Dance & Drink & Screw

In honour of the approaching NaNoWriMo, I'm going to start writing one hour a day. I don't mean necessarily write for one hour, but have that time and space dedicated to it. I may just stare at a screen or a paper journal for 60mins.

What I want is routine. I already have one with exercise, and even with my little cafe excursions on Monday mornings before work, so why can't I have an hour a day for writing? And for days when I absolutely can't get an hour to myself, I could add it to the weekend so - say - on a Sunday when I'm at home, I can write for three hours and catch up on the hours I owe (though that sounds like a cop out already, doesn't it?)

So I'm here, sitting in the living room listening to Jarvis Cocker's show on BBC Radio 6 (<3), the wind rattling the windows (bring it on Super Storm of the Decade About to Hit Britain), only a few minutes gone by in my allocated hour.

Can I write on LJ during my allocated hour? Yes I can. Can I write on Twitter or Facebook? No, I can't - those networks don't count.

I wish we had a cat. It would nestle against me when I was focused, then sprint away when I tried to pet it.

My mouth tastes faintly of chai tea. And a little bit of the cheese and onion Ruffle crisps I had for lunch with a salmon and cream cheese bagel, on a bench in Victoria Park.

I went to the gym first thing this morning - it's always empty on Sundays, which I love. I took a bath in the afternoon, with a candle for company (a scented one that one of the Sissies gave me for my birthday.) I listened to songs from my iPhone while I soaked - 100 randomly selected songs from my iTunes.

I have a brasilian friend in town who I met for drinks and a play at Soho Theatre last night. (A very good feminist play that was a hit at the Edinburgh Fringe - highly recommend you see it you have a chance: Bryony Kimmings: Credible Likeable Superstar Role Model.) We were meant to go to Columbia Road's flower market today... I'm still waiting for their phone call.

Last Tuesday my boyfriend and I marked 15 years together. Fifteen years ago we went on a date in Montreal, to see Bride of Chucky. I gave him David Sedaris' latest book, which I bought at Gay's the Word (one of London's best bookshops). He gave me a collection of short stories written by bloggers, edited by Dennis Cooper.

He's now in his cupboard office, going through his bills. We just watched the final episode of The Killing III. I'd been under the impression that it was the last series ever, but the ending has left a door open and a return more than likely. This makes me happy even though the Scandinavia portrayed in the series is as bleak as fuck.

A few weeks ago I toyed with the idea of doing a fanfiction NaNoWriMo - a thriller based on One Direction. Here's my pitch: girls from all over the world adore the boys and want to meet them at all costs. But little do they know that... One Direction have a bloodlust for their fans! They enjoy hunting and killing them for sport. (There's some subplot about One Directioners disappearing and a cop who wears ugly knitted sweaters investigating these cases.) The opening scene is a One Direction bus pulling out of the stadium, with blacked windows - girls screaming their heads off around it and begging the boys to come out. Little do they know that inside its soundproof walls, Harry Styles is wielding a chainsaw and advancing on a terrified Directioner... and so on. My heroine in this fanfiction comes from Nottingham and survives a night in One Direction's hotel after her friend is killed. She turns into prey as the band hunt for her, even going so far to track down her family's home (they announce to the world that they are bringing their arena tour to - surprise surprise - Nottingham!)

I may have Moussaka for dinner tonight. I bought some at M&S during the week and put it in the freezer. Oh, I forgot to mention: we didn't have Pancake Saturday yesterday! I don't know if the boyfriend has been reading my journal but it suddenly became French Toast Saturday and I was in charge. (I make some mean french toasts I'll have you know.) I'm determined to have Pancake Saturday return next weekend.

Went running around Victoria Park this morning with my boyfriend and heard Goldfrapp doing the soundcheck for her gig tonight at Lovebox.

Ran past a gentleman who wished me a good morning. Ran past other gentlemen who ran their eyes between us with a certain curiosity.

Read on Twitter that Lil Kim was late for her performance so Lovebox decided not to let her on stage (fair enough.)

Almost regretted not having a ticket this year but the memories of being arrested and strip searched last year are still very much fresh in my memory.

Didn't win the lottery last night.  Didn't even get a single number right.

I need to see the film again. My boyfriend and I always maintained that it was about Cruise and Kidman, and that maybe Kubrick precipitated the end of their marriage.

I was having a drink last night with my brasilian friends Lila and Bia at the Haggerston when I noticed a guy dancing by the front door. I couldn't see his face (the pub was dark) but I got the hunch he was cute. The DJ was blasting soul & funk and the guy was animatedly dancing to it with his friends and having a good time. He danced quite well too.

Later, when he walked past our table after visiting the gents I realised it was Michael Fassbender. Cue five minutes of me trying to explain to Bia and Lila who he was, complete with descriptions of X Men and Shame, and the obligatory iPhone Google search.

A woman in the table next to ours leaned over and asked: "is that the certain Hollywood gent I think he is?"

Yup.

She rubbed her face in surprise and shrunk back into her boyfriend. "He is THE number one... my number one star!"



Just then, Fassbender picked up his jacket and left with his friends. A search through Twitter informed me he'd been all afternoon in London Fields, causing a commotion with his naked torso. He joined some random BBQ with his friends and talked about chicken hearts (he likes them) with a brasilian girl who only clued in who he was once he'd left.

Other celebrities I've spotted since I've gone on annual leave: Boy George (as mentioned before) and Ulrika Jonsson window shopping for specs in Covent Garden (the shop where Johnny Depp usually buys his.)

This gorgeous sunny weekend also involved an unsuccessful trip to Old School Indie, a club night at the venue usually used for Feeling Gloomy (but still run by the same people.) The idea was apparently to do F.G. but with "happier" songs. It was complete rubbish. The DJ played Rolling Stones after The Cure, amongst other barbarities. Bob Dylan is apparently indie too. RUBBISH. And there was nobody there.

While everyone in London was celebrating the athletes parade this afternoon, my boyfriend and I were at the Tate Modern, enjoying the Edvard Munch exhibition.



It's a beautifully put together show on his life work, arranged thematically. I recommend you use the multi-media guide if you visit: it gives you really good commentary on key work as well as an overview of his life and the key historical events of the time.

Sadly, The Scream is not part of the show (maybe they were scared of another attempted theft?) And my only tiny criticism would be that Munch's photos and experiments with film are almost presented as worthy artistic pieces, whereas they are more like studies of themes he was interested in (self-portraits, ghostly bodies, and other things the moving camera made possible for artists at the turn of the 19th century.)

Edit
I forgot to mention another "celebrity" I spotted this weekend... Maeve from Dalston Superstars! She was working behind the counter at the Haggerston and she looked well tired. (Or was there a camera secretly following her around for Season 2?!)

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I heard a critic once compare Stephen King and Jackie Collins to Charles Dickens. This critic wondered which of today's current popular authors would survive the centuries and still be read in the future. I didn't understand the comparison at the time because in my mind Jackie and Stephen appeal to people who want a quick thrill without the danger of having to think too hard. I thought Dickens' novels were classic because there was more to them than their soap opera plot lines. But this was before I read my first Charles Dickens novel - this one.

The sentimentality in this novel is so sickly sweet that it's very hard for a modern reader to sympathise with Oliver or any of the other heroes. All the children in the story, including Oliver, are little men in thoughts, words and looks - even down to the original illustrations by George Cruikshank. This is more believable in the Artful Dodger and his gang because they live very adult lives as thieves on London's streets, but with Oliver it comes across as a pleading, whiny, goody goody personality that grates.

My boyfriend pointed out how all productions of Oliver Twist throughout the years have tried to invest some humanity into Fagin, some light. There's none of that in the original creation - he's a repellent villain with no redeeming features. But does that mean that Dickens was antisemitic? Some of the Christian characters are evil too (especially the ones entrusted with orphan children) but at least they are counterbalanced by the goodhearted ones that save Oliver. The Jews that work with Fagin though are just as evil as him, which is a problem in the novel I think.

Dickens used Oliver Twist to raise public awareness of exploited children in his time and even went on to defend the creation of asylums for prostitutes (thus the reason for Nancy's existence in the novel.) I've also heard that Dickens loved walking around London and it was through these walks that he conjured his stories. This comes through beautifully in the novel and is its saving grace - the city's riches and poverty are perfectly captured by his prose.

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A few days ago Kelly Rowland told me she'd like to visit my mom's guesthouse in Brasil with her boyfriend.

'Are you sure Kelly?' I asked.

'I'm sure bubu,' she said with a slight smile. I explained to her how my mom would arrange for a driver to pick her up at her hotel in São Paulo then drive them for two hours until they reached the guesthouse. The room at the guesthouse would be smaller to what she was used to, but the views were fantastic.

When I told my mom Kelly Rowland was flying down, she asked 'Who?' 'Kelly Rowland!' I said. 'And get the camera ready to take loads of photos so we can then promote her visit afterwards and get more guests.'

Later, I was hanging out with Madonna and two friends of mine when the subject of music reared its head. 'What's your favourite music at the moment?' I asked Madonna, who kept flitting back and forth in the TV room, unable to sit still. 'Treme,' she replied.

'Treme? That's Sinead O'Connor's favourite too!' I said but Madonna was not impressed. She'd heard some negative things about Sinead.

'Sinead is lovely,' I promised to Madonna, and my friends agreed. 'Honestly, you should get to know her a little better.'

When Madonna turned her back, I asked my friends if I should log onto Facebook and check in "with" Madonna. They laughed and I realised I didn't know their names.

Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The original bonkbuster. The novel guilty of Jackie Collins, Danielle Steel and Sydney Sheldon's existence. Perhaps, even, the original beach holiday read. Valley of the Dolls has it all, including a lot of kitschy one-liners and bitch fights that make Dynasty look positively Shakespearean.

Three beautiful women climb the Mount Everest of fame and success, aided along the way by dolls, colourful little pills that help you sleep or get through the day when your career as the world's greatest singer/model/actress gets too much. Starting at the end of World War II and spanning that period to the end of the sixties (when the novel was written), it has a tone of authority as to the goings on in the show business world, glazed with that veneer now seen on the TV series Mad Men. The characters' barbiturate addiction made me think of Judy Garland and Elvis Presley, and their deaths; the philandering studs, of Warren Beatty; and the closeted gay actor, Rock Hudson. This sort of story would later become Jackie Collins' main selling schtick as she told interviewers that her novels were based on Hollywood's secret underbelly.

What makes this a cult classic that rises above its imitators - aside from the unintentional comedy - is the sour taste it leaves behind after the last page is turned over.

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This is a little late but I feel like I want to put down my two pence regarding what Morrissey said about the recent massacre in Norway:

"We all live in a murderous world, as the events in Norway have shown, with 97 dead. Though that is nothing compared to what happens in McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Shit every day."

Coming so soon after what happened, it was a grossly insensitive thing to say, even for Morrissey's standards (if anyone remembers his recent comments about the Chinese being a "subspecies" because of the way they treat animals.)

It was reported that Morrissey chose to stick to his guns and had no further comments, but the general disgust made him issue this statement a few days later:

"The recent killings in Norway were horrific. As usual in such cases, the media give the killer exactly what he wants: worldwide fame. We aren't told the names of the people who were killed - almost as if they are not considered to be important enough, yet the media frenzy to turn the killer into a Jack The Ripper star is .... repulsive. He should be un-named, not photographed, and quietly led away.
The comment I made onstage at Warsaw could be further explained this way: Millions of beings are routinely murdered every single day in order to fund profits for McDonalds and KFCruelty, but because these murders are protected by laws, we are asked to feel indifferent about the killings, and to not even dare question them.
If you quite rightly feel horrified at the Norway killings, then it surely naturally follows that you feel horror at the murder of ANY innocent being. You cannot ignore animal suffering simply because animals "are not us."

Most of you know that I'm a fan of Morrissey's and he's mentioned here a lot (and his song titles used as tags.) I don't want to defend him, but I feel like I need to understand. The person he is now is so different from who he was before - crass words, lack of sympathy, lack of wit. What happened?

Morrissey's personality was shaped by the punk movement and its uncompromising attitude to the media and the world. He was in the audience when the Sex Pistols played their first gig and he worshipped Patti Smith and the New York Dolls. His aesthetic has always been un-PC, though ambiguous and playful. It fit well in the 80s and made his fortune. Nowadays though he's too direct with his words, lacking in humour. We know who he hates, we have no clue if he loves.

Context is everything. The whole story about him being anti-immigration, racist: he championed Echobelly in the 90s (Britpop band fronted by a British Asian singer with lyrics about racism in the UK); he allowed a band made up of illegal immigrants to do a cover of "The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get" (but don't try to Google for information on this band because it's strangely not available anywhere); and he's issued statements against racism and helped fund a concert against the BNP/EDL. But those are not the stories we hear in the media or stick in the mind of those that don't like him.  To most people he's a dickhead with some racist tendencies.

Did Morrissey say some shit that he regrets and doesn't stand by anymore? Very likely! But why has he lost his way with words and seems to put his foot in it so often these days? (I didn't even listen to his recent interview with Dermot O'Leary because it was apparently cringeworthy.)

In his last album he sang about using anti-depressants and this made me think of family members I have who are on Prozac and the way they have become insensitive to the world. Dealing with them is so difficult because they can't understand why their words would be hurtful - they are chemically numbed to the pain of others (but perhaps not to whatever ideology they stand by, like Morrissey's "vegetarianism".) For someone like Morrissey, already a misanthrope searching for a little hope, it must mean that all the barriers have been erased. The poetry is lost, the songs all sound alike and we get nothing but a has-been making a spectacle of himself.

I think it's time for him to stop. Perhaps concentrate on writing books (he has an autobiography coming out soon, apparently). Stop now before all that was built before is completely destroyed.