Shattered Glass

Last night I was a grateful plus one to the screening of Shattered Glass in Chelsea. Lots of nice free wine in Hue afterwards still did not manage to whip up any enthusiasm for a rather dismal movie.

Basically it�s a boring story about a total shitester. Nothing extraordinary. Not a great shitester even. There�s no suspense and so the movie fails to excite. This may be all good and well if it could actually go so far as to explain what happened and why but it doesn�t even get close. We know Stephen Glass was studying for Law School and had demanding parents but that�s it. He cries a lot. He lies a lot. I didn�t find the support and trust of his peers convincing in the slightest. He could make people laugh but he was such a rotten creep, the kind which would get clubbed to death in intelligent company. This made the other associate editors come across as just dim, and assuming that they were not, there has to have been a greater depth to the con Stephen Glass pulled off that was not reflected in this movie. Or at least you would hope.

The only highlight is Peter Sarsgaard who I thought was excellent and not just because he is totally hot, if not a little short in real life and hell knows I don�t go near those types any more.

I don�t heart London

It�s just awful.

My fruit man is off to Dacca next week for his annual 4 month vacation. He asked me if I would go with him. That�s the best offer I have had all year actually. I could come back in March with a great tan and be at least 10 pounds lighter. Something to think about.

My room mate turned 25 over the weekend. He�s now able to hire a car. I told him that the only thing my birthdays bring me these days is the need for ever more frequent cancer check ups. He didn�t believe me when I said that I was in quite a good mood today actually. I am.

Off to London tonight. Just for the weekend like. Going to check out the nieces and get very drunk. Back Tuesday.

Lost in Translation Part II

So eventually, and I am not sure when it was or how long I was in there with a ruptured bladder, but eventually I was taken into a dingy office where I was told that I was being deported and that I was going back to Helsinki. �I don�t want to go back to Helsinki�, I said, �can�t you send me on my next ticketed flight to Manila?� Stupid, stupid, stupid. They agreed and I was escorted back into the real world. Back into the departure lounge with the real people. People who were shocked that I was shoeless and holding up my jeans and escorted everywhere by 2 heavily armed security guards. These guys even came with me onto the plane and stayed there until just before the plane departed. Passengers asked to be moved away from me. Everyone thought I was a drug dealer including the airhead stewardesses who flung the hot meal at me frisby style. And then I realized that I was going into Dodgyville, without my passport, cash, credit cards or shoes. Fuck.

At Manila I was held and then escorted through the endless airport corridors unseen by regular travelers from the first world or those with paperwork. Eventually we came to the Immigration Office who listened to my story and then sighed. They were used to seeing Filipinos coming back from Japan after having been refused entrance but this was a first for them. A deportee usually gets sent back to port of embarkation, where technically he was allowed in the first place. Being sent on to the Philippines meant they had to deport me also, they explained. They couldn�t accept a non-Filipino national who had just been deported and I couldn�t go back to Japan so I had to go on and to Hawaii where I for certain wouldn�t be accepted. Fuck fuck fuck. Around the world in 72 hours with a different kind of stamp in my passport.

So I sat there and resigned myself to my fate. My paperwork and cash had showed up and that left me with some feeling of calm. They were nice to me in Manila. They weren�t screaming or molesting me and gave me coffee and sweet cakes. At some stage a nice bloke came and sat next to me and we chatted about my predicament and the fucking Japanese and life and such. He then announced that he was the Head of Immigration at Manila International Airport and that he liked me and after a few loud words in the office, gave me a 6 month visa.

Nice man. Nice country. So nice in fact I stayed for 4 � of those 6 months. I went back twice again in 8 months.

I still want to go to Tokyo though. I really do. They banned me for 5 years and for another 5 I was just bitter. But I really want to go. I just realized how much.

Lost in Translation

Ten years ago I got deported from Japan. It's a good story, just give me a few hours and I'll post it.

Ok Part I

Watching Lost in Translation for the second time last night (first time I was too drunk for it to make much sense) it suddenly struck me that it was almost 10 years exactly since the fuckers deported me. Fuckers being of course the Japanese Immigration Department at Narita International Airport. My experience of Tokyo is not the incomprehensible crowds of shorties and weird computer games. It�s cells and sexual harassment. I liked the movie though but I think Sophia needs to get off her privileged arse and with the sisters.

10 years ago I was in the midst of a 2 and a half year trip all over the place, just for kicks. Working when I had to, mainly in the sex slave industry. It was good bucks and white blondies could make a load of cash, especially in Asia. Japan therefore was the mecca for all travelers where the work available consisted of waitressing, hostessing and selling jewelry in the street. I was obviously looking for a nice indoorsy job with alcohol.

I checked with the Japanese Embassy in London who told me that I didn�t need a visa for a trip of less than 3 months so off I toddled to Narita via Helsinki. Knowing no one there. I felt pretty confident I would be able to sort myself out when I arrived. I had done that the year before in Hong Kong and I was hindered by a lazy ex-boyfriend as well at that time.

Stupidly I didn�t sort accommodation prior to my arrival and so had left this part of the form blank which I then presented to the official at the airport. This immediately freaked him out and he was not soothed by me proffering my copy of the Japan Lonely Planet and assurances that I would sort it out soon enough. So red light starts flashing and I was escorted into an office nearby. These people were not speaking any English to me but were obviously asking for things. I proffered passport, money, tickets, wallet. These things were all taken and I didn�t see them again for approximately 48 hours and never again in Japan.

Eventually someone started speaking English. He had been there for about an hour before he did this. He said I didn�t have enough money to stay in Japan. I had $800 in cash and 4 visa cards with credit amounts on them. He asked me if I was planning to work. I said no. I told him about the balances on my card. He said you couldn�t use credit cards in Japan. I told him not to be so bloody stupid. His face turned white. He left and about 5 minutes later I was escorted into a cell about 4 floors down. I was not sure how long I was in there as I fell in and out of sleep intermittently, awaking frequently to have to fight off various guards or security personnel. Sometimes they had their hands in my jeans. Sometimes they were just stroking my hair, which was worse. They had also taken shoes and belt and refused to let me smoke or use the loo.

Quote from the Hall of Shame Fame

Ukranian Bikini waxer: You will have to hold it here. It�s stuck together. Your lips are stuck together.
Me: No they�re not. They are wide apart and they are screaming.

Art Update

Man and I can�t believe I forgot this earlier. Yesterday at the Hoboken Art Open Day I was checking out some interesting swirly type paintings when the artist came over and started telling me about what looked like a rather revolting 4� perspex statue / sculpture thing.

He then looked at me quite hard:

Mad Spanish Artist: So have you ever modeled?
Me: (laughing but very flattered obviously because I am extremely vain): No
Mad Spanish Artist: You have amazing bone structure and those eyes, I would love to paint those eyes.
Me: Oh, thanks.
Mad Spanish Artist: You are very sporty also. I love to paint sporty women and I paint from life. Here this is some of my work.
(I look at his portfolio. The pictures are of 6 or 7 naked women, entangled, naked, splayed.)
Me: Sign me up Daddio.

I got a free banana this morning because I had straight hair. Rock and Roll. However despite the straight bit being a lot easier, there�s someone who likes it curly so am not sure how long am going to keep it this way.

Moi? Je suis une patronne des arts.

Yesterday saw me detangling the love nest from my hair and hot stepping over to Hoboken to meet Yoorotrash. I say hot stepping I mean whining about the fucking PATH, desperately shoving tenners into the machine whilst watching the Hoboken train leave the Christopher Street station, cursing like Christina Aguilera as I stuffed the 7 dollar coins into my wallet and then waiting for 45 minutes for the next train. I hate the PATH.

Anyway Hoboken is host to a thriving arts scene and yesterday I bought me some. A fabulous piece by Mark Davis called �Places in my Soul�. It�s gorgeous and just makes me so happy. It�s also large and bloody good value. Am addicted. I want to buy some sculpture next. Some enormous great phallic stuff probably.

For some inexplicable reason this headline just grabbed me and I had to read it.

How do I always manage to land myself in this shit?

Last night I went out on a semi business dinner at the Harvard Club. I say semi as I met this guy a couple of years ago at an industry dinner and we had a laugh. I met up with him recently at a conference and we agreed to go out to catch up. I didn�t want to be out too late as I wanted to meet up with Elizabeth, Hereitype, Sarahspace and Dana. You would right? You would want to be out of there pretty fucking quick so you could meet up with the fabuloustest girls ever for one glass of white (am on the wagon after my lost weekend). It�s an annual occasion and long over due quite frankly.

Anyway this guy tells me he has to shoot off for 8 anyway for a �rehearsal�. This demands further explanation. Thing is apparently, is that he is a competitive latin ballroom dancer and he is taking part in some kind of pan-Asian finals at the weekend and he needs to get his practice in. He specializes in the Mambo, like you do. He�s short and rotund and not well gorgeous. I ask about the costumes. He wears the full monty in lycra, deep v-neck chest and sleeves that flare out into flowers. He doesn�t wear make up but he does put mousse in his hair for the occasion. I am deeply, deeply fascinated and trying to keep the crab salad from coming out of my nose thinking about him in this get up.

Weirdest thing about the dinner was that it ended with me agreeing to go to tango lessons with him. Weekly. How the FUCK did that happen?

Does anyone want to come and see this the Beckett Albee thing with me. None of my friends do.

Further irrefutable proof that the English have become utterly dull

Latest scandal comes from the ranks of the Conservative Party leadership, as we hear that Ian Duncan Smith-Tit has allegedly mis-used public funds by employing his wife as his secretary. She�s called Betsey. No one is called Betsey, as indeed is no one called Muffie or other such shite. Point being really that who gives a fuck? That is not toe sucking scandal. You are suppose to leave your wife for your secretary like sex god Robin Cook. You are supposed to have a rent boy on your payroll as do the rest of the Tories. Ian Duncan Smith-Tit is not playing by the rules and this is what has landed him in shit creek with his party.

Last night I took the alternative exit to my local and took at least 5 steps on my coccyx. I have a swollen dark egg sized bruise there this morning. It hurts me. Damn good thing I have some fat in that area or I could have been in a lot of trouble. It must have been the arse kicking I needed because this morning when I got up I pledged to NPR. Apparently if they raise a ton of cash prior to pledge week they will cut it short. I HATE pledge week, it drives me nuts, mainly out of guilt for bitching and not coughing up but also because it's the same monotonous shit all week. Well now I'm getting a mug and some coffee as well. I don't drink coffee but will always go for the free gift.

Last night I was out in Meatpacking. I hate it there. The crowd are pricks and the service is so shit and expensive. The glasses of albarino I was drinking last night were $11, which is just criminal. The hostess in Rhone was an utter bitch. Nothing to recommend.

One day dong resin and Dana are going to make me laugh so hard I crap myself in the office. And then they'll both be sorry. Yeah.

Argh

I got on my fabulous new Tanita scales and body fat monitor yesterday to discover that I was back up to my post Tuscan and Aruban wedding obesity. How the fuck did that happen I screeched! This weight loss thing is a fucking joke! I went to the gym 4 times last week. I must be retaining water. I am pre-menstrual (first time off the pill in over 2 years). Then I remembered the dinners out on Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. And the inordinate amount of booze. And the dessert I would treat myself to once home on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. A gooey brownie and Hagen Daaz. Fuck.

One consolation though was the fact that my body fat percentage had gone down to 21%. But then I remembered that it is a percentage after all. So here we go again � back on the treadmill and the spinning class. Back on the starvation diet. You see I have a date kind of thing on Saturday. Not like a major one or anything. The last time I saw him was exactly a month ago and we are just going to hang out. Problem is that I know his ex (and for that read very recent ex) is a stick. I know because I inadvertently stalked him. Fuck. Fuck.

Losing it is as good as having it

"a thing is never truly perceived, appreciated or defined, except in longing. A land in exile, a God in His absconding, a love in its loss. And that everyone loses everything in the end. But that certain things of their nature cannot be taken away while life lasts. Some things can never be lost utterly that were loved in a certain way"

From Damascus Gate by Robert Stone.

My fantasy over at numberonehitsong.

Arnie: 2 reasons for hope

1. He's pro choice.
2. He picked the Century Plaza for his after party which is where I like to stay in LA.

Hey does anyone have any details about the New York S&M Film Festival? It's supposed to start today. I went last year and well, wow.

When I talk about guilt I am referring to that 30 second emotion
A while back, let�s say 18 months ago, I got me my arse fired from a rather cushy job which was highly paid for an occupation which allowed me to leave the office for 3 hours a day at 10.30 to go for a personal training session and then a long, boozy lunch. Still all things come to an end and if I had been a tad bit smarter I may have seen it coming but I was rather too absorbed in my own charmed life at the time to notice.

They weren�t all that nasty to me. They ripped me off by withholding about 15% of my pension but hey, they were corrupt bastards and I knew that when I was working for them. I had an expense account which took all my powers of imagination to keep up in the manner in which it had become accustomed.

Anyhoo so last week I get a call from the number 2 there asking me out for a drink. Strange says I but accept. I know, because they told me, that they are very busy and slightly struggling on the marketing side of things where I was working, apparently (I thought my job was to go to cocktail parties and flirt). Secretly I felt that they were going to offer me a job since they admitted to missing me when I spoke with them when I was in Aruba. Hahah I thought as I imagined laughing in his face and screeching �you better be fucking with me �cos I�d rather eat my own faeces than work for you again!�

So we meet. I am wearing my new tank �Man Trainer�, gift from the fabulous Elizabeth. We eat and we drink. He pays. It�s expensive. It�s expenses. And then he tells me that he�d always thought I had a great arse and that we should hook up.

Ah life. The World Trade Center can fall down but some guys will always remain optimistic cheesy cunts.

I hate my wardrobe therefore I hate my life

Oh the usual Monday blues, however today I received yet another one of those monthly missives from the fabulous guys at McSweeneys in the form of The Believer. Hurrah! Yet another thing to chuck in the magazine basket, unread with the rest of them. Have you ever seen a publication so smugly boring in your life?

In other news I decided to finally be a good maid of honour and take the wedding dress into the dry cleaners before I returned it to the bride. I was feeling somewhat guilty for my inability to do anything of much but drink during the nuptials (hey you leave me unsupervised for a day around alcohol and see what happens). I called in on the dress designer and asked her for her launderer of choice and then duly traipsed down there with the goods. Jesus Christo! Have you ever paid $189 for dry cleaning? That�s nearly half a pair of shoes! OK so there�s insurance and all that mularky but this dress was very simple. A shift evening gown really����Well I won�t be caught by that one again. Mainly due to my piss poor efforts on the big day really��

Faint heart never won fair maid but stalking is bad for you

A girl can�t do much these days without getting accused of being a bunny boiler a la Glenn Close in �Fatal Attraction�. Wandering around the LES last night on my way to the bar where I have been promised free booze for life to make up for a minor case of sexual assault I encountered an ex-snog en route to god only knows where with a dog and an 8 year old in his car. Well the dog I knew about�����..

Not wanting to be mistaken for a stalker, I did as any self-respecting freak would and cunningly hid by turning around (niiiiiiice move Maccers). But why should I have? I am sick of men with their secret fear that they are about to get dismembered or relieved of the vast mounds of cash they think they have stashed away somewhere or believe they deserve. Dream on guys. You don�t call us, we won�t call you. Meanwhile, never hinder my path to a chocolatey Pinot Noir. It's just damn well rude.

And tonight my getting ready to go out music is the Best of Wham. Does this make me a totally past it sad loser? Ah forget it, I don't want to know...........

My favourite shop in the entire world is Steven Allen. I ache for everything in there including the fantabulously hip sales staff. They are so undeniably damn cool, I just can�t get with how they come to be such. Even when I had enough cash to throw around the place I couldn�t come an iota closer to looking that good. It appears that I am a spectator only in the world of fashion.

Other shops which make me whimper like a puppy are Johnson in LES and Marni in Soho. I feel the need to reinvent my wardrobe (it�s an almost weekly state). The rude onset of the cold has brought with it an anger that I can no longer wear little bitty vests and a realization that everything I am now forced to wear is from last year and how depressing is that?

Am currently just really really into Voodoo by D'Angelo, especially "How does it feel". It's blasting out of the speakers at work. Yep, the boss is en vacances..........

Wow. Being terminally bored today I have been scouring websites for ideas on weekend dining and drinking. I noticed this review of Town on newyorkmetro as recommended, although how anyone can recommend mid-town is beyond me, and it is actually fairly accurate. Last time I was there about a month ago I ran into 3 people I know who work for various hedge funds. They weren't managers though, they were marketers.

This link to English crap towns called, funnily enough, Crap Towns (via tmftml) is pretty much spot on. They have not included Darlington though, which is a major oversight.

Fuck the South Beach Diet. This is called Just back from the Beach Diet, which means all I did in Aruba was eat crappy dutchified fried food and six tons of red meat and drank, drank, drank and drank. These are island people and you have to keep up with them. Therefore I returned with more of a lard arse piled onto lard arse from Tuscany.

Diet consists of getting up at 5.45 am, getting to gym for spin class or 3 mile run on hill setting on treadmill and some weight thingys. Breakfast is a banana and low fat yoghurt. Lunch is salad (spinach preferably). And that�s it. No food till the next day. Weight lost so far this week is 4 pounds which is not bad at all. Also means you get pissed on one glass of wine as I rather embarrassingly did at some wimmin in the industry function last night.

Hormone rush or just the menopause?

I don't know what it is but something has been up with my 'motions recently. Every time I speak to me Dad I get all choked up and weepy. When he came to see me a couple of weeks ago it was terrible. I kept on having to go to the loo for a weep. What's all that about then? I think perhaps that I need to start self-medicating. That will be a bunch of Valium then please.