Self-fulfiling prophecy

I had to go get my paycheck today (actually, it wasn't even a paycheck, but an envelope filled with cash - welcome to the 21st century). On my way back I decided to treat myself to something special and check out this posh restaurant in my neighborhood. For some reason at first the waiting staff stared at me like I was some sort of alien, so I felt a bit self-conscious. Once I actually ordered my food though, they seemed to relax - probably taking that for sufficient proof that I wasn't there just to take a dump in their fish tank, or something. Anyway, I was bored, and didn't have a book with me, so I started browsing some fancy-shmancy brochure about their selection of teas. It was bilingual (Polish and English), and in addition to some rather hilarious discrepancies between the two versions, it also sported several outright errors in the Polish bits.

As I was leaving, something came over me and I approached a waitress, smiled politely, and said: "Excuse me, I know this is completely out of the blue, but there are several gramatical errors in that leaflet you have on the table. Just in case anyone ever wanted to correct them..." The girl's face immediately went OMG ALIEN!, and her friend started giggling nervously, so I decided it's probably best not to mention there's also a typo in their greeting card, smiled again, nodded good-bye, and walked out.

I left the restaurant wondering what the hell I was thinking, but also nursing a not entirely unpleasant impression of having completed some sort of cycle.

Mutant apocalypse

Every fucking Tori Amos song the last.fm radio plays is a live version taken from the Beekeeper tour. Which is NOT a good thing :/

All the beautiful people

I wonder if that's gonna be my new thing: only updating the blog late at night, when I find myself unable to fall asleep. Seems quite plausible, especially since I finally dragged the laptop from its resting place in the kitchen and put it on the bedside window for easy access. After all, I can't possibly be expected to get up and cover that meter-and-a-half to my desktop, right?

Still working on a comfortable writing position though. It's very important to get the pile of gigantic pillows just right.

So, these are my current dilemmas. And that's actually the definitive manifest. Which bothers me a bit, to be honest. Last night W. took me out to dinner, to celebrate my birthday. It was actually quite unexpected, because it's such a... grown-up thing to do. And we don't do grown-up, ever. We are for each other the security blanket you reach for when life gets a bit too overwhelming, that shot of tried and true you sometimes need to even your keel... I wonder if that's even a word, or an expression, and if it means what I think it does. It just popped into my head literally out of nowhere, and I'm so tired of second-guessing my every sentence that I refuse to research it.

So where was I... Right, our private time capsule. It's actually quite funny - last night I realized that once again I started leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, and had to stop myself, because we don't do that. Because when people first started doing it in high school, we decreed it as lame and affected, and made a pact to boycott the entire thing. And this custom - or lack thereof - survived, fossilized, to this day. Over 10 years. We don't even think about it, it's just not something we do. So peculiar.

But I stopped one layer short of the point - what I wanted to say is that I had absolutely nothing to say. The dinner was incredibly nice, and I felt happy, but as I sat there, listening to her amusing anecdotes, I tried over and over to find something to reciprocate with, and the best I could come up with was a story that my parents had told me 3 weeks ago.

I've no idea what the fuck is wrong with me. I've never had this problem, I was always spewing gibberish left and right. I used to craft the most insignificant, random things that happened to me on my way over somewhere into tiny anecdotes, just so I'd have something for an opening salvo. I don't think my life is any emptier than it was before (how's that for an optimistic statement?), so maybe I've just lost the interest in people required to observe and fish out those amusing details...

I don't know, but either way, I ran out of steam. I leave you with something appropriately broken and hypnotic.

The skinny

Actually, now that I think of it, I don't really have all that much to write about either In Bruges or Bored to Death. Or even a reason to lump them into a single post, aside from the fact that both ultimately proved to be disapointing.

In Bruges actually has a lot going for it. It's an unusual take on a popular cinematic motif - hitmen. It shows them in-between assignments, as they try to make the best of their downtime in a seemingly random location, awaiting further instructions from their employer. The performances are good, and the mood is spot-on (the movie actually plays like one of those quaint British small-town comedies, providing a cool contrast to its protagonists' profession), which makes the final, ridiculous misstep all the more aggravating. I won't reveal any plot points, suffice to say that in the climactic scene one of the main characters makes a certain distinction - whether for comedic or dramatic effect, I'm not even sure - which is not only tasteless in and of itself, but also makes a significant portion of the movie in retrospect seem like the buildup to a cheap gimmick. And you're handed this turd blossom literally moments before the end credits roll, so it essentially remains your last impression.

As for Bored to Death, it doesn't stumble so badly, but that's probably because to do so would constitute some sort of statement, and the show is too intent on charting the bland side of quirkiness for that sort of thing. The characters are about as removed from reality as the Bluth family, but they're mired in aimless Seinfeldian tedium, punctuated by Jason Schwartzman* repeating what some other character just said in the earnest monotone of a stoner's revelation. The premise... Schwartzman decides to advertise himself as a private detective on craigslist. No idea why, as no reason is given. It's not for money - that he gets for writing... something for his millionnaire... friend, I guess. Or boss who's really into micro-managing freelance writers. Oh, and his girlfriend left him, cause he smokes too much pot and drinks too much white wine. I'm at episode three, and it's about Jim Jarmusch giving him his new script to look over (he's a fan, y'know). It's about Frank O'Hara. But Schwartzman loses it, so Jarmusch decides to go with Charlie Kaufmann instead. Yeah. And it's a good thing namedropping and cameos are such strong plot devices, because absolutely nothing more of note happens throughout the entire episode. I suppose, given the title, that might have actually been the idea, but I've seen good (Mad Men), or even decent (Hung) slow-paced shows about nothing much at all, and Bored to Death isn't one of them.

* full disclosure: every time I saw him on the screen I wanted to punch him in the face. I'm not proud of it, but cmon.

Rear view

Can't sleep, so I decided to at least get some work done. That quickly morphed into surfing the Internet. That morphed into talking to Ana (she's slaughtering ogres wholesale for their precious precious, reputation-yielding beads, as one is wont to do at 5am)...

And we ended up discussing guild issues. How novel.

Anyway, I've been meaning to write something about Bored to Death and In Bruges, so watch this space if that's your sort of thing.

A Washingtonian Epilogue

Tonight I went to a quiz thing, in Warsaw.

It's been a year. Nothing has changed. Things just faded.

Swirling

Days went by and suddenly it was time to see Tori in concert. I think I subconsciously downplayed my expectations and all but wiped the upcoming event from the horizon, having been somewhat disillusioned by her latest offerings, and generally disapointed by the last few musical events I went to (for some reason every time I expected transcendence and obviously often that just wasn't the case).

Anyway, we got there at 6p.m., and the proper set began at 9, so I was already a little bit restless. She started off with Give, which is a killer track, but one that did not grab me live. As far as I'm concerned its magic lies mostly in the hypnotic, oriental cadence of the chorus, but on stage it got chopped up and stretched out to the point where it missed all the checkpoints of the sonic imprint I so desperately wanted it to follow. Still, it's a very atmospheric number, and I started getting a slight tingle. She followed up with Hotel which is an awesome, convoluted Siamese quadruplet of a song, but I still found enough purchase outside the experience to note that my favorite piano counterpoint during the "I have to learn to let you crash down" was almost inaudible. Next up were band introductions, followed by Cornflake Girl. I remember thinking "Aw, that's nice..." and then blacked out. I resurfaced towards the end of the concert, during Jamaica Inn, which I loathe, but got immediately sucked back in for the encores. I can't recall a single thought I had during all that time, and I had a lot of trouble piecing the setlist together. It was literally the best Tori gig I've seen in 10 years (I don't remember absolutely anything about my first concert, back in September 1999, so it'll forver remain enshrined). The audience was amazing (one example: everyone started rhythmically clapping during the intro to Space Dog, even before the actual piano part came in; she almost fell off her stool with delighted laughter). And the performance was incredible. Flavor is just magical live, and we got a double punch to the tearduct in the form of solo Upside Down & Gold Dust. There was also the best version of Bells for Her I've ever heard, including all the bootlegs, with a really heavy piano & percussion jam (which might sound weird for those who know the song), and a balls to the wall spectacular rendition of Raspberry Swirl, which she finally made work live* with some rather inspired Donna Summer-esque vocal cascades.

She was totally in her element, and very visibly taken with the extatic response (seriously, Polish audiences deliver). And that actually translated into the setlist - I checked previous shows, and ours was the only one of the entire tour with two encores. It was also 3 songs longer than the usual set (aside from adding a second encore, she also extended the main part of the show by one song). All in all, she played for over 2 hours, and still only set the biggest fireworks off at the end.

So, based on this, and the Sia concert in Dublin, I now firmly believe that the key to a memorable experience is going to the last concert of a given tour. It's so logical it has to be right.

* it never quite did for me

Camp

I got a haircut and kind of look like Sia's manager now. Not sure I'm happy about that.

I'm also enjoying the hell out of Community, the second season of Top Chef, and Fever Ray. And have a couple of pointless stories that might as well wait a few more days. Or weeks.

From time to time my former boss blurts out her impressions on Buffy via gtalk (in real time). She's currently in the 3rd season, so there's quite a lot. It fills me with joy and tearful pride. It's what I imagine watching your challenged child take that first step after all must feel like.

Flotsam

Sunday ended up being horrible. Although nothing happened. Because nothing happened? Suddenly this vague haze of general unpleasantness descended and that was that. I went to sleep knowing that all I had to do was somehow plow through into unconsciousness and have a brand new perspective delivered to my bed come morning. Instead, I got mired in various would- and neverhavebeens, reliving stuff best left decomposed. Finally, in order to clear my mind a bit, I started examining the best and easiest ways of ending one's tenure on this mortal coil (I know that might sound kind of creepy and disturbing, but it's an old, tested, and purely intellectual exercise). However, even that backfired - I started out with a relatively zen sneaking-out-into-a-blizzard scenario, which fit in nicely with trying to get some goddamned sleep, but as I started drifting off and thus lost my focus, my mind took it into hardcore frostbite, getting rescued, having my limbs amputated, and looking for a way to lunge myself jugular-first towards something sharp.

Yeah.

And so, here I am, reading the Internet at 4am. Apparently, all is well with the world.

Collected writings

I had to give up my not-so-leisurely strolls because I'm old now, and crippled (i.e. flat footed), and my joints decided they aren't putting up with them anymore. But you can finally taste fall in the air, and I started really missing my evening ritual, so I figured I'd just get myself those really fancy, personalized orthopedic insoles, and all will be well. The whole process started out very high-tech, with a special sensor mat, and computer imaging, but I think i failed at walking on it correctly, or standing on one foot steadily, or something... Either way, the technician seemed more and more annoyed, until finally he told me to just stand on a sheet of paper and off-handedly traced my foot with a very regular and not at all impressive pen. The final result looked like the work of a very accomplished kindergartener.

In my defense, I had a hard time keeping my balance because I could barely stop myself from laughing: in an apparent bid to add a little bit of oompf to the inherently unsexy ambiance of an orthopedic workshop, someone decided to hang a big, glossy male nude on one of the walls. But in keeping with the overall theme, the dude was draped over a wheelchair. No joke.

Anyway, my cyberfeet will be ready by the end of October. And then - pavements beware.

Religion

Anyone know what the dogmatic reason behind the Catholic NO CONDOMS obssession is? Is it the sanctity of life aspect, or that sperm is da bomb and thou shallt not spill it or subject it to latex?

I actually think it's about time for a change of the guard. For our society to lay down a bunch of rules to confound and incite the people of 4000AD ("What do you mean You shall not download Internet porn. The Internet IS porn.") We got a good start with Scientology, but that let's face it, that thing's already preposterous, so it's probably gonna age in dog years. I predict a major schism in 2020. You read it here first.

And on a related note: cool service.

Harder

A while ago ao gave me a version of The Taming of the Shrew that was part of a BBC mini-series called ShakespeaRe-Told (cringeworthy name, I know). I finally watched it last night, and it is absolutely brilliant. In fact, it was so good I'm totally getting it on DVD for Christmas. I'm posting the same scene ao tempted me with, because it simply has to be seen. And trust me, both Shirley Henderson and Rufus Sewell are spectacular throughout:

For the past 15 minutes I've been trying to come up with a way of expressing how incredibly sexy I find the 3:15-3:20 bit that would make it very clear it's not about violence at all, but as you can see I've had little success. The thing is: granted that an occasional Sunday armstice is observed, a perpetual tug of war really does seem like a dream romantic scenario to me. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention that it's a lot more difficult to meet someone in a metaphorical dungeon.

Australia

Mom sent me this tonight. I love it. Been trying to find an mp3 version, but no luck so far. If anyone's able to overcome the whole transcription issue and actually locate it - I'll be very grateful.

I've been to another themed party recently - this time it was the 60s. I had so much fun at the noir event that I decided I wasn't above spending a little dough to piece together the right look. It kind of paid off, in that almost everyone turned up in costume, so I fit right in. The party itself was pretty stellar - we convened at the birthday boy's apartment, had a bit of various spirits to grease the gears, and then spilled out into the streets of Warsaw, glass in hand, to shock and awe - or as was mostly the case: bewilder and preplex - the uncouth masses. Then we were picked up by a private tram, which drove us across the city to a river-adjacent hotel... I'd write "riverside", but even though the street name has the word "embankment" in it, Vistula was nowhere to be seen. Which might have actually been a good thing.

I hardly knew anyone there, except for the hosts, a couple of very fresh or very distant acquaintances, and a guy I had seen once before - over a year ago, and even that in passing - whom I nonetheless remembered quite well. The guy turned out to be spoken for, and I lost my favorite, and at this point irreplacable, hoodie. That collectively put a bit of a damper on things, so I went home early. It took me a day to live down the dissolution of the shade of a sketch of a prospect, but I'm still bummed out about the hoodie.

On Sunday I'm going to another birthday party. This one's completely prospect-free, so there's a chance my wardrobe will escape intact.

The best part

What's up, you ask? A few things, actually. I will not become institutionally distracted starting this fall, because apparently they've moved the recruitment phase since I last checked, but i'm still seriously thinking of dipping my toe back into academia for a moment. We'll see how I feel about that come June.

I also had a random chat with Asia recently and we came up with what in hindsight seems like a glaringly obvious idea, which for once I would really like to pursue all the way to its inevitable demise at the hands of reality. We're in the very, very early development stages, but we seem to have at least a couple of things going for us, so... damn, I at least want to be able to say I've tried. Sorry about the vagueness, but I already dread people asking me about that thing I meant to do and me having to explain how it all went to hell.

I went out with the three A's tonight, vaguely aware that at some point dancing might be involved (that's: went out dancing, in adjustedspeak). I made every preparation - tried to get wasted with my companions at home beforehand, tarted myself up a wee bit, hummed Kylie in my head... alas, the first place we landed at offered us a thumping beat and not much else (the highlight was a pretty bad remix of a very boring La Roux song). I would have tried at least going through the motions for the sake of the people who invited us there... had I any motions to go through. Unfortunately, that is not the case, so we moved to Kulturalna, where the music was equally thumpy, but with a funky twist. After downing some more vodkas and focusing hard on "having some fun" I managed to enjoy about a number and a half, but then shit got electro, the music left me, and I decided to vacate the premises.

The moral of the story is: I seem to have temporarily misplaced the ability to get drunk socially. I only feel the benefits once I detach, and am suddenly able to languish in the heightened/distorted impact of my own music, and the city pulsing around me in the night. Which, incidentally, often makes the walk home the most enjoyable part of the evening.

Meanwhile, tomorrow could make for a nice and vivid memory, or become an unmitigated disaster. Right now I'm totally not feeling having to prance around a huge shopping mall in full-on 60s picnic garb, but there seems to be no way around it. Then again, hey...

Nope. I got nothing.

Mutant update

Kylie Minogue - Too Far

Some terrible remix. And it really is a pretty good song when you're in the mood for something breathy, frantic, and somewhat unsettling.

The Ol 97s - The New Kid

Live. Which is to say: not that good.