Dance & Drink & Screw

She was one of the carnies, a young woman with long black hair that worked in one of the amusement park's booths. When the fireworks accidentally exploded inside the booth, she had been wearing a white dress. But it was somebody else who stepped outside of the booth that night, took her boyfriend's hand and walked towards the other rides. Nobody could tell the difference but me. I looked at her and knew it wasn't the same person.

Her booth stood abandoned, empty after the fireworks accident. When I went to investigate it I heard a soft whisper: "I'm here... I'm here." Invisible, trapped - she couldn't be seen by human eyes or leave the booth until the body snatcher returned.

I threw a blanket in the booth and it covered her form. She was crouching on the earth. But the only way to get her back inside her body was to recreate the fireworks accident with the body thief present.

Cold Mirrors by C.J. Lines

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the first collection of short stories by British author C.J. Lines, bringing together pieces he has published in the past ten years in a variety of places, from magazines to anthologies. These stories vary between short vignettes to long horror tales, mixing the modern macabre with creepy Victoriana.

C.J. Lines is better known for his first novel, Filth Kiss, which was a sort of horror roller coaster ride set in a middle England town. The qualities in that novel that I loved so much - the attention to detail to what it's like to live in England today, from the banality of work and family relationships to the small-mindedness of provincial life - can be found in these collection of stories and are, in my opinion, its triumph. People who enjoy ghost stories from the Victorian age, and that style of writing, will also love some of the stories gathered here, in particular Debut. My favourite stories were The Trending, about the dead coming back to life with the help of Twitter, and Nostalgia Ain't What It Used To Be, for bringing together the weird with 80s New Wave music.

A collection to keep you company for the long winter nights ahead.

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————— Forwarded message —————
From: [redacted]
Date: Mon, Jun 13, 2011 at 11:24 PM
Subject: I meet Quentin Tarantino, hilarity ensues
To: [redcated]
Attachments: 1 [Ed: See above image]

Friendsicles,

You are either getting this e-mail because I’ve promised I would tellyou this story and haven’t yet, you’re besties with someone I used to hook up with, or because my need for attention and adulation has reached such an all time high that I decided to pick 15 of you at random to listen to this story (most likely explanation), but all the same, below is the (in)famous but true story of how I met Quentin Tarantino… [redacted] and [redacted], I’ll be expecting your short film script of this in my inbox in the next couple of weeks…

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011:

Get a BBM at 8 in the morning from my friend [redacted] telling me we’re going to a party in “the Hills” that night because the Yankees were in town. But this party now presents a conundrum as a) I didn’t know people partied on Wednesdays because I’m uncool and b) I had just run out of clean underwear and hadn’t shaved my legs in three days, so I wasn’t really in a “party” sort of place. (what’s that you say? You’re surprised I’m single?) However, after being told to grow a pair, I decided to join the girls after work for this fiesta.

( Read more... )

The past couple of days have been wonderfully long and enjoyable. It started on Friday with a talk on time travel at the British Museum as part of their current exhibition on Science Fiction, Out of this World. Audrey Niffenegger, who wrote The Time Traveller's Wife, was part of the panel as well as sci-fi novelist Stephen Baxter, some guy who writes for Dr Who, some other guy who writes on the science of time travel and a woman who works in publishing (and who chaired the talk.) Audrey was a cross between Margaret Atwood and Tori Amos, all deep husky voice and very funny down-to-earth comments. The audience had a few nutters who shot theirs arms straight up when it was question time. I spotted a few friends of hester 's in the audience but I couldn't remember their names or LJ handles.

Yesterday, I went to the garden's Summer Fair then met friends in the evening at Rich Mix for the documentary Senna. It's a wonderful film which is hard for me to be objective about. Because I'm brasilian, I grew up watching Senna race every Sunday, my family and friends filing my home with cheer for his victories or despair for his losses. Seeing his life played out on the big screen brought back nostalgic memories for me as well as some good laughs at how naff Brasil was in the 80s. Well, wasn't the whole planet?

Senna was to Brasil what Lady Diana was to Britain in their deaths: this outpouring of emotion that showed the true extent they had affected people's lives while alive. He was different from her though in how there was nothing contrived about him: he was pure talent, hard work and charisma. There was something about his eyes that was very beautiful, his smile too - that gave away how idealistic he was about Formula 1 and making a mark in the lives of the less fortunate in Brasil (I suppose similar in that sense to Diana).

Everyone in Brasil knows where they were when they heard he died (i.e. most were in front of the telly) just like everyone in Britain still remembers hearing of Di's accident in Paris.



Today, I woke up early to meet kirsten at Columbia Road market for breakfast. It was rainy, cold, grey and horrible. We had a look around the shops and found a table in Restaurant Espagnol, which has lovely coffee and breakfasts (chorizo on top of fried eggs and toast; why did I never think of this?!)

We then drove to Camden so she could get a piercing at Cold Steel. On the drive back home we blasted 2 Many DJs and talked about Salt-and-Peppa and what the hell happened to them. Weirdly enough, a few hours later I watched a documentary by Chris Rock called Good Hair, which featured interviews with them. It's a bit of a surreal documentary that falls under that subgenre "we all live on a crazy planet". It looks at the multi-billion dollar industry surrounding hair in America in the black community, and its consequences to themselves and other parts of the planet. Funny at parts, weird in others. Made me wonder what will happen to all those people who spend thousands of dollars on their hair if the American economy continues to slide into the hole. It's completely unsustainable, like a lot of other things in America...



Tonight, we are watching Soprano episodes while eating our dinner, reading old newspapers in bed and listening to classical music. Global warming feels like a dream when the typical grim British summer returns to chill our apartment and cover the city with rain.

P.S. More Gingerganza this way! (thank you kirsten for the link.)

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If I were teaching a class on how to write a bestselling paperback, I'd recommend this novel to my students. These are the basics: each chapter must focus on a scene that is highly dramatic and that somehow causes a reversal on the story, creating further problems for the protagonist(s). Obstacles get progressively harder until the climax somewhere towards the end of the novel. Bits of sex here and there. Bits of cruelty towards the protagonists. Good looking villains; grotesque villains. Then an open-ended finale that will make your readers need to buy the next five or six installments of your series.

A Game of Thrones has a huge cast of characters based in a fantasy world somewhat resembling medieval Britain, an island divided by different cultures and loosely held together by a king. It's a little difficult at times to remember who is who: is Varys the eunuch, or is that Verys? And is Ser Loran the Knight of Flowers, or is that Ser Leran? It's a land very similar to a thousand fantasy novels written before or since, with a handy map on the first page and an adherence to certain rules of the genre. The one way it differs from other fantasy novels is its focus on intrigue and human relationships, and the near absence of magic and fantastical creatures.

The first 1/3 of the novel were disappointing. The language was a bit undercooked, clichéd. It wasn't clear whether Martin was aiming for anyone other than 14-year-old boys. The story then picked up speed and some of the more interesting characters, like the dwarf Tyrion, took centre stage. The Seven Kingdoms, with its incestuous rulers, pre-teen brides and buckets of gore suddenly became a darker, harder place to resist.

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Slow Action is a post-apocalyptic science fiction film that brings together a series of four 16mm works which exist somewhere between documentary, ethnographic study and fiction.

Continuing his exploration of curious and extraordinary environments, Slow Action applies the idea of island biogeography - the study of how species and eco-systems evolve differently when isolated and surrounded by unsuitable habitat - to a conception of the Earth in a few hundred years; the sea level rising to absurd heights, creating hyperbolic utopias that appear as possible future mini-societies.

You arrive outside a gallery near Mile End, between the park's sports' field and Regent's Canal.  It's not yet 12 noon so you sit on nearby picnic table and wait.  You talk to shuffle81 and wink_martindale about the gorgeous weather. Three friends sitting nearby chat along the same lines and sip coffee. A girl chains her bike and stands by the gallery's door until it opens. 

It's dark inside and you can barely distinguish the girl who hands everyone high-tech headphones.  She shows where to adjust volume before another door is opened into a screening room.  A woman with a foreign accent speaks softly into your ears while the images on the screen move through an alien desert-like landscape.  It takes you a moment to realise that people are sitting on black leather bags on the floor.  You slowly inch forward and find one for yourself.  For the next forty five minutes you visit the post-apocalyptic societies of Eleven, Hiva (The Society Islands), Kansennashima and Somerset.

To me, this is true science fiction: it's our world viewed through an old camera but at the same time made strange and remote by the stories, facts and figures given by the narrator.  It's here and it's nowhere, it's ideas over action, it's completely devoid of clichés.  It's perfectly formed and delivered, from the gallery's setting to what's on screen.  True science fiction makes you look outside the window and shudder, makes you step out of your comfort zone, even if for a little while, and question the structures and lives around you.  It makes you look leave the screening room and see the outside through new eyes. 

Slow Action ends today.

I’m Diplomat Joe McDonald; I have been trying to reach you on your telephone about an hour now just to inform you about my successful arrival in John F. Kennedy International Airport with your Two Consignment Boxes worth $750 Thousand Dollars each which I have been instructed by ECOWAS COURIER DELIVERY COMPANY to be delivered to you. The Airport Authority demanded for all the legal back up papers to prove to them that the Fund is no way related with Drug nor Fraud Money, I have presented the papers I handed to them and they are very much pleased with the paper’s I presented but the only thing that is still keeping me here in the airport delivery is Yellow Tag which is not placed on the Two Boxes, one of the Airport Authority has advise that we get the Delivery Tag so that I can exit the airport immediately and make my delivery successful. I try to reason with them and they stated that the Delivery Tag will cost us just $109 Dollars only to get the Two Tag placed on the Boxes as that Tag will enable me get to your house successfully without any interference. They scanned the Two Boxes and found out that the Fund is 100% spendable and accepted by any Bank in the whole world.

Please try and reach me with my International Roaming Number: +123-45678910 or via email (dip-joemcdonald@jfkairport.com) as I can not afford to spend more time here due to other delivery I have to take care of in Bangkok. Here are the papers backing the funds together with my ID CARD as I can accompany you to your Bank were you will deposit the fund successfully with these papers. I have more vital paper with me but I can only present you the hard copy when I reach your house as that it’s the Diplomatic rules, such as authorization to deliver.

You can direct the Tag Fee through Western Union to our Head Office as they will get it here for you and they are entitled to receive and make any payment to foreign countries authority.

GET BACK TO ME WITH THE YELOW TAG FEE IN MY EMAIL NOW: (dip-joemcdonald@jfkairport.com)

NOTE: You must stop all further contact or communication with every other person or Offices regarding your Funds because it is only me Diplomat Joe McDonald that have the legitimate right and mandate to Pay you accordingly. These mentioned criminal suspects attempted to secretly divert your Funds into an unknown Account in Europ.

As soon as i received the $109.00 Payment Information, I will proceed my journey to your address without any further delay.

Best Regards,
Diplomat Joe McDonald.

Hello, me Igor. Hear telephone ring but scared it is bad people. Very sad it was you calling from airport. So sorry. Igor bad. Igor don't want to be bad. Igor want to help but how? Master is arrested by bad people - cri-mi-nal suspects - and they treat Master very bad. Yes. They say Master must show them where the money is. We have statue of Virgin though . Many many statues with gold coins inside. You want one Virgin Diplomat Joe? Maybe can buy more than $109 Europop? If money in the crate - many many money - not possible to use that money to pay for bad people to let you out of airport? Igor want to help. Igor don't want to be bad. Igor very sad for being bad. Igor try calling your phone but woman call me shithead and say she was Ryanair and Igor wasting time. Igor confused. Igor didn't think Ryanair had office in JFK Airport. Please Diplomat Joe McDonald, please say how best for Igor to send money to get crates. Master happy if crates here when he leaves prison. Yes, he very happy! Igor happy too if Master happy. Igor await your reply and hope cri-mi-nal suspects don't make Diplomat Joe sleep on uncomfortable airport seats.

Goodbye from Igor

I was momentarily confused today when I arrived at my gym's changing room and heard The Cure being blasted through the ceiling's speakers. There's a certain je ne sais quoi to men showering and getting undressed while Robert Smith sings "Love Song". It heightened the funny mood I was already in.

The weights room was filled with things eager to be held. I know what hands are for and I like to help myself to the free weights. Whenever I'm in a bad mood, I put it down to the weather; but the truth is that I'm thoroughly addicted to endorphins and anything longer than a week away from the gym hits me like s.a.d. I don't hate going to the gym, but it gets boring sometimes. Really boring.

On the plus side, I don't look like someone who goes a lot to the gym.

I've been frustrated lately with my job hunt and stress at work (had an argument today with someone at Job Seekers which escalated to her line manager being called for a complaint) so it's nice to get that energy out afterwards. Today, though, it was Depeche Mode and Lloyd Cole that accompanied me instead of the usual dirge by Eminem and Kei$ha. I controlled myself during Alice Cooper's "Poison" and nearly broke into giggles (and dropped dumb-bells on my toes) when "Maniac" from the film Flashdance came on.

I always see the same faces, though some are missing thanks to Ramadan. I wish I had a gym buddy. I wish I had more time to complete this job application due tomorrow.

The showing of Inception yesterday was packed, as I'd been warned beforehand by co-workers. Luckily, I'd bought tickets hours before so wink_martindale and I could enjoy our Sichuan meal nearby without rushing. There was a comedy show going on at the Rich Mix; all cinema goers had to take an elevator to the first floor and cut across a photography gallery while overlooking the show's stage.

After the film, the crowd was slow in leaving the cinema. Three people pushed the fire exit open and I followed them onto a deserted parking lot. A quick scan around made me realise it was completely locked up; I stepped back inside and the door slammed shut, locking those people outside.

Then I noticed my friend Natasha at the back of the crowd, praising the film to her boyfriend. "Ollie, what are you doing here?"

"You are dreaming about the film Natasha, and I'm visiting you in your dream."

She laughed. "What did you think of it?"

"I kept thinking about Slavoj Žižek and what he'd make of it,' I said before remembering that Natasha is slovenian.

Wink and I walked home, down Bethnal Green road. All the pubs were still open at midnight and quite a few people were engaged in arguments and fights on the street. I didn't have any dreams with Leonardo DiCaprio. But I have been dreaming lately of vampires.

( Is this Tom Hardy? )

I've been milk-free for a week now. That means no milk, butter or cheese - though some traces might have been present in the 85% chocolate I bought the other day. Why did I start this? Because I wanted some relief from my hayfever. The itchiness and achooness hasn't gone away, but when I was at the community garden on Saturday I didn't feel as uncomfortable as before. I'm still on two/three tablets of Benadryl a day, which is annoying. My mother says it's only after seven days that I'll start to feel the difference. I love plants, grasses and flowers, but the feeling is not reciprocal.

I think everyone should go milk-free for a week, as an experiment. It's amazing how much milk is present in our diets. It's a good skill to learn to live without it, to be more creative in the kitchen. In terms of options, I think we Londoners are in a good position - our supermarkets are filled with alternatives. But we are way too bound to cows' tits.

On Sunday, I was lying in Victoria Park listening to a podcast (Expanding Mind) and they were talking about magic (in particular Kenneth Grant.) The guest was saying that it's dangerous to start a spell and not complete it - you leave it open for bad things to go in and interfere. Aleister Crowley went mad because of an incomplete spell. That got me thinking about art and, in particular, writing. I'm one of those people with tons of incomplete pieces of fiction at home; maybe the more "spells" I leave unfinished, the harder it is for me to complete something. It's a case of weakening one's own powers by letting the magic seep away through badly cast spells. I have therefore decided - in my best and most typical OCD way - to complete absolutely everything I write from now on. And to burn anything incomplete that I know I'll never touch again.

Let's see where all of this takes me.

// Expanding Mind podcast (jellyfish93, if you don't know this podcast, you must check it out! I think you'll enjoy it.)