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.