Picos Gemeos

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?!)

Over a month ago I asked you to give me a random sentence from a book. I was meant to join them all together into a short story, get someone to illustrate it, then make it available for download as an eStory.

This was my New Year's resolution - a short story every two months, 6 by the end of the year.

Well... I haven't had the time this month because of my new job. The story is nearly finished, but it still needs a lot of work. So... I hope you don't mind if I change things slightly and give myself three months for completion from now on (pushing this deadline to the end of March.)

I'm now trying to muster the will to go for a swim - my first one of 2012. I'm feeling so lazy...

Paul Auster, Timbuktu, 1998
This is a really disappointing novel.  It starts off well enough, with its road movie type story told through the eyes of a dog, Mr Bones, who faithfully follows around schizophrenic poet Willie.  They are in Baltimore searching for Willie's English teacher, the only person to ever believe in his writing talents when he was young.  Willie seems to be based on the artist Henry Darger, but that connection is never fully explored.  Mr Bones learned language but can't speak, thanks to the limitations of being a dog.  Mr Bones uses this skill to tell his story like a rambling Beat poet (perhaps from growing up with Willie), but he doesn't have the amphetamine to inject his adventures with excitement or the brains to see beyond the sidewalks and suburbs he ends up in.  Mr Bones can tell, but he can't show.  Mr Bones can name, but he can't describe.  Very quickly this short novel loses its point and, sadly, the reader's attention.  There's nothing to be learned from it, no memorable characters.  A big, ol' "what's the point?"

I'm willing to give Auster another try since this is the first thing I've read by him.  Recommendations welcome!

The Wolfman, Dir. Joe Johnston, 2010
This film has the same problem as The Haunting, which was released about 11 years ago: lots of CGI and established actors lost to a crap script based on an original (and superior) film. Ok, so maybe the original Wolfman from 1941 wasn't exactly brilliant, but I bet its original audience got more spooked than anyone who has seen this latest version. The problem is that nobody bothered updating the original screenplay or paying attention to some gaping plot holes (e.g. Scotland Yard hold the hero as their main suspect even though dozens of people from the local community saw him try to kill the werewolf and get hurt in the process.) Everyone does their best to squeeze something worthwhile out of their roles - especially Emily Blunt - but there's very little to be found. Sadly, the CGI leaves nothing to the imagination and we get a werewolf that's more like a slasher psycho than a supernatural creature. On a positive note, Silence of the Lambs gets referenced in a great scene set in a mental asylum in London as well as An American Werewolf in London when the creature runs amok in what looks like Trafalgar Square and topples a Victorian bus. A sad case of "could have been".

John Birmingham, The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco, 1997
This novel was a strange disappointment. It started out full of promise, with a cast of characters rich with comic potential, but soon descended into very self-satisfied lazy writing and a whole load of uninteresting back story that had me give it up around page 107. Watch out Douglas Coupland, you've got competition!

A large group of young people from various backgrounds share a house in Brisbane. When one of the roommates steals the rent money, it's up to the rest of the roommates to figure out where he might be, leading them on an investigation into the previous houseshares he belonged to. Because it's a sequel, the narrator many times asks the reader to remember so-and-so from the previous book and then uses that as the basis for some new character's description. Dialogue is often pointless and unnecessary and characters are barely sketched out and mostly indistinguishable. There's a whole load of telling without much showing, and the dramatic tension seems to have disappeared with the rent money at the start of the story.

It's a shame really because I was hoping this novel would give me a little insight into Brisbane (where a good friend of mine has currently moved to) and its slacker culture. I'll just have to hope that one day another Brisbanite (?) writer will satisfy my curiosity.

It was my Prom Night yesterday. It was supposed to be the best day of my life - the day when the cool kids finally recognised how amazing I was as I stepped onto the dancefloor and showed them the dance moves I'd been practicing in front of the mirror for the past two weeks. It was the night when everyone would die of jealousy when I showed up with two hot dates hanging from my arms - teqkiller and purplethings. I'd swirl them around the dancefloor to the tune of "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go", a circle would form around us, and everyone would clap and applaud us. Then, at the end of the night, I'd be crowned Prom King, and my two dates would fight it out in an oil wrestling ring for the title of Prom Queen. It would have been the most AWESOME night of my life.

Things started going wrong when the limousine rental service called my parents and alerted them to the fact that someone was trying to rent a limo with their credit card. I had my ass grounded for life and it was really only thanks to much pleading that they allowed me to go to the prom ("your last night of freedom until Armageddon, or Leyton Orient wins a football match - whichever comes first".)

I had to call my dates and explain that I wouldn't be able to pick them up, that it was better if we met at a bar near the venue (one of the only places in this godforsaken town that doesn't ask for I.D.) Get some drinks in before we had to pay the exorbitant prices for watered down fruit punch. I couldn't get a hold of one of my dates - assumed that I'd see her at the party, or she had found someone with a proper limo to drive her home - but I figured I was still doing OK by going with teqkiller.

She was wearing a beautiful polka dot dress that would have killed all the envious cheerleaders. We sat at the back of the bar and drank 59 bottles of beer. And we gossiped about the popular kids in high school. And we talked about our favourite TV shows. And we talked and we talked. By the time we stumbled to the venue, it was nearly time to go home. The line to get in was huge because the Principal made the mistake of booking a place that didn't fit the whole senior year. We stood at the line and noticed that it wasn't moving. We peeked through the windows and noticed there was nowhere to sit, and people were spilling out onto the smoker's area. With a shrug, we realized our prom night was over before it had even begun, and the best way to salvage the night was to drink another 59 bottles of beer at a nearby sports bar. We hoped purplethings made it to Prom Night and was having the time of her life for us.

I went home alone. I should have been carrying the Prom King sash. And I didn't get in to any of the colleges I applied for. My life sucks.