Somehow I managed to get through 32 years on this planet without having to field any embarrassing questions from my parents. Our relationship has traditionally been quite open and honest and historically I have divulged information before it was asked for (unless I have been bad). I guess, there was the one time when Dad asked me why I changed my bed sheets so much, but he knew the answer really and was really actually trying to embarrass me (no, I did not wet the bed, but think - what do teenage boys do in bed that might require frequent sheet changing?)
Anyway - the 32 years of embarrassment free parenting ended a few days ago when on a drive to my friend's house in the country, my mum said, "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question? Do you promise not to be offended?"
There is no right answer when someone asks this of you so rather than responding with a "No, I won't be offended," I just sighed and said "What?"
"Do you want to be a woman? Do you think you might want a sex change?"
I basically told her that I was not going to dignify the question with a response. But then after a couple of moments of silence I realised that I couldn't possibly leave the subject unanswered, so I replied. "No Mum. I don't want to be a woman. I like being a man. I have never dressed up as a woman [a lie, but I only did it as a joke and was very drunk. There is actually a video of the episode in existence] and neither do I want to."
First I should say that I wasn't embarrassed or pissed off that Mum had asked me the question because I have a problem with the transgendered. I have no issue or ill feeling toward anyone who has had, or thinks that they would like, a sex change. But I pride myself on the fact that I am a fairly straight acting and looking gay man (although my profile picture, left, perhaps has a question mark over it). Anyway, it turns out that there were two things that prompted the question. The first had been that a few minutes earlier I had been waxing lyrical about Nicole Kidman's Karl Lagerfeld designed Chanel dresses in the No.5 TV commercial. I can see how to the uninitiated this may have been confusing. But the other reason is that Mum has acquired a new friend - a woman called Sandra who a few weeks ago became Sean. Apparently Sean is a rather unconvincing man and because he feels that he will be ridiculed at the hairdresser he would like Mum to do his hair at home (Mum is a hairdresser by trade).
I guess I should be rather pleased that my mothers' conservative, vaguely provincial lifestyle has room for something as traditionally alien to it as a transgender friend. It's just that ever since Nadia won Big Brother this summer the transgendered among us have become somewhat De Rigueur, especially on the London social circuit and the fact that I don't have any transgender friends and now Mum does kinda pisses me off.
Maybe I should be reminding myself that a transgender friend is for life and not just for Christmas.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Sunday, December 26, 2004
What I got for Christmas
- A Sex and the City boardgame
- A funky stripey scarf
- Lots of money (too much perhaps? Noooooo!)
- A St Christopher necklace (because he is my namesake)
- Tom Ford's book
- A book on how to write your autobiography
- Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind DVD
- A book of gay movie posters
- A pair of black leather gloves
- An inflatable remote controlled robot
- A wooden thing that I can put photos in
- Showergel
- Too much chocolate, which will be given to the kids
- A shirt
- A pirate DVD of The Incredibles
- Underwear and socks
- A Terry's chocolate Orange (which mum has bought for me every Christmas since I could eat chocolate)
- A turkey induced coma
- Too much Port and wine
- An "I love you" from Jake (I think it was platonic, but still, it's the first time that he has said it. And no, we are not going back out with each other)
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Merry Christmas
Am drunken. Merry Christmas everyone! Yay!
I wonder if Father Christmas has a cute son?
I wonder if Father Christmas has a cute son?
Thursday, December 23, 2004
TV Moment
About to drive home to Bath, so a quick blog entry - something to make you all chuckle. Was just watching an episode of the UK's "The Vicar of Dibley" and there is a brilliantly comedic scene between the Vicar and Alice (both above):
Geraldine (the Vicar) to Alice:
"So Superman is feeling a bit bored because Spiderman and Batman are on a scuba diving course. He doesn’t have anyone to play with. So anyway, he’s flying around trying to amuse himself and suddenly he sees Wonderwoman naked, spread-eagled on the top of a tall building. Now he’s always fancied Wonderwoman, so he thinks to himself, “Now’s my chance!” So he swoops down and faster than a speeding bullet he does the business and then he flies off again. A moment later Wonderwoman says, 'What was that?!' And the Invisible Man climbs off her and says, 'I don’t know, but it hurt A LOT!'"
Alice to the Vicar (said in a thick, stupid west country farmer accent):
"My problem with that joke is that it seems to be suggesting that Superman committed homosexual rape upon the Invisible Man and I just don’t find that funny. In fact the joke besmirches the reputation of two of the finest superheroes this world has ever known. I mean I've never actually met the Invisible Man. Well, I might have met the Invisible Man. I wouldn’t know. He’s invisible. But I have heard that they are both really nice guys and frankly I think you should be ashamed of yourself for telling that joke."
Weird stuff going on with my swimwear...
I go to a rather lovely gym. Apparently it's the biggest and most equipped in London. I think that The Third Space in Soho is actually nicer, but it's about three million £ a month, so I choose Cannons instead.
My routine is usually an hour of weights, followed by a twenty to thirty minute rest in the spa, which is really awesome - huge 50 person jacuzzi next to floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Then I have a little sauna, a little steam room and then a seven minute hydrotherapy massage before I hit the showers.
Before I jump in the shower I usually spin out the water from my swimming costume and then I stick it in the tumble dryer to dry while I perform my ablutions.
Last Thursday, after I had dried off, got dressed and dried my hair I went back to the tumble dryer to discover that my beloved navy blue Hugo Boss speedos (I love them because like afore mentioned tighty-whity post, they sit REAL low and show off those diagonal hip-to-crotch lines to the best advantage) were GONE!
I was really gutted that someone had pinched them, but then it ocurred to me that perhaps an over zealous cleaner (an aside - because I am reading Brave New World again, I keep seeing everyone in terms the book's caste system, and yesterday I was thinking that in Huxley's World the cleaner would be an Epsilon-Minus Semi-Moron and I would be an Alpha-Plus intellectual, which is just terrible!) had removed them from the tumble dryer and put them in lost and found.
So I checked at the front desk, but nothing had been handed in. So I assumed that someone else must have taken them thinking that they were there own. Sniff. Goodbye my favorite Hugo Boss swimming trunks.
Then yesterday the exact same thing happened. Only this time it was with my pink Abercrombie boardies. Now these ones don't do as much for my figure, but they have far more sentimental value because I bought them while on holiday with Nick and Vix in Hawaii three years ago and since then they have literally been all around the world with me - from Thailand to Fire Island to California to East Hampton and Miami. And once again they were not in lost and found.
Now once may be a mistake on the part of another gym member. But twice? Surely a sign that I have an obssessive stalker that waits for me to put my bathing suit in the tumble dryer and disappear off to the shower before swiping them. Ugh! I hope they don't go home and, like, do stuff with them. Like rubbbing Marmite onto them and then licking it off. Unless it's that cute, ripped, surfery looking dude that I keep seeing in the changing room, in which case perhaps he'd like to do the lickin' with me in the boardies or speedo.
The biggest problem I am now faced with is that all I have left to wear in the pool and in the spa are what can only be described as "porn shorts". They are black nylon with an orange, red and silver stripe going across the front and are EXTREMELY tight. Some might say that speedo's are pretty porny, but withhold judgement until you see them. They were actually hand me downs from an ex-boyfriend and I have never had the courage to wear them. But needs must I feel. If I do have an obsessive stalker, these babies are really gonna drive him mad. And if these ones get nicked I'm going to have to consider doing my spa thang in the buff.
Which may have been the stalker's singular intention all along.
My routine is usually an hour of weights, followed by a twenty to thirty minute rest in the spa, which is really awesome - huge 50 person jacuzzi next to floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Then I have a little sauna, a little steam room and then a seven minute hydrotherapy massage before I hit the showers.
Before I jump in the shower I usually spin out the water from my swimming costume and then I stick it in the tumble dryer to dry while I perform my ablutions.
Last Thursday, after I had dried off, got dressed and dried my hair I went back to the tumble dryer to discover that my beloved navy blue Hugo Boss speedos (I love them because like afore mentioned tighty-whity post, they sit REAL low and show off those diagonal hip-to-crotch lines to the best advantage) were GONE!
I was really gutted that someone had pinched them, but then it ocurred to me that perhaps an over zealous cleaner (an aside - because I am reading Brave New World again, I keep seeing everyone in terms the book's caste system, and yesterday I was thinking that in Huxley's World the cleaner would be an Epsilon-Minus Semi-Moron and I would be an Alpha-Plus intellectual, which is just terrible!) had removed them from the tumble dryer and put them in lost and found.
So I checked at the front desk, but nothing had been handed in. So I assumed that someone else must have taken them thinking that they were there own. Sniff. Goodbye my favorite Hugo Boss swimming trunks.
Then yesterday the exact same thing happened. Only this time it was with my pink Abercrombie boardies. Now these ones don't do as much for my figure, but they have far more sentimental value because I bought them while on holiday with Nick and Vix in Hawaii three years ago and since then they have literally been all around the world with me - from Thailand to Fire Island to California to East Hampton and Miami. And once again they were not in lost and found.
Now once may be a mistake on the part of another gym member. But twice? Surely a sign that I have an obssessive stalker that waits for me to put my bathing suit in the tumble dryer and disappear off to the shower before swiping them. Ugh! I hope they don't go home and, like, do stuff with them. Like rubbbing Marmite onto them and then licking it off. Unless it's that cute, ripped, surfery looking dude that I keep seeing in the changing room, in which case perhaps he'd like to do the lickin' with me in the boardies or speedo.
The biggest problem I am now faced with is that all I have left to wear in the pool and in the spa are what can only be described as "porn shorts". They are black nylon with an orange, red and silver stripe going across the front and are EXTREMELY tight. Some might say that speedo's are pretty porny, but withhold judgement until you see them. They were actually hand me downs from an ex-boyfriend and I have never had the courage to wear them. But needs must I feel. If I do have an obsessive stalker, these babies are really gonna drive him mad. And if these ones get nicked I'm going to have to consider doing my spa thang in the buff.
Which may have been the stalker's singular intention all along.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Flipping Christmas
When I was younger I LOVED Christmas. Mum and Dad used to really get into the whole deal for me and my brother. They would do the whole Christmas stocking thing. We would leave a mince pie and a glass of sherry out for Father Christmas and a carrot outside for Rudolph. I remember the best Christmas ever was when I walked out onto the landing and saw that there were loads of presents and crackers lying on the stairs and mum said that it was because Father Christmas had fallen over and tumbled down the stairs. Of course, I wasn't that concerned about FC's welfare. I was more concerned about swiping the majority of the booty before my brother woke up.
The last couple of years have been different. Christmas has become this really irritating time of year. For me it starts around October when my Dad usually calls me up because he wants to know what I am doing on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. How am I supposed to know this in October when I barely know what I am doing this weekend. Invariably my mum will call me a few weeks later because she wants to know if I want to get Grandma "you know, that thing she asked for."
"What thing?"
"You know. The thing she asked for a little while ago. You know...the, um, thing."
Drives. Nails. Up. Arm.
And so on and so forth right up until Christmas Eve. Christmas itself (Eve, Day, Boxing) is usually fine. We're not the kind of family that spend the holiday's arguing and fighting (did you know that you are most likely to be murdered by a family member at Christmas). Also I have a "second" family that I can spend part of Christmas with - that of the family of my dear friends Helen and Clare, all of which I have known since I was at school.
Anyway I was scouring the internet earlier to find similar like-minded, anti-Christmas people and I came across this sorry collection of tales - My Miserable Christmas
And then I came across another site - Masturbate For Peace. Not sure that this is that festive really. Well I guess it is promoting peace and this is the time of peace towards all men. Hmm. Oh, alright then. I'll allow it.
The last couple of years have been different. Christmas has become this really irritating time of year. For me it starts around October when my Dad usually calls me up because he wants to know what I am doing on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. How am I supposed to know this in October when I barely know what I am doing this weekend. Invariably my mum will call me a few weeks later because she wants to know if I want to get Grandma "you know, that thing she asked for."
"What thing?"
"You know. The thing she asked for a little while ago. You know...the, um, thing."
Drives. Nails. Up. Arm.
And so on and so forth right up until Christmas Eve. Christmas itself (Eve, Day, Boxing) is usually fine. We're not the kind of family that spend the holiday's arguing and fighting (did you know that you are most likely to be murdered by a family member at Christmas). Also I have a "second" family that I can spend part of Christmas with - that of the family of my dear friends Helen and Clare, all of which I have known since I was at school.
Anyway I was scouring the internet earlier to find similar like-minded, anti-Christmas people and I came across this sorry collection of tales - My Miserable Christmas
And then I came across another site - Masturbate For Peace. Not sure that this is that festive really. Well I guess it is promoting peace and this is the time of peace towards all men. Hmm. Oh, alright then. I'll allow it.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
By the way, Jerome's blog has a new contributor. Me. Marv and I are trying to keep it alive. We're seeing him on New Year's Eve, so we will mercilessly kick his ass until he agrees to post at least one entry a week.
I am not holding my breath.
I am not holding my breath.
Identifying / resonating
I’ve always thought, or maybe not “thought” but have been told, that it is a bit of a cliché to identify too much with anything from popular culture. I guess the cliché depends on what you are identifying with. I mean if you are identifying with Meg Ryans and Billy Crystals character's relationship in “When Harry Met Sally”, then yes, I suppose that is a bit of a cliché.
And on the whole I don’t identify in a major way with those types of films. I identify, usually, with a sentiment, a gesture or a look. But there have been some things that I have identified with in a big way. For example, most books written by Douglas Coupland. And most of Richard Linklater’s movies. I like to pretend that I am Jack Black in "School of Rock" and sometimes even Julie Delpy in "Before Sunrise".
Today I identified with a film called “Garden State” by Zack Braff, of “Scrubs” fame. I knew that Braff starred in the movie, alongside Natalie Portman, but wasn’t aware that he had also written the screenplay as well as having directed it. As an aside, it is safe to say that he is my new crush, but it is a more legitimate crush, because it’s not based solely on looks. Not. Solely.
Anyway, the film is about this guy (Braff) who is in his late twenties, living in LA, pursuing the acting dream, but failing. We learn that he has suffered from depression for most of his life. He returns home, to the garden state of New Jersey, after his father calls him to tell him that his mother has died. He accidentally leaves his medication, a combination of everything from Effexor to Lithium, at his house in LA.
We soon find out that this is the first time that he has not been on some kind of medication since he was ten and as a result he learns much about himself, what he is capable of, etc, etc. And he falls in love.
It’s an independent film so it has a little more weight than your mainstream Hollywood trash, but the reason that I identified with it was because I have recently come of all of my meds too. And similarly I have always been on something pretty much since I was 12. That’s almost twenty years of my life. I was going to write a blog post about my going on the meds and coming off them, but it’s something that I need to think about a bit. I don’t know what I want to say. But I think I have something to say. I’ll set myself an objective to write about it here before the end of the week. Check back for an insight into the machinations of ma fragile lil mind!
In the meantime, I have just started reading again “Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley. There is a foreword written by him, obviously before he died in 1963, but about twenty years after he originally wrote the book and had it published. “Brave New World” is his most famous book, because in many ways it was prophetic, in regards to how society would develop. In the foreword he discusses this and that part of him wanted to go back and rewrite the story. But he didn’t. And he explains why. This is the first paragraph of the foreword and it resonated with me for many reasons:
“Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean.”
Amen to that.
And on the whole I don’t identify in a major way with those types of films. I identify, usually, with a sentiment, a gesture or a look. But there have been some things that I have identified with in a big way. For example, most books written by Douglas Coupland. And most of Richard Linklater’s movies. I like to pretend that I am Jack Black in "School of Rock" and sometimes even Julie Delpy in "Before Sunrise".
Today I identified with a film called “Garden State” by Zack Braff, of “Scrubs” fame. I knew that Braff starred in the movie, alongside Natalie Portman, but wasn’t aware that he had also written the screenplay as well as having directed it. As an aside, it is safe to say that he is my new crush, but it is a more legitimate crush, because it’s not based solely on looks. Not. Solely.
Anyway, the film is about this guy (Braff) who is in his late twenties, living in LA, pursuing the acting dream, but failing. We learn that he has suffered from depression for most of his life. He returns home, to the garden state of New Jersey, after his father calls him to tell him that his mother has died. He accidentally leaves his medication, a combination of everything from Effexor to Lithium, at his house in LA.
We soon find out that this is the first time that he has not been on some kind of medication since he was ten and as a result he learns much about himself, what he is capable of, etc, etc. And he falls in love.
It’s an independent film so it has a little more weight than your mainstream Hollywood trash, but the reason that I identified with it was because I have recently come of all of my meds too. And similarly I have always been on something pretty much since I was 12. That’s almost twenty years of my life. I was going to write a blog post about my going on the meds and coming off them, but it’s something that I need to think about a bit. I don’t know what I want to say. But I think I have something to say. I’ll set myself an objective to write about it here before the end of the week. Check back for an insight into the machinations of ma fragile lil mind!
In the meantime, I have just started reading again “Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley. There is a foreword written by him, obviously before he died in 1963, but about twenty years after he originally wrote the book and had it published. “Brave New World” is his most famous book, because in many ways it was prophetic, in regards to how society would develop. In the foreword he discusses this and that part of him wanted to go back and rewrite the story. But he didn’t. And he explains why. This is the first paragraph of the foreword and it resonated with me for many reasons:
“Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean.”
Amen to that.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
Saucy gay poetry
A couple of weeks ago my housemate and I were discussing poetry and I told her that my favorite poem is called "As I Walked Out One Evening" by W.H Auden.
Vix then informed me that Auden was also famous for being the author of several works of homoerotic poetry. Because I don't like being told something that I don't already know I dismissed this as ridiculous!!
But this morning she produced a book of erotic poetry and showed me one of the poems that she was referring to. I think it might be a bit of a misnomer to cite this as homoerotic. It's more like down and dirty porn! Yay! Don't read if you are of a sensitive disposition or concerned that you might become all hot and bothered.
"The Platonic Blow" by W.H. Auden.
When reading that poem I imagine W.H Auden to look like:
In actual fact, W.H Auden looked like:
Vix then informed me that Auden was also famous for being the author of several works of homoerotic poetry. Because I don't like being told something that I don't already know I dismissed this as ridiculous!!
But this morning she produced a book of erotic poetry and showed me one of the poems that she was referring to. I think it might be a bit of a misnomer to cite this as homoerotic. It's more like down and dirty porn! Yay! Don't read if you are of a sensitive disposition or concerned that you might become all hot and bothered.
"The Platonic Blow" by W.H. Auden.
When reading that poem I imagine W.H Auden to look like:
In actual fact, W.H Auden looked like:
Covent Garden - Day Two
Earlier on today I got this email from my old, old (29) friend Becca:
"You know a few weeks ago when we were talking about the episode in Sex and the City when Carrie refers to New York as her boyfriend? She says that while she might have her own issues with her boyfriend, still no one else can slag him off? Mr Christopher - download the attached song and stick it on your ipod. Don't play it yet. Go into Covent Garden, the same place where you were yesterday, and then play it. And while you listen to it tell yourself that while you both may have your ups and downs together, London is your boyfriend. You split up for a while, but now you're back together and it's all going to be great."
The song? "Underneath it All" by No Doubt. A little sample:
There's times where I want something more
Someone more like me
There's times when this dress rehearsal
Seems incomplete
But, you see the colors in me like no one else
And behind your dark glasses you're...
You're something else
You're really lovely
Underneath it all
You want to love me
Underneath it all
I'm really lucky
Underneath it all
You're really lovely
Cheese factor? Yes, but a good quality Stilton. Glad to be in London? Yes. Christmas shopping completed? Yes. Tears cried? Well, I did well up a little. Just a little, you understand.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Tis the season to be jolly...or something like that
After the bad news of yesterday morning I decided that I should do something to take my mind off things. Christmas shopping. That should do the trick.
Because I am not working at the moment I really don't have much money. At one point I did consider not buying Christmas presents at all. My friends and family all know my situation and would have understood but the way I see it, it's still a lose / lose situation. I could not buy anything for anyone and then feel like crap when everyone is giving me presents and I'm not giving anything back. Or I could buy Christmas presents and not have as much money.
The latter is just an unfortunate financial hiccup and let's face it, very few people can really "afford" to buy Christmas presents. So I decided to do it. I didn't spend a fortune and in actual fact I think that setting yourself a spending limit makes you think more about what you are getting the person. I have lottery fantasies where I buy everyone iPods. This might still happen, but I have to remember to buy a ticket tomorrow.
So I made a quick list of family and friends and set off into town.
The area around Covent Garden was actually not quite as busy as I thought it would be. I started off with the bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I had intended to go to the big ones like Foyles and Blackwells, but then I got distracted by all the smaller, older ones and I began to think that maybe I should get everyone bargain first edition prints of Jane Austen novels. Except that the only first edition book I could find was a 1993 copy of "An Introduction to Global Geophysics" , by some dude.
After a little while I decided that there would be more progress in traditionalism so I went to a great graphic design shop, bought some T-shirts, a DVD on a visual artist and it all started to go swimmingly. That was until I got to Urban Outfitters. I needed to get something for my housemate and I just couldn't find anything and I knew that was stupid cause Urban Outfitters has everything for a modern guy or girl and the prices really aren't that expensive even though the quality isn't that great only everything was so plastic looking and not really suitable for the flat and...
I started to cry. Not an eyes-welling-up crying. This was like uncontrollable vomiting. Only crying. So I bowed my head as to not draw attention and made my way outside which was not an easy task because the shop was heaving and despite my best efforts people were infact beginning to notice me. Eventually I got outside and ran across the road to the Donmar and stood in the doorway, facing the corner and bawled.
After a couple of minutes I got to the point where the histrionic stage had passed and I was just gently sobbing. So I dug in my jacket pocket and retrieved a cigarette and smoked it. This bought about a moment of clarity and I decided that it was all a bit too much and I could complete the Christmas shopping another day. It would be better for me to buy some wine, go home, order a pizza and watch some TV. Which I did.
And it was great until for some reason I remembered that song by Art Garfunkel from Watership Down. "Bright Eyes". So I downloaded it and listened to it. And I started crying all over again.
"Bright Eyes" and being drunk and alone. A winning combination for bringing about happy festive cheer.
Today I woke up with streaming eyes, glands the size of, um, large sized glands and a runny nose. I have dinner tonight with my Dad and my Stepmom. No doubt I will be lectured about how I need to take better care of myself.
WEBSITES OF THE DAY
1) The Chanel No 5 ad - I know the general consensus of opinion is that it is overblown and expensive, but I just keep watching it for the music, the gorgeous frocks, Nicole looking beautfiul and Rodrigo being one tall drink of water. And the arial view, with the sweeping searchlights when Nicole takes to the red carpet ... wow!
2) Your height in iPods.
Because I am not working at the moment I really don't have much money. At one point I did consider not buying Christmas presents at all. My friends and family all know my situation and would have understood but the way I see it, it's still a lose / lose situation. I could not buy anything for anyone and then feel like crap when everyone is giving me presents and I'm not giving anything back. Or I could buy Christmas presents and not have as much money.
The latter is just an unfortunate financial hiccup and let's face it, very few people can really "afford" to buy Christmas presents. So I decided to do it. I didn't spend a fortune and in actual fact I think that setting yourself a spending limit makes you think more about what you are getting the person. I have lottery fantasies where I buy everyone iPods. This might still happen, but I have to remember to buy a ticket tomorrow.
So I made a quick list of family and friends and set off into town.
The area around Covent Garden was actually not quite as busy as I thought it would be. I started off with the bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I had intended to go to the big ones like Foyles and Blackwells, but then I got distracted by all the smaller, older ones and I began to think that maybe I should get everyone bargain first edition prints of Jane Austen novels. Except that the only first edition book I could find was a 1993 copy of "An Introduction to Global Geophysics" , by some dude.
After a little while I decided that there would be more progress in traditionalism so I went to a great graphic design shop, bought some T-shirts, a DVD on a visual artist and it all started to go swimmingly. That was until I got to Urban Outfitters. I needed to get something for my housemate and I just couldn't find anything and I knew that was stupid cause Urban Outfitters has everything for a modern guy or girl and the prices really aren't that expensive even though the quality isn't that great only everything was so plastic looking and not really suitable for the flat and...
I started to cry. Not an eyes-welling-up crying. This was like uncontrollable vomiting. Only crying. So I bowed my head as to not draw attention and made my way outside which was not an easy task because the shop was heaving and despite my best efforts people were infact beginning to notice me. Eventually I got outside and ran across the road to the Donmar and stood in the doorway, facing the corner and bawled.
After a couple of minutes I got to the point where the histrionic stage had passed and I was just gently sobbing. So I dug in my jacket pocket and retrieved a cigarette and smoked it. This bought about a moment of clarity and I decided that it was all a bit too much and I could complete the Christmas shopping another day. It would be better for me to buy some wine, go home, order a pizza and watch some TV. Which I did.
And it was great until for some reason I remembered that song by Art Garfunkel from Watership Down. "Bright Eyes". So I downloaded it and listened to it. And I started crying all over again.
"Bright Eyes" and being drunk and alone. A winning combination for bringing about happy festive cheer.
Today I woke up with streaming eyes, glands the size of, um, large sized glands and a runny nose. I have dinner tonight with my Dad and my Stepmom. No doubt I will be lectured about how I need to take better care of myself.
WEBSITES OF THE DAY
1) The Chanel No 5 ad - I know the general consensus of opinion is that it is overblown and expensive, but I just keep watching it for the music, the gorgeous frocks, Nicole looking beautfiul and Rodrigo being one tall drink of water. And the arial view, with the sweeping searchlights when Nicole takes to the red carpet ... wow!
2) Your height in iPods.
A sign...
I was just reading Little Hedonist's blog and saw that today he posted the following quote. I have heard it before, but I guess today it has for me a little more meaning and relevance:
"Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." - Samuel Johnson
"Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." - Samuel Johnson
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
A name that should strike fear into the heart of any mortal human
"'Sinderella' is back with a raunchy all new hilarious adult Panto*. All the cast reunite to bring an all new show that is guaranteed to leave you hot under the collar and laughing for more! 'Sinderella Comes Again' sees Buttons, Sinderella and Baron Von Hard-on up to all their own tricks and naughty makeovers! It's a hilarious tale for adults that should know better. It'll definitely heat up your stockings this Christmas!"
Now I know it sounds like the back description of a porno, but believe me, it's not. "Sinderella Comes Again" is a UK Virgin Records top 10 DVD. It is currently selling more copies than "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". But that is not the biggest crime. The biggest crime is that it is a starring vehicle for one ... I can't believe that I am writing these two words together in my blog (swallows) ... Jim Davidson.
Jim Davidson is a pro-war, neo-nazi, sexist, homophobic, racist, wife-beating, cheeky, popular British comedian. Earlier this year he announced to the press that he had become disillusioned with Britain (nothing to do, you understand, with his flagging career) and was moving to Dubai. But not before refusing to play a gig in Bolton because there were too many wheelchair users in the front row. Bless him.
Earlier in September Popbitch reported that a heavily pregnant fan spotted Jim in a bar in Dubai and greeted him with, "You're Jim Davidson!"
"And you're a whore," the comedian replied.
I indulge myself in fantasies where Jim steals fruit from a Dubai market stall and has his penis chopped off infront of a braying crowd.
Anyway - last night I was happily watching a documentary about one of my favorite movie directors, Richard Linklater, when Vix's 17 year old sister and her boyfriend walk in and ask very nicely if they can put a DVD on. Normally I would have given up my TV viewing, but when I asked what the DVD was I was informed that it was, you guessed it, "Sinderella Comes Again". I recall that my exact words were, "No. No Way. Absolutely not."
I tried to explain why I had responded in the resoundingly negative, but when you are 17 you don't really care much about political correctness and now I fear that I am being viewed as Vix's old, miserable housemate. Jim Davidson became the underdog and I felt guilty. What kind of fucked up world is this?
*A Panto is a kind of British phenomenon. Kind of like Icecapades. But not on ice.
BAD NEWS OF THE DAY
Didn't get the job in NYC (sob)
MOVIE SCENE OF THE DAY
"Donnie Darko" - in slow motion the characters walk through the school in one, unbroken, shot to "Head Over Heels" by Tears for Fears.
Now I know it sounds like the back description of a porno, but believe me, it's not. "Sinderella Comes Again" is a UK Virgin Records top 10 DVD. It is currently selling more copies than "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". But that is not the biggest crime. The biggest crime is that it is a starring vehicle for one ... I can't believe that I am writing these two words together in my blog (swallows) ... Jim Davidson.
Jim Davidson is a pro-war, neo-nazi, sexist, homophobic, racist, wife-beating, cheeky, popular British comedian. Earlier this year he announced to the press that he had become disillusioned with Britain (nothing to do, you understand, with his flagging career) and was moving to Dubai. But not before refusing to play a gig in Bolton because there were too many wheelchair users in the front row. Bless him.
Earlier in September Popbitch reported that a heavily pregnant fan spotted Jim in a bar in Dubai and greeted him with, "You're Jim Davidson!"
"And you're a whore," the comedian replied.
I indulge myself in fantasies where Jim steals fruit from a Dubai market stall and has his penis chopped off infront of a braying crowd.
Anyway - last night I was happily watching a documentary about one of my favorite movie directors, Richard Linklater, when Vix's 17 year old sister and her boyfriend walk in and ask very nicely if they can put a DVD on. Normally I would have given up my TV viewing, but when I asked what the DVD was I was informed that it was, you guessed it, "Sinderella Comes Again". I recall that my exact words were, "No. No Way. Absolutely not."
I tried to explain why I had responded in the resoundingly negative, but when you are 17 you don't really care much about political correctness and now I fear that I am being viewed as Vix's old, miserable housemate. Jim Davidson became the underdog and I felt guilty. What kind of fucked up world is this?
*A Panto is a kind of British phenomenon. Kind of like Icecapades. But not on ice.
BAD NEWS OF THE DAY
Didn't get the job in NYC (sob)
MOVIE SCENE OF THE DAY
"Donnie Darko" - in slow motion the characters walk through the school in one, unbroken, shot to "Head Over Heels" by Tears for Fears.
All About E
I think I have made a few references to the Scoobys in this blog. The Scoobys are comprised of a number of really awesome guys and ladies, some straight, some gay, some undecided, most of whom can be seen in the photograph that I posted last Friday.
The Scoobys were named by Drew a few years ago - a more detailed explanation stolen from his blog:
Scoobys > The name of my group of friends. Basically they'll become characters in their own right so I won't introduce them straight away, suffice to say that they're all quite kooky in their own bewitching ways. The term Scooby was stolen by me from Buffy (the Vampire Slayer) where it's used as a post modern reference in-joke thingy to the fact that they go around "solving mysteries" in a similar fashion to the original Scooby gang in the cartoon, you got it, "Scooby Doo". Although we don't technically solve mysteries, we are a gang, and we have seen some pretty strange things between us. Anyhoo, the name has stuck.
Now I can’t really claim that I am a Scooby as I was not really on the scene when they were conceived all those years ago. But I was told by Scooby Joe recently that I am a guest character, which is something that I take great pride in. After all the best episodes of “Frasier” were the ones within which Lilleth made guest appearances. At least I keep telling tell myself that.
Now if Drew is the patriarch of the Scoobys, then it’s matriarch must surely be Sam. It has only really been over the last twelve months or so that I started spending any time with Sam, although I have been acquainted with him for a few years now. I had traditionally always approached Sam rather cautiously, as he is the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend Wayne, who is now one of my best friends, as are many of my closest male friends – a sad / happy trend, depending on your / my point of view, probably worthy of a future blog posting.
I digress…
On Saturday night Sam hosted a party at his apartment to celebrate his 25th birthday. Sam’s outfit pretty much epitomized the evening – dress trousers and black shoes with braces and nothing else. Unless you count the 100 diamante studs stuck to his torso as a“top’. Kate DJ’d in a pair of knickers with “Get It Here” emblazoned on her ass. Katie wore a huge, appliquéd, shoulder-less, gold ballgown and Kevin came as someone’s Mum. It was a complete blow out and a most resounding and fabulous success.
Despite the numerous raucous, sordid and shocking distractions that took place over the 14 hours that I was present (at 12pm on Sunday I blearily-eyed sloped off for a roast lunch at Lindsay’s) I managed to spend a great deal of the evening with another Scooby guest character called E (no stupid jokes please - E is actually a living person).
Despite being only 23 (and also being quite short) E is an absolute gem. I’ve only spent a few evenings (and early mornings) in his company and all of those times neither of us was capable of having a proper conversation, but I always liked him from afar (he’s also quite easy on the eye, which helped). But on Saturday night we talked. And talked. And talked. We discussed Aldous Huxley, art deco, architecture, the hey day of the 1920s, modern theatre and polyphonic ring tones. And it was really lovely and uncomplicated. Right up until the point where he asked for my telephone number.
A little background - E is of dubious sexuality. Until about two years ago he was straight. But then he met Sam and decided to give the lifestyle a go. I don’t know if it was Sam or something else – I wasn’t privy to the details – but soon after I left for America I found out that Sam and E had spilt up and that E was now dating a woman.
Anyway – aside from the fact that Saturday, for E and I, was the meeting of minds, I will freely admit that I would have been up for it to have been the meeting of other organs – as I inferred (despite the height issue) E really is a hottie of the highest percentile. But given that he tried “it” out before and then went back to being straight I should probably assume that the exchange of phone numbers meant little more than one guy saying to another “Hey! Let’s do this again!” Because not everything in life has to be about sex, right?
So I am well aware that I should be expecting, at the very most, just a nice little friendship. Except that I can’t remember that last time I exchanged numbers with a straight guy, with the intention of going to the theatre or an art gallery together. And I don’t think that I have EVER swapped numbers with a straight guy with the intention of going to the theatre or an art gallery together, when said straight guy was so freaking hot AND who, for a little while, quite liked bum fun.
So that was Saturday night.
Yesterday morning I was confronted with a question that I have certainly had to ask myself many times before, but this time with a twist: When do I call him? The twist being: What am I expecting?
So I didn’t call him yesterday, cause that would have been stupid, way over keen and would have sent out all the wrong messages. I texted him instead. I’m pleased to say that I did get a text back and while he can’t meet during the week (school exams) we have tentatively arranged to do something “arty” at the weekend.
Of course, I have already imagined countless scenarios occurring, one of which being despite his better nature (tried it, didn’t like it) E can’t help but acknowledge his burgeoning romantic feelings towards me by brushing his hand against mine during a production of “Another Country”.
(Drew, who knows exactly who I am referring to, is no doubt staring at his screen, shaking his head with despair. Yet I am sure he feels a sense of fond nostalgia over how DUMB I can be).
The Scoobys were named by Drew a few years ago - a more detailed explanation stolen from his blog:
Scoobys > The name of my group of friends. Basically they'll become characters in their own right so I won't introduce them straight away, suffice to say that they're all quite kooky in their own bewitching ways. The term Scooby was stolen by me from Buffy (the Vampire Slayer) where it's used as a post modern reference in-joke thingy to the fact that they go around "solving mysteries" in a similar fashion to the original Scooby gang in the cartoon, you got it, "Scooby Doo". Although we don't technically solve mysteries, we are a gang, and we have seen some pretty strange things between us. Anyhoo, the name has stuck.
Now I can’t really claim that I am a Scooby as I was not really on the scene when they were conceived all those years ago. But I was told by Scooby Joe recently that I am a guest character, which is something that I take great pride in. After all the best episodes of “Frasier” were the ones within which Lilleth made guest appearances. At least I keep telling tell myself that.
Now if Drew is the patriarch of the Scoobys, then it’s matriarch must surely be Sam. It has only really been over the last twelve months or so that I started spending any time with Sam, although I have been acquainted with him for a few years now. I had traditionally always approached Sam rather cautiously, as he is the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend Wayne, who is now one of my best friends, as are many of my closest male friends – a sad / happy trend, depending on your / my point of view, probably worthy of a future blog posting.
I digress…
On Saturday night Sam hosted a party at his apartment to celebrate his 25th birthday. Sam’s outfit pretty much epitomized the evening – dress trousers and black shoes with braces and nothing else. Unless you count the 100 diamante studs stuck to his torso as a“top’. Kate DJ’d in a pair of knickers with “Get It Here” emblazoned on her ass. Katie wore a huge, appliquéd, shoulder-less, gold ballgown and Kevin came as someone’s Mum. It was a complete blow out and a most resounding and fabulous success.
Despite the numerous raucous, sordid and shocking distractions that took place over the 14 hours that I was present (at 12pm on Sunday I blearily-eyed sloped off for a roast lunch at Lindsay’s) I managed to spend a great deal of the evening with another Scooby guest character called E (no stupid jokes please - E is actually a living person).
Despite being only 23 (and also being quite short) E is an absolute gem. I’ve only spent a few evenings (and early mornings) in his company and all of those times neither of us was capable of having a proper conversation, but I always liked him from afar (he’s also quite easy on the eye, which helped). But on Saturday night we talked. And talked. And talked. We discussed Aldous Huxley, art deco, architecture, the hey day of the 1920s, modern theatre and polyphonic ring tones. And it was really lovely and uncomplicated. Right up until the point where he asked for my telephone number.
A little background - E is of dubious sexuality. Until about two years ago he was straight. But then he met Sam and decided to give the lifestyle a go. I don’t know if it was Sam or something else – I wasn’t privy to the details – but soon after I left for America I found out that Sam and E had spilt up and that E was now dating a woman.
Anyway – aside from the fact that Saturday, for E and I, was the meeting of minds, I will freely admit that I would have been up for it to have been the meeting of other organs – as I inferred (despite the height issue) E really is a hottie of the highest percentile. But given that he tried “it” out before and then went back to being straight I should probably assume that the exchange of phone numbers meant little more than one guy saying to another “Hey! Let’s do this again!” Because not everything in life has to be about sex, right?
So I am well aware that I should be expecting, at the very most, just a nice little friendship. Except that I can’t remember that last time I exchanged numbers with a straight guy, with the intention of going to the theatre or an art gallery together. And I don’t think that I have EVER swapped numbers with a straight guy with the intention of going to the theatre or an art gallery together, when said straight guy was so freaking hot AND who, for a little while, quite liked bum fun.
So that was Saturday night.
Yesterday morning I was confronted with a question that I have certainly had to ask myself many times before, but this time with a twist: When do I call him? The twist being: What am I expecting?
So I didn’t call him yesterday, cause that would have been stupid, way over keen and would have sent out all the wrong messages. I texted him instead. I’m pleased to say that I did get a text back and while he can’t meet during the week (school exams) we have tentatively arranged to do something “arty” at the weekend.
Of course, I have already imagined countless scenarios occurring, one of which being despite his better nature (tried it, didn’t like it) E can’t help but acknowledge his burgeoning romantic feelings towards me by brushing his hand against mine during a production of “Another Country”.
(Drew, who knows exactly who I am referring to, is no doubt staring at his screen, shaking his head with despair. Yet I am sure he feels a sense of fond nostalgia over how DUMB I can be).
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Frodo - Part Deux
Following on from Marv's great explanation (see comments at the end of the last post) I went back to my housemate's copy of the book to read that section before they get on the boat. I found this passage. I won't go on about how lovely yet achingly sad it is, because you can read it for yourself and most likely come to the same conclusion:
"Where are you going Master?" cried Sam, though at last he understood what was happening.
"To the Havens, Sam," said Frodo.
"And I can't come?"
"No Sam. Not yet anyway, not further than the Havens. Though you too were a Ringbearer, if only for a little while. Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do."
"But," said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, "I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too, for years and years, after all you have done."
"So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, to lose them, so that others may keep them. But you are my heir. All that I had and might have had I leave to you. And also you have Rose, and Elanor. And Frodo-lad will come, and Rosie-lass, and Merry, and Goldilocks, and Pippin; and perhaps more that I cannot see."
Monday, December 13, 2004
Frodo, Frodo, Frodo...
Clare, Nick and Bill just came round with the new extended version of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. For those of you who are unaware, we're talking about almost four hours of nobility, honor, fighting and Orlando Bloom with beautifully flowing long blonde hair.
I've seen the film before twice at the movies and I loved it. And I loved it when we watched it again this evening, but I have one problem with the ending. And I have read the book so I know that Peter Jackson was being true to the original text, but still...
Why the hell does Frodo have to get on that boat at the end of the movie? Where are they going? I know he has had a bit of a tough time of late, you know, fighting monster spiders, having had his finger bitten off by a loinclothed, anorexic, um, thing and overthrowing the most formidable presense in the universe. But is a peaceful life in The Shire drinking ale, smoking weed and getting booty 24/7 from all those hero-worshipping nubile hobbit girls not enough for poor Frodo?
Apparently no, because instead he chooses a life on a decidedly poky boat, with a couple of senile old men and some pseudo intellectual Elves all suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. Rock and roll! I have a sneaking suspicion that he's going to get a few miles out to sea and realise that he has made a bad decision, by which time it will be too late. I'm worried about him. I am of the belief that young Frodo should be back at his home in the company of his friend Samwise and all the bows and frills of their, er, special relationship.
(Marv - I know you are an expert on the "Rings", so perhaps you can offer an explanation of this silliness?)
Sunday, December 12, 2004
I *heart* my friends
Will's website has gone live! (subscribe for free to see the content)
I have been quite proud of Will this year. When I first found out that he was going on Big Brother I believe I inwardly groaned. But any misgivings I had about him taking part were quickly nullified and I have learned so much about him as a result. Qualities mainly. Maybe they were qualities that I perhaps already knew really, but being aware of what he has been through this year - on and off screen - certain qualities were definitely highlighted. Like integrity, truth, respect, compassion and love. Qualities that make me proud to be able to call Will, or anyone else for that matter, my friend.
What I want to say is that this post should not read only as an ode to Will and his achievements. This post should symbolise in no uncertain terms how I feel about all of my friends. Maybe I say this too much or not enough, depending on who you are and where in the world you are: you, my friends, all achieve such wonderful things. Some seemingly big, some seemingly small. But they are, regardless, achievements. And I love it when these things make you happy. They make me happy. I sit in the audience and watch each of you take the stage. And I am ear-to-ear grinning and clapping resounding applause.
You people! My friends! (Can I borrow some money?)
PS: There is a little section on Will's site (Ask a Supermodel), written by someone who may sound familiar to you...
I have been quite proud of Will this year. When I first found out that he was going on Big Brother I believe I inwardly groaned. But any misgivings I had about him taking part were quickly nullified and I have learned so much about him as a result. Qualities mainly. Maybe they were qualities that I perhaps already knew really, but being aware of what he has been through this year - on and off screen - certain qualities were definitely highlighted. Like integrity, truth, respect, compassion and love. Qualities that make me proud to be able to call Will, or anyone else for that matter, my friend.
What I want to say is that this post should not read only as an ode to Will and his achievements. This post should symbolise in no uncertain terms how I feel about all of my friends. Maybe I say this too much or not enough, depending on who you are and where in the world you are: you, my friends, all achieve such wonderful things. Some seemingly big, some seemingly small. But they are, regardless, achievements. And I love it when these things make you happy. They make me happy. I sit in the audience and watch each of you take the stage. And I am ear-to-ear grinning and clapping resounding applause.
You people! My friends! (Can I borrow some money?)
PS: There is a little section on Will's site (Ask a Supermodel), written by someone who may sound familiar to you...
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Friday, December 10, 2004
Career Update
Today I had my fourth (FOURTH!) interview with the company that is interested in me setting up their NYC office. I have been interviewing with them now for a month and a half. I already feel like part of the team. My bank account isn't feeling it though.
I am also of the mind that maybe I am being recruited for a sinister government wing and will be posted in NYC as an assasin. Or something like that.
The interview today was to decide whether I should go into the agency and work in the London office while the finishing touches are being put to the NYC office. But it was all a bit incoherent - I had never met the woman I saw today and she didn't seem to have the full deal on what was going on stateside. So I had to fill her in, which was kinda weird.
I know that these things take time, but I am seriously starting to get anxy now. A transatlantic move is no small thing and while I would sell my first born to George Bush to get back, equally I do need a little bit of security.
I need a fall back - so for the rest of today I have been making mucho phone calls to friends and agencies on spec to see what they have going down and equally to highlight what I could bring. And a few doors do seem to be open. Which is good cause I seriously need some cash from somewhere.
I called Drew yesterday and we had a serious conversation about setting up a business together when he gets back to London in April. We were thinking about an escort service, with the two of us being the main attractions, at least at the outset. We have a very clear and definitive business strategy - we will only accept clients that fall into the rich, ripped, handsome and funny category. Basically Richard Gere's character in Pretty Woman. If the first two clients can fit that criteria that would be great - ensuring that our sorry asses are taken off the streets and kept forever in Gucci and Helmut Lang.
It's Joe's birthday party tonight in Soho. He just texted me to ask if I can just wear a jockstrap. Erm, sure Joe. Anything for the birthday boy.
I am also of the mind that maybe I am being recruited for a sinister government wing and will be posted in NYC as an assasin. Or something like that.
The interview today was to decide whether I should go into the agency and work in the London office while the finishing touches are being put to the NYC office. But it was all a bit incoherent - I had never met the woman I saw today and she didn't seem to have the full deal on what was going on stateside. So I had to fill her in, which was kinda weird.
I know that these things take time, but I am seriously starting to get anxy now. A transatlantic move is no small thing and while I would sell my first born to George Bush to get back, equally I do need a little bit of security.
I need a fall back - so for the rest of today I have been making mucho phone calls to friends and agencies on spec to see what they have going down and equally to highlight what I could bring. And a few doors do seem to be open. Which is good cause I seriously need some cash from somewhere.
I called Drew yesterday and we had a serious conversation about setting up a business together when he gets back to London in April. We were thinking about an escort service, with the two of us being the main attractions, at least at the outset. We have a very clear and definitive business strategy - we will only accept clients that fall into the rich, ripped, handsome and funny category. Basically Richard Gere's character in Pretty Woman. If the first two clients can fit that criteria that would be great - ensuring that our sorry asses are taken off the streets and kept forever in Gucci and Helmut Lang.
It's Joe's birthday party tonight in Soho. He just texted me to ask if I can just wear a jockstrap. Erm, sure Joe. Anything for the birthday boy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)