Another year that against all odds I have managed to survive without killing or maiming myself beyond any recognition. It’s not been without lack of trying. Stuart bought me a lovely black pearl ring when he was in China which I can’t put on because I managed to burn the ring finger of my right hand Sunday night on an oven rack.
I’ve got skills.
It’s a good thing I’m not a hand model. Between the scar from when I bit it on a bicycle when I was 18, random burns and the scar that is developing from when I tried to cut my finger off a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t get a lot of work.
Is going to be a quiet day. I’m aa-ahem. . . working from home, getting my hair cut and coloured, conference call at 5 and dinner with Stuart at a little French bistro just off our high street for dinner.
It’s fun to reflect on the people you share your birthday with. . . a few from Wikipedia:
1888 - Raymond Chandler, American-born author (d. 1959)
1920 - Amalia Rodrigues, Portuguese fado singer (d. 1999)
1940 - Don Imus, American talk radio host
1957 - Theo van Gogh, Dutch film director (d. 2004)
1961 - Woody Harrelson, American actor
1965 - Slash, American guitarist (ex-Guns N’ Roses)
1967 - Philip Seymour Hoffman, American actor
1971 - Alison Krauss, American singer and fiddler
1973 - Monica Lewinsky, American White House intern
1989 - Daniel Radcliffe, English actor
And of course I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Yazid I, Sixth caliph of Islam (b. 645 d. 683)
I leave you with a classic bit of Sesame Street from when I was nine.
Not the easiest thing in the world to do. For example for ‘Your ex’ What I really wanted to say was, ‘The psycotic cocksucker still owes me 3 G’s,’ but that was a bit over the one word limit.
The rules are simple: one word answers to 40 questions.
Where is your cell phone? Bag
Your significant other? Lashed
Your hair? Long!
Your mother? Chatterbox
Your father? Schmuck
Your favorite time of day? Sunset
Your dream last night? None
Your favourite drink? Coffee
Your dream goal? Pulitzer
The room you’re in? Lounge
Your ex? Certifiable
Your fear? Sick
Where do you want to be in six years? Writing
What are you not? Rich
Your favourite meal? Sushi
One of your wish list items? Kelly (Hermès)
The last thing you did? surf
Where you grew up? Vegas
What are you wearing? comfortable
Your TV is? Off
Your pets? Adopted
Your computer? Necessary
Your life? Train
Your mood? Resigned
Missing someone? Yes
Your car? Sold
Something you’re not wearing? Socks
Favorite store? Borders
Your summer? Summer?
Your favourite colour? Red
When is the last time you laughed? Today
When is the last time you cried? Today
Your health? Okay
Your children? Unborn
Your future? Dunno
Your beliefs? Muppets
Young or old? Young
Your image? Reactionary
Your appearance? Sloppy
Would you live your life over again knowing what you know? Definitely
I want to volunteer for a once a week gig at Amnesty International. I’ve long respected Amnesty and even considered doing some volunteer work for them when I first arrived here, but they were asking for more hours than I could give. This position however would be perfect as it would be blogging events and would be on average one evening a week. They are asking for a writing sample in a blog style describing an event.
I’ve been looking at old entries to see if I have a jumping off place that I can use. I have tons of blogs where I get up on my high horse. All you know I have that. I don’t have so many that are talking about an event and the ones I do have are usually about how drunk I was.
Flipping through my archives has been an interesting experience.
1. Some of what I wrote doesn’t suck.
2. Some of what I wrote really sucks
3. My weight has shot up big time since I moved here and I’ve lost and gained the same ten pounds over the last couple of years.
4. I fall down, get stepped on, cut myself and cause general injury to myself a lot.
5. I whinge about not writing or that I am writing or wanting to write. A lot.
6. It seems that I lost a few readers that I had in the early days. Either that or they are lurking. I’m guessing they got a bit tired of the entries that really sucked or me talking about trying to lose weight or how I hurt myself or getting pissed or writing about all of the writing I’m not doing.
7. The moments where I could kill Stuart are very funny on paper.
8. I need to work on my 100 things about Nicole category and my blog roll.
9. I need to clean up the entries that came over from blogger because there are all these strange characters in them that make it difficult to read.
10. I blog a lot about things I need to do that I never get around to.
I’ve mentioned before that I would like to be Dame Helen Mirren when I grow up.
Damn Helen. Zowie. Not only is she clever, talented and beautiful. . . check out those abs of steel.
The woman is 25 years older than me and if I may quote Heather of Go Fug Yourself fame:
Never mind that it’s deeply unfair that Helen, who is twice my age at least, looks better in a bikini than I have done, currently do, or ever will. Because I can’t hate her for it. I can only gape. My girl-crush is now full-fledged love. While we all knew she had a great figure and a timeless rack that she’d whip out during awards season, I don’t think any of us were aware just HOW much her bod is — as the kids these days call it — bangin’. AND her bathing suit is cute. How do you DO it, Helen? With whose blood are you flavoring your morning tea? How much did Satan pay you for your soul, and may I have his number? Or does he read Craigslist?
Seriously, this makes me feel infinitely better about aging. I might even go do a sit-up.
I’m with Heather. My girl crush is also full-fledged love.
Home keyboard has still not been replaced because last weekend I didn’t fancy going to the Apple store in the middle of iPhone mania. I’ve never understood people that get excited about gadgets the way they do about stuff that’s important. Like when I skipped a class to wait in line ffor hours or Episode 1 Star Wars tickets. (Thanks George. Thanks again for destroying my favourite childhood movies.)
Not having a space bar is difficult to write anything longer than a Facebook update. The way around that is to copy and paste a space but that isn’t a barrel full of monkeys either. The other way around it is to use my work computer. Which is what I am using now.
I’m trying to properly write a play and I am trying to focus. On the bottom of page 11 at the moment on the ‘puter. Wrote 4 ½ pages long hand last night. I have bits in my head so now I’m discovering how to string the bits together and trying to shut off the part of me that says, “You know this really sucks ass.”
I give you another Max line which was inspired by my friend Al:
MAX: You know I have no interest in history other than what I can use to mock other nationalities. Specifically Americans, The French, Germans and the Welsh.
For those of you that are theatre inclined and also know my struggle with dramatic action (I tend to write good lines but have a hard time with plot) I think I have it under control. . . but it is still early days. So yeah. Trying to focus.
There’s been lots of things I’ve wanted to write about but I didn’t have the energy and I didn’t want to write my usual flippant posts because there are a lot of things going on in the news.
Quickly. . . The New Yorker Cover. So obvious it is satire. So obvious what they are doing. Obama camp seriously messed up by taking the PC route. That said, a lot the Hilary supporters that are rolling their eyes would have tweaked if a similar cover had been done for Ms. Clinton. I’m just saying. I’m a bit sick of all the black/white thinking- and no I’m not talking about race.
The economy. Hoping the current pound to dollar rate stays similar as it makes it easier to pay off my student loans.
Christopher Hitchens. I’ve long had conflicting feelings about the gentleman due to watching a couple of debates with Robert Scheer at the LA Times Festival of Books where Hitchens defended the US Iraq war position. It wasn’t only folks on the right that lost their mind after 9/11 as few lefties did too and in my mind Hitchens was one of them. That said, the man is far more clever and possesses more intelligence than my right foot. And I also don’t have a lot of time for people that just parrot back my views back at me so I do appreciate his willingness to say things that can be unpopular in certain circles.
I do think, however. . . he can be a bit of a cock.
The last few years I’ve caught a few of his pieces where he has surprised me. He has said that he didn’t think waterboarding was torture. His editor thought he should look into it a bit more. . . This month in Vanity Fair he has an article on waterboarding where he submits himself to it. You can read the article here and watch a video of it here.
Yes. It is torture. And guess what. It’s wrong.
Funny. I remember the first time I lost a bit of love for America. I think I was 12. I found out about the Japanese Interment camps and the injustice of it made me so angry. Much like a relationship with a lover when you first realise that they aren’t perfect, so was my first realization that there was a lot of dust bunnies under America’s bed.
I do love my country. (Well. It isn’t my country anymore. I don’t belong there. And I don’t belong here really. I need to find a secluded island somewhere where I do nothing but sit in the sun and have a house boy bring me cold drinks with little umbrellas.) I love America in a co-dependant way that you love an alcoholic, or a wife beater or someone with borderline personality disorder. “Oh, he just does that because he loves me. He wants to know where I am and make sure I don’t get into trouble. In fact, it’s my fault. I need to behave better. I make him slap me around.”
That segues into something that blew my little mind. I’ve long been pissed at my alcoholic, wife beating, borderline personality disorder county for Guantánamo. No huge surprise there.
Last night I read on Amnesty International about Omar Khadr (who is a Canadian citizen) and watched the video of his being interrogated in 2003. Khadr has been at Gitmo since he was 16 for war crimes and allegedly throwing a grenade that killed a US soldier.
ANDREW: They were actually swingers?
MAX: In the flesh. Literally.
ANDREW: Were they at least attractive?
MAX: You already know the answer. Imagine naked Morris Dancers.
ANDREW: Fucking hell.
MAX: And that was the wife. There must be some research. Some scientific study that explains why all swingers are ugly.
ANDREW: If they were attractive…
MAX: Not as good a story.
ANDREW: Yes, no. Its not. But would you have been tempted? (PAUSE) Have you ever cheated on Sarah?
MAX: You ever cheat with Sarah? Don’t answer that. I’ve had too much to drink. Know you haven’t.
ANDREW: I haven’t.
MAX: I know.
ANDREW: I wouldn’t.
MAX: What’s wrong with her? (Laughs) Listen. How are you doing with the whole… you know. Pink elephant in the room.
ANDREW: I’m fine.
MAX: She told me not to mention it but you know me. I’m very fond of pink elephants.
ANDREW: I’m fine.
MAX: You sure? Because, I hate to say this, but you look terrible. Like you haven’t slept for the last six months.
ANDREW: Well, Max. Given I have fairly intense abandonment issues, walking in on my wife with another man’s cock in her mouth is bound to disrupt my sleep patterns.
MAX: Yes. Yes. I can see that. If you, if you… know you’re closer to Sarah but should you want to talk to me.
ANDREW: Thanks.
MAX: …I really rather hope you don’t you understand. (laughs) Wonder when the bird will be here?
ANDREW: I’m really not ready. It’s only been six months. What do you know about her?
MAX: Same page as you. What I can pick up from Sarah, she’s a wishes she was around in the 70s burn her bra type.
ANDREW: She fit?
MAX: Don’t think so.
ANDREW: Why?
MAX: She’s a feminist isn’t she?
writing. did some. don’t think it sucks. Yeah me. wanna see???
Posted on July 8, 2008 @ 11:02 pm
Wrote a scene tonight that took me in a direction I wasn’t expecting. I think this will be the last scene I share with the five of you that read this. . . but I wanted to share. (I’m like a two year old trying to get their parents attention before they belly flop into the pool.)
Why is the only stage direction (PAUSE)?
1. I just finished reading The Homecoming. 2. I come from the school of, you aren’t Eugine O’Neil, so don’t write lots of flowery stage directions. Give the actor and the director the chance to play. This will allow you to steal their choices and look brilliant for the next draft.
AMANDA: Where are you from?
MAX: Buckinghamshire.
AMANDA: Buckinghamshire?
MAX: Elsbury actually.
AMANDA: Ah.
MAX: Do you know it?
AMANDA: No. I was being polite.
MAX: Famous for pheasants and speed traps.
AMANDA: Fascinating.
MAX: And ducks.
AMANDA: Why ducks?
MAX: Dunno. They descended after the war.
AMANDA: What is it with Brits and ‘The War’?
MAX: You’re joking.
AMANDA: Only slightly.
MAX: You do know your history I hope. You’re not one of those Americans that doesn’t understand why we don’t celebrate the 4th of July.
AMANDA: Fuck off.
MAX: You don’t know me well enough to speak so casually. So intimately.
AMANDA: What do I need to do to speak intimately?
MAX: Interesting proposition. What are your thoughts?
AMANDA: You’re the one that broke out the usage of fuck among friends etiquette manual.
MAX: There’s a when to use fuck between friends etiquette manual?
AMANDA: One of Emily Posts’ lesser works.
MAX: Need to pick it up at WH Smiths.
AMANDA: Indeed.
MAX: More important than the when to fuck manual—
AMANDA: More important?
MAX: More important.
(PAUSE)
AMANDA: Waiting. . .
MAX: Baited breath?
(PAUSE)
MAX (CONT.): Are we friends?
AMANDA: We just met.
MAX: Yes.
AMANDA: Will we be friends?
MAX: I was wondering.
(PAUSE.)
AMANDA: I hear your wife.
Not that I think that anyone would be silly enough to steal my ramblings, but in case you may be thinking about it. . . the very act of my writing this means that I own the copyright. Really. Look it up.
So, please don't plagiarize. It just ain't cool. And what I say just isn't that interesting. Trust me. Most of my friends don't even read this.
That being said, I do subscribe to the T.S. Eliot philosophy of "Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." There is a difference between Stealing and stealing. . . This is not to say that I am mature. If anything. . . I'm rambling aren't I? That's what I do. I ramble. So, yeah. I'll shut up now.
