I was just wondering what I look like, so I entered my first and last name into Google's image search facility which was, as usual, spot on (this morning my face is as pale as a bed sheet, with green circles around bloodshot eyes).
I am sure that is not what I was taught the colours of the Italian flag represent.
I'm off to bed with a cup of tea, a stack of today's papers and Mark Steel's Reasons To Be Cheerful.
No party frolicking for me this Saturday night, I am still recovering from last night's shenanigans (which involved doing something for the very first time and something else for the second time in my life – sorry about the secrecy, I'm just not ready to share my sex life at the moment).
Last night my morals waved hello to his, as they were making their way to the centre of the earth on an express train.
I cheerfully grinned my way through some errands today, despite the fact that I woke up at 5:30am for no reason. I must have looked like a complete lunatic, positively chuckling loudly while I walked through busy streets. The reason? No, I am not in love, it's just some stuff I read recently, which keeps coming back to me. Here's some of it.
One: The Search For Love In Manhattan; I followed Mike's advice and finally plunged into the archives at dawn today.
Two: the following joke from yesterday's Popbitch newsletter:
>> Legendary Gayers >>
John Gielgud is the Shit FairyChestercopperpot writes:
"Many years ago, while appearing on Broadway
Gielgud was in a yellow cab on the way to the
theatre. It had been raining so he was carrying
an umbrella. After exchanging pleasantries with
the driver, Gielgud was dropped off and made his
way to the stage door."A few paces away from the cab he was surprised
by the previously friendly driver screaming
"Ya fuckin fairy, yo forgot yo fuckin wand!".Gielgud calmly walked back to the cab, collected
his brolly, tapped the driver on the head and
said 'Turn to shit'.
Three: the following memo, e-mailed to me by a friend this morning:
MEMORANDUM
From: Bin Laden, Osama
To: Team Mates
Subject: The CaveHi guys
We've all been putting in long hours recently but we've really come
together
as a group and I love that. Big thanks to Omar for putting up the poster
that says "There is no 'I' in team" as well as the Garfield that says "Hang
In There, Baby." Very humorous.However, while we are fighting a jihad, we can't forget to take care of the
cave. And frankly I have a few concerns.First of all, while it's good to be concerned about cruise missiles, we
should be even more concerned about the carpet dust in our cave. We want to
avoid excessive dust inhalation, (a health and safety issue) – so we need
to
sweep the cave daily, I've done my bit on the cleaning
rota………..have you? I've posted a sign up sheet near the cave
reception
area (next to the halal toaster).Second: It's not often I make a video address but when I do, I'm trying to
scare most of the world population, okay? That means that while we're
taping, please do not ride your razor scooter in the background or keep
doing the 'Wassup' thing. Just while we're taping.
Thanks.Third: Food. I bought a box of Dairylea recently, clearly wrote "Ossy" on
the front, and put it on the top shelf. Today, two of my Dairylea Slices
were gone. Consideration. That's all I'm saying.Fourth: I'm not against team chanting and all that, but, we must distance
ourselves from the Westerner's bat and ball game. Please do not chant "Ossy
Ossy Ossy Oi Oi Oi" every time I ride past on the donkey. ThanksFinally, we've heard that there may be Western soldiers in disguise trying
to infiltrate our ranks. I want to set up patrols to look for them. First
patrol will be Omar, Muhammad, Abdul, Akbar, and Dave.Love you lots, Group Hug.
Os.
PS – I'm sick of having Osama's Bed Linen scribbled on my bed sheets – Cut
it out Abdul, not funny anymore.
Four: The phrase "80 uses with puff" which, several weeks after reading it in David's Swish Cottage archives, can still conjure up images of what the remaining 77 other uses could possibly be.
More about warchalking from Google (link via plasticbag.org). And here's my contribution (click on thumbnail to view image).
[Credits: logo on t-shirt > www.warchalking.org; warchalk at Kynance Mews, London SW7 > Ben; doll > blogger's own; Warchalking Ken is absolutely not connected with Mattel Inc.]
Fantastic dinner party last night at some friends' attic in Carnaby Street.
Watching the sunset from the balcony, over a dramatic view of W1 buildings. I think I could very easily get used to that.
A few people in catering were there, so we had excellent food and my glass of champagne was constantly and carefully topped-up (which made me feel like I wasn't drinking much, as the glass was never empty throughout the evening).
I made some contacts for work, and also to join some people rollerblading in a group. Oops, one slight problem though: I've left my rollerblades behind in Italy – Let me know if you've got a decent pair in size 10, hardly used, to sell on (you know, the kind of thing you might have bought on the spur of the moment, and then left to collect dust at the back of your wardrobe).
So much to learn, so much curiosity to satisfy, so much fast-paced information, and yet so little time.
I finally managed to find out what warchalking is all about, thanks to this simple explanation.
I currently do not have the technology to benefit from it, nevertheless it's amazingly brilliant in its simpleness.
After a couple of pints at Barcode with a friend who unfortunately had to go home early (I understand some people have jobs), I checked out Retro Bar's pop quiz last night.
I only got to hear the last 5 or 6 questions, and frankly I mostly did not know have a clue. Some of the tunes rang some bells, but I was unable to spontaneously come up with the names of singers such as Amazulu and Princess, that were long removed from my memory, probably in order to make room for more relevant bits of information. I got Belouis Some's Imagination though, as well as Paul Hardcastle's Dont Waste Your Time and Nick Kershaw's Wouldn't It Be Good.
I guess I'd score higher if the quiz was all about Europop, or Britpop released between 1990 and 1994, or Frenchpop between 1994 and 1999, or Italian pop between 1999 and 2002. I truly felt that I was a foreigner, and it was a most uncomfortable feeling, considering that I don't feel it that often in this country.
<warning>
<personal>
<rant>
Another job-searching day that has left me
feeling rather inadequate and purposeless.
Wondering if I did the right thing getting
involved in so many different projects over
the years, acquiring many skills apparently
not related to each other thus very hard to
turn into professional satisfaction.
Calling it a day now, having a shower and a
shave and going out to soak shameless self-
pity in cheap booze – and cheap men.
</rant>
</personal>
</warning>
Ok, I know I had wished not to hear about football anymore now that England are out, but at BBCi you can create your own World Cup dream player.
What's funny about it is that if you just load the page and don't start playing, you get Beckham's face along with a "Loading Brains" status bar that keeps flashing forever and ever…
My weekend in figures:
Find of the day (through a comment he left at Swish Cottage): Michael. I apparently am 92% similar and 61% complementary to him, which is not that surprising since I was born a handful of hours before him (well, a day, which makes me technically older). Darn, I've just given away my age; now I'll have to stop claiming that I was born in 76 (while pretending that I am dyslexic when it comes to figures).
Anyway, enough about me. So, how compatible are you with… ME?
My plans of being the official mascot for the 2006 Football World Cup are put to an end by Brazil. I've figured out that I was living in Italy when Italy won the World Cup in 1982, and since I was living in France when they won four years ago, I was really hoping for England to make it this time, and toying with the idea of offering my services as a lucky charm for whoever wants to win it next time around. I thought Brazil would be most likely to fall into that kind of thing: "Do you want to win? Then put me up in a swanky apartment in Rio, shower me with sponsorships and pocket money and I'll put my face on t-shirts and keyrings" (scary thought).
OK, can we now stop talking constantly about football? Thank you.
I'm gay. I'm a foreign national. I'm applying.
If I was to have something tattooed on my body, it would definitely have to be this. It's a "vegvisir", a Viking compass that sits on Björk's upper left arm. When asked what it represented, she said "It's so I don't get lost," (…) "If the Vikings had bad weather or fog, they used to draw it on their foreheads with a piece of coal. I thought that was a bit much, so I put it there". (Rolling Stone, July 1995).
I find this symbol very significant for "spiritual" – for lack of a better word – reasons (I have been on a constant quest for home, and I've recently come to terms with the fact that it does not match a specific geographical place) and for sentimental reasons (5-year relationship with Icelandic ex-boyfriend).
Until now I was not enthusiastic about having a tattoo that's not unique, but I've just found out that the basic concept about Ægishjálmur (Helms of Awe) is that you can basically create your own according to how you want the energy around you to behave.
A short extract from the job interview from hell:
Interviewer: "So how well do you know your way around MS Excel?"
Me (expecting to be asked about macros, queries and the like): "I have a full working knowledge of it and use it all the time."
Interviewer: "I hope I don't sound patronizing, but how would you go about to copy the content of one cell into another?"
Me (refraining from standing up and leave): "I'd select the cell – then Ctrl-C and Ctrl-D it into the new location." (inaudible) "Doh"
Interviewer: "OK, we'll let you know"
Come on, get into the boy lab and make yourself your dream man. Or be a narcissist like me and try and reconstruct your own face – this is the best I could come up with, and it only remotely looks like me. (link via plasticbag)
Emergency, calling Dr. Freud! Last night I dreamt of the Dame Edna Experience. She was on stage in a classy venue (mustn't have been the Royal Vauxhall Tavern then), a slow harmonious shower of tinkering notes wrapping her, and with her best husky, come-to-bed voice she started going:
Seeeexy, everything about you soooo…. (long pause)
Seeeexy
at which point the (predominantly gay) audience, realizing it was a slow and tortuous torch song version of Liberty X's "Just A Little", booed and hissed ("like, where's the beat, we can't possibly dance to this"). DE stopped and belched out her usual "It's my fucking show and I'll sing whatever I want to". The audience cheered. All was forgiven. I love happy endings. This dream has been brought to you by Red Stripe lager – now 15% weirder dreams for the same price!
Oi me 'ead, me poor 'ead.
Not a good idea to skip Sunday lunch knowing it was going to be a long drinking afternoon.
Not entirely a bad idea (but completely unnecessary yesterday of all times) to arrive at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern at 4:15 to be sure to get it before the crowd.
Not a good idea to start drinking at 4:16 with mate on the green to chill out (or rather "freeze out" – excuse me, is it summer yet? Or spring, for that matter?)
Not a good idea to stick tongue down mate-on-the-rebound's throat.
Not a good idea to defrost breast of chicken in the morning thinking "I'll have that tonight after the RVT".
Not a good idea to pick up a BBQ spicy chicken pizza on the way home, and eat it on the 5-minute walk home from the station.
Good idea: waking up at 3am and downing 3 pints of Ribena as brain cells were either dehydrated or saturated with alcohol.
Excellent idea: going up to say hallo to David, Ian and Marcus, and sincerely thanking David for making me find out about the place with his A-Z to the RVT.
Quiet Saturday evening yesterday, just a quick drink (and this time it was just one, and very quick) with Chiara and Doriano before seeing Monster's Ball. Good movie, just a tad disappointed at seeing Heath Ledger make his exit so early into the movie. And, although she did deliver an outstanding performance, I am not entirely convinced that Halle Berry's Letitia was 100% Academy Award material. Berry must have jumped with excitement while reading the script, for it is one hell of an all-round role for a female actress, enabling her to portray a fighter and loving hysterical mother and deceived wife and horny lover and victim of racial prejudice and survivor of deaths of loved ones, all at the same time. She was good in all of the above facets (and I'm sure I'm forgetting some), skillfully jumping in and out and around all these female role models, but I personally was more convinced by Billy Bob Thornton's subdued and hinted-at emotions that his character demanded.
I keep hearing stuff like "Ooh, I've heard an awful lot of shagging was going on on the Italian Big Brother". Although I'm flattered on behalf of my compatriots, I feel the need to set the record straight and destroy this myth.
GF1 (Il Grande Fratello #1): Pietro and Cristina did it. Once. In a make-shift tent that they set up in the living room to have some "privacy". Followed by Cristina's guilt trip as she was late and thought she got pregnant (no protection was used – and these are the role models for the Italian youth). Cristina went on to win the 2000 edition and can now be seen doing some sort of TV infomercial.
GF2: Tati and Lorenzo did it. Once. Under a blanket. And it went on for the best part of 2 whole minutes, before the poor chap came under the pressure of the cameras (and the thought that his mamma was probably watching him).
We'll have to wait until September for GF3 and more Italian shagging frolics, as selections are currently under way and it appears that the production is keen on having actual couples take part in GF3 together.
I've never loved the rain so much! David is absolutely right: wet footie gear rules! (and almost got me interested in the match).
You may go a step further and check out Donna Moderna's (Italian mag for "modern women") 2001 football players calendar, where much less is left to the imagination. I personally wish it was always January, all year round. Or June. Or May. Or…
Note to self: when going to a bank in order to apply for a personal banking account, avoid putting passport in same pocket as "overnight kit" (condoms, gel, contact lens case and toothbrush). Alternatively, put extra care in extracting passport as to prevent condom and small gel package to fly in the face of sadly not-so-hot bank employee.
I've put together quite a few pieces of Ikea furniture over the years, and I'm certainly not new to the joys of alcohol. But until last night, never the twain had met. Hilarious. Until a half-together bookcase fell on me, and I cut myself with some cardboard (!). Evil, evil furniture with absurd names.
Et un, et deux, et troix – zéro!
Four years ago this was the official chanting, as the French Team paraded down the Champs Elisées, and it was meant to represent their 3-0 victory over, ehm, Brazil, wasn't it?
It's sadly still applicable today though, as France played 3 matches and scored 0 goals. (courtesy of straight housemate into football).
And England is in. (I knew that red England tracksuit top was an investment).
Webmasters beware, they are in town:
If London was in New York (right, Jade?), I have just taken a stroll down SoKe (South Kensington). And I live in HeHi (you figure it out). I like the sound of it actually, it conjures up an image of Madonna on a mechanic bull. Heee-Hi! (I know it's lame, but pleeeeez Don't Tell Me to Stop)
A closet queen, with a crystal-smoking junkie sister and a non-committal escapist brother who shags complete strangers in airport utility rooms. Add a control-freak mother and a the haunting presence of a deceased father. No wonder I enjoyed watching 6 Feet Under last night: I kept seeing bits of myself in ALL caracters. Now, if the show is reportedly about a disfunctional family, what does that make me?
Squirrels and birds and foxes, I can handle them. Then, I was out in our garden smoking and I stepped on something that made a cracking sound, looked down and saw a dozen snails. Fine, no problem. But burgling monkeys? Is London a bloody zoo? What next? Drug-peddling armadillos? Joy-riding iguanas? Hustling komodo dragons? I wouldn't be a bit surprised.
