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
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