Be like the squirrel, girl

A few thoughts:

I'm not in a sketch comedy group, but I think up of sketch ideas very easily, probably because a startling amount of my free time is spent watching them on the internet. Unfortunately (and I think this is a big problem with me) they're seldom very good, or when they are, they're not really sketches so much as they are either a funny phrase or voice, or it's not so much a sketch as a midly amusing short story. Take this one for example: I'd watched The Last Picture Show just before I left Skidmore, and in it there's this one scene where Jeff Bridges and Cybil Shepherd (sp?) play a high school couple (old movie) trying to have sex for the first time. They go to this motel room, get everything ready, but there's some kind of "problem" and they can't do it. Two of Cybil Shepherd's friends are waiting outside to hear about what it was like, and as soon as Jeff Bridges leaves, they run into the motel room. The sketch idea was sort of like that, only instead of it being a girl, it's a teenage boy who's about to have sex with some preternaturally hot older woman. She opens the door and leaves, and two of his buddies storm the room and find him on the bed half-catatonic and on the verge of tears. They ask him what happened and he goes on to tell them the terrible things they just did. The whole impetus of this was me thinking it'd be funny if a man, half-way to tears, shouted out "She made me make pickles on her!"

But once again, how do you structure that as a sketch? It's not, really. It's more of like a really sad short film that I wouldn't know how to wrap up. So go ahead and steal this idea, internet. See if you can do something with it. I sure can't.

A startling revelation

This is something that I never thought would happen in my lifetime: I felt comfortable enough at a pseudo-club-type social situation that I actually danced. And enjoyed myself.

Let me explain: At St. Catherine's there are these things called Entzes. Why they're called this I have no idea. But they're essentially these giant parties that the college throws for all the students about four times a term. There's a bar, a few swriling colored lights, a decent sound system and a laptop with an extensive music collection. I was drunk at this thing, admittedly, but that usually doesn't stop me from being uncomfortable in my body.

A few things that might have made this situation more comforting than most: people around me dancing like assholes. This usually happens, but usually it's a lot of women pulling out the sexy hip-giration thing, which I've never known how to deal with. Here, at this party, there was none of that, or at least not among my friends. People were just being ridiculous, and being totally okay with it. No pretensions to sexyness or anything: just people acting like morons and knowing it. Another thing: people just as cynical as myself dancing and still enjoying it. At Skidmore, the people who dance are usually really into dancing, or at the very least don't have that rock-hard ice-layer of cynicism and self-deprecation that I do. I think I realized that I might as well dance when Seth, a kid who's even more acerbic than me, started doing it anyway. This made me feel a little bit better about myself. Finally: Rock music. People in England dance to Rock music. This was something I've never been exposed to. In every dance party type situation the music involved has been almost exclusively hip-hop. I'm sorry, but I like Rock music better. America, we can learn a thing or two from this. Obviously Speed Metal isn't going to get people moving (at least not in any pleasant kind of way), but there are plenty of rock songs that people can dance to: Franz Ferdinand, The Strokes, The Killers, to name the more popular examples. Maybe some of the more jangly Rolling Stones songs (like Street Fighting Man). They even played an old Beatles song (I think it was "I feel fine") and I loved it. It's less overtly "Somebody's getting fucked tonight, and it will probably be by me!" and more "I'm just gonna mess around with people I enjoy and get a good night's sleep alone in my bed later." I like that kind of atomsphere.

So, please, stop playing that Chamillionaire song for the umpteenth time. It makes you think you're sexy, and you're really not. You're in a crowded room that smells like stale beer and old socks. Hey you, fella! Stop knocking your cock up against that woman. You're sweating through your brightly-colored Banana Republic dress-shirt, yet your hair still looks like it was sculpted by Frank Ghery. Here's some Iggy Pop. Get over yourself. You, miss...you really shouldn't dance like that with that dress on. I'm getting an eyeful of your pussy on every downbeat. I can tell who's danced with you, because there's three or four men here with body glitter on their pants. Or maybe that's something else. Either way, you should probably be keep an eye on that Mojito of yours sitting at the bar. Here, this song is called "Sympathy for the Devil." Wipe off that purple eyeshadow and enjoy yourself.

These are some lists

Things I've seen a lot of in Oxford:
-Buildings over two two hundred years old (duh)
-Black pea-coats and tightly knotted scarves.
-Bicycles (fuck, there are a lot of bicycles)
-Skirts that reveal 80 percent of thigh (conditional: after 10 pm Thursday through Saturday)
-Men who wear Dolce and Gabbana (sp?) and then talk about how they're wearing Dolce and Gabbana
-Little children in prep-school blazers who call people "slag" really loudly.
-Girls who look like a lot like Emily Spalding (four in one day)
-Crazy people. I don't mean, like "Oh, man, you crazy!" I mean like "That person is shouting something unintelligble at me and he looks like homeless Santa Claus"
-Food from sidewalk vendors that I feel comfortable eating for some reason.
-Hard-working, intelligent people with just a leeeeeeetle bit of a stick up their ass.

Things that I like about Oxford:
-New friends
-Nice town
-Decent theater (Faust, huh? Yeah! Yeah, sure!)
-Books read (i.e Lady Chatterly's Lover, oldest book I've read (1928) that says fuck, shit, cunt, piss and penis written not just once, but several times)
-A surprising percentage of English food.
-Streets at night after it's rained (It's like I'm about to get stabbed in a Fritz Lang movie! Cool!)
-Mayonnaise on French Fries (who knew?)
-Buying alcohol, but not to get to get totally hammered, just to relax a little after a long day, or after a meal.
-Everything cool in Western Civilization is just £30 and an easyjet flight away.

Things I don't like about Oxford:
-The occasional snobby, preening twat (you know who you are)
-English baked beans (I used to like baked beans. What the fuck do you do to them, England?)
-Club scene (I can't...I'm sorry, I can't...I SAID I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!)
-Visiting student status (I can only use the library from 4-10 pm, and I can't go into other colleges aside from my own. Thanks, Oxford Elitism!)
-The pound (Spending ten dollars at Burger King used to mean you had a big family or a terrible problem)
-Lack of girlfriend. (Yes, you can hit me now. Thank you.)

Maybe other lists to come. That is, if something interesting doesn't happen. Which it may not.

Yes! YES!

A few weeks ago, I ordered tickets to a Regina Spektor concert. I didn't have any friends in England just yet, so I only ordered one. I admit I considered selling the ticket for a little while. I foresaw myself sitting alone in a big auditorium, with my eyes to the floor, listening to a softly played rendition of "Samson" as all the fancy Oxford couples, slim of pant leg and long of hair, made out furiously to the left and right of me. Well, all that happened, but my eyes certainly weren't on the ground. They were watching her, in all her crooning, semitic glory. I will now describe the concert in extreme detail, not really for any of you, but because I forgot my camera and I want some record of this while my memory's still fresh.

The venue itself was gorgeous, in traditional Oxford style. A large pipe organ at the front (unused unfortunately), Grecian-style statuary carved into the walls and balcony, coats-of-arms engraved and painted against the balcony, and a big ol' rotunda above the stage with its own patterns and little stained windows (not stained glass, really, but still intricately designed) behind it. The last time I'd been to a real concert, not just a rock show in a tiny club but an honest-to-goodness rock concert, was about five years ago. Because of this I forgot about the terrible burden of the virtually-unknown opening act. This guy I had never heard of, and probably never will. Though it was just him up there, the boy decided to give himself a band name: Only Son. I guess this is a trend right now, solo artists giving themselves band names, kind of like Bright Eyes or...I dunno, someone else probably did that too but I can't think of anyone right now. He sported a big red afro, wore a brown v-neck sweater about two sizes two big, and had the posture of an osteoporotic turtle. His songs might as well have been him screaming "INDIE!!!" into the microphone for two minutes at a time. It was just him up there, like I said, performing with an acoustic guitar. But about three songs into his set this guy (who said virtually nothing, by the way, just introduced himself and would give a clipped little "thanks" every time the audience applauded) had the audacity, the sheer cojones, to whip out his iPod, stick it into the stereo system, and use that as his accompaniment. Excuse me, sir, you may not realize this, but this is a LIVE SHOW. If you wanted to play us the EP you recorded in your closet, perhaps you could have just given the guy at the sound board your CD and he would play them over the speakers for you. I know it's hard for you to make friends, but a back-up band really is crucial in these kinds of situations, I'm sorry. It's not all that hard to get a few musicians together when you're playing for a relatively established artist. Just put up some fliers at a few coffee-shops in Williamsburg saying "Drummer, bassist and Guitarist needed to open for Regina Spektor tour. Inquire at ImaBohemianGottaLoveMe@aol.com" Your phone would be ringing off the hook, I assure you.

Anyway, after that, Regina came on. She started with this song, I'd never heard it before, but it was kind of blues-y and was just her singing while she gently tapped the microphone for percussion. Then she went to the piano. One of the coolest things I've ever seen at a concert: a pianist playing the drums to her own song. I think the name of the song is Ode to Divorce: she had two drum sticks and she smacked them into a wooden chair as she played piano with her other hand. And it was pretty good. She's not Def Leppard in terms of her one-handed drumming abilities, but I'll be dammed if it wasn't cool to watch. Then she brought out her guitar, which I didn't know she played herself, and played this one song that I'd never heard before called "bobbing for apples." Best lyric of 2007 award: "The light fixtures are shaking/and someone's fucking to one of my songs." Okay, maybe not the best lyric, but certainly most-ironically-delivered-and-funny-while-also-being-very-sweet-and-endearing lyric award. A little more cumbersome title, but a more accurate one, I suppose.

She is the most adorable performer. When a PA came up to her and whispered something she said "Sorry, it's a secret." She tried a British accent and then said "Sorry, I always sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins." She's just adorable. It's not even a sexual attraction. She's just someone I'd like to be good friends with, maybe hear her play a few songs or something.

Anyway, I have to write about Joyce now. Yes. Him.

Reviews

Today was my first liaison with critical reception. It was confusing, disturbing and it hurt a little. Seriously, though, it's kind of indicative of what I think every actor goes through. There are two major Oxford newspapers, one is called the Cherwell and the other is the Oxford Student. The Cherwell is, I think, the bigger deal, because it's got a nicer website and it's been around for longer. The Cherwell's review of the play was generally favorable, but they thought my performance was a bit wooden. The OxStu (yay for abbreviation!) was a little less enthusiastic about the play as a whole, but thought my performance was "chilling and compelling." If this proves anything it proves that critical opinion means virtually nothing unless you spread it around a little. There was a tiny pang of hurt when I read the Cherwell review, but nothing serious, which is good. The only person's approval I'm really looking for is a particular audience member. The director mentioned to me that Patrick Stewart, of Star Trek and X-Men fame, might be attending. If I get a pat on the back and something like a "good stuff, man, good stuff," then I can die happy.

A question-blog

I've seen this kinds of blogs where there's a big messageboard at the bottom and if the blogs are popular then there are scores of people chiming in on a question the aforementioned main-blogger has asked. Well, I know this blog isn't all that popular, but I have a question that I think only my peers can genuinely answer. I'm planning on travelling with Schwartz for about two weeks, from April 8th to whenever two weeks after that is. However, I have to leave my flat in Oxford on March 22nd, two weeks prior to start of the planned trip. I asked David if he'd be willing to travel with me, but he seemed a little reluctant, and even if he did he'd only join me for one week out of the two. So here's my question, people-who-read-my-blog:

What should I do for the interim? Should I travel Europe alone? Should I stay put in England, where I know the langauge and have a few contacts in case of emergency? Moreoever, should I stay relatively put in London, where there's lots of interesting things to see and do and don't have to worry about booking lots of different hostels? Tell me, internet. Tell me what to do. If you can't post on the site because you don't have a google account, I'd appreciate it if you took the time to go back to my facebook page and post on my wall. I really want other people's opinion, especially people who might have travelled. Go! Now! Excelsior!

Weekend!

Matt and David came to Oxford for a short while. I, unfortunately, had rehearsals while they were here, so I went off and made theater while they stayed at my flat and drank Strongbow for hours. They didn't see very much of Oxford, and a few things they chose to see on their own were, apparently, very lame (like Oxford Story, which is kind of like a bad Epcot ride about Oxford). A good time was still had, however. We went to Pizza Hut, which was surprisingly good, and extremely cheap, even by American standards. Not exactly English, of course, but we all needed a short wallet-reprieve, I think.

I might be moving into another house soon. I've become good friends with the kids on Binsey lane, which down the road a few hundred yards from my house. They have a spare room, so I think I might move in with them. Nothing's definite right now, though, and since this is a blog that anyone in the world can read, I don't really want to go into the specifics. Just figured I'd give that little update for anyone who's interested.

This has nothing to do with England, but: I read recently about the next Quentin Tarantino/ Robert Rodriguez movie Grindhouse. For those of you that don't know, these two made a movie together previously, one that Tarantino wrote and Rodriguez directed called From Dusk Till Dawn. It can be described in three beautiful words: Mexican...Stripper...Vampires. George Clooney (when he was just a bright shining TV star trying to break into film) and Tarantino himself play two bandits who've kidnapped a family of three (Harvey Keitel plays the father) and bring them to a Mexican strip-club. Selma Hayek, before she was moderately famous, plays a stripper named, according to imdb, Satanico Pandemonium. If memory serves, she has snake wrapped around her at all times, and at one point during her little sex-dance dance she pours whiskey down her leg while Tarantino sucks it from her toes. Then the vampires come. And now it becomes this ultra-violent vampire movie. And I mean really fucking violent. People getting ripped the fuck in half. That kind of thing.

So now they're making this other movie called grindhouse. It's supposed to be this simulation of going to a grind-house feature in the sixties and seventies. This means a double-feature, trailers, and even the accompanying techincal issues (apparently the sound crackles and pops, and the film skips whole sections, with just a title card saying "reel missing"). I watched the trailer, and there's one segment with a stripper with a gun for a leg. The whole thing is apparently going to be three hours long.

Here's the thing: I want to see this movie really badly, not because I think I'll enjoy it, but because I want to see how much a train wreck it'll be. These two seem to bring out the worst in each other with regards to their filmmaking, and making a three-hour exploitation flick seems to straddle a weird line, where you're making something that panders to an audience, but doing it in a very esoteric way. I'm sure it will be the most self-indulgent thing possible, like mildly talented internet fan-boy being given millions of dollars to make his fan-fiction into something presentable. But I'll be god-dammed if I'm not gonna be there watching it.

Parallels between Oxford and Full Metal Jacket

Oxford is a bit like an intellectual boot camp. Eight weeks of intense work, with a month's reprieve for you to drink yourself to a sloshy mush on the floor of some bar in Dover or some shit. Moreover, one-on-one tutorials have to be the most embarrassing, invasive way to get an education imaginable. You have to read your essays aloud, meaning that every flaw and ridiculous cliche you employ has to cross your timid, quivering lips. Then the teacher points out the flaws and spelling errors you yourself can see before you. "Excuse me, but I had to write this in two days. It's not gonna be the Bhavita fucking Ghita." Hopefully I'll become a better writer and not have to endure the jibes and japes of my tutors. But I have five more weeks here, and I don't know how much I can improve until then. Plus, one of my tutors keeps calling me faggot all the time. I think that's just uncalled for.