness of Children of Men).
Where do they come up with these ideas? Why is it that the French are the people to come up with everything original in the Film industry? And if they don't come up with it, they make it better. Examples of these points include Delicatessen, Amelie, and Les Choristes, and their unlimited amount of so-called "French films" that exhibit an 'unhealthy' (for former day feminists that is) proportions of the female body, ie. Erotica.
The films make you stop and think. Is there a God? Cause if there is, the world wouldn't be so unfair. My god. Like, how many people notice that the French have everything, and I, on the other hand, have nothing (except this shitty Weblog on a shitty server). It's sickening.
How is it, that every woman in the world seems to fancy butt ugly French men? I can see the logic in every straight guy digging for the hot chicks, but that's from 'a chauvinistic male egotistical point of veiw'. But they're hot, right?
And there is something about their accents that just turn any real man on. You could go on an erection just listening to them. Maybe that's why they rejected me for Sex Talk operator (I don't have a French accent).
No country in the world quite gets the French. Like, who would? Can you imagine a metric week? Okay, I say the decimal in money is grand, but the working week? How can you get away with it? Let's decimalise the second, minute, hour, and day next. Then it really will be weird.
The French know how to make comfort food. They understand the requirement of a little bit of fat in everybody's lifestyle. Don't you notice, all these size zero bitches are all sad, depressed losers? Then you look at the fat French person, and see then gulping down red wine, and guzzling full fat cheeses, and you realise that you only live once, no matter what the Buddhists tell you.
Now. To the film. It was good. It was brilliant. In fact, I should be speaking in present tense, because the film hasn't been banned in any country I live in yet. It was a breath of fresh air.
Imagine sitting in a stone cold, concrete walled cell, with no door and no windows. Then imagine some ridiculously foul smelling and toxic gas entering the chamber by an unknown means, suffucating you. You struggle, bahs your hard head against the wall, and finally break a hole in the wall. Now, breath out all those toxic fumes, then breath in the cool, sweet clear rose scented air. That's the feeling I had after watching this film (metaphorically speaking, of course). After Hollywood thrash (notably Children of Men, on which I will rant... I promise....) it opened my eyes. I was told that there was hope still in the world.
I am now convinced that cinema can be used to make good films. Volountarily, of course. Not because of a cleaver wielding madman laughing manically behind me.
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