Bludgering Brown

"OMG!" the schoolgirls go.
"Scandalous!" the parlour moms exclaim
"Who?" the working moms ask.
"She probably deserved it,"the men of the world say placidly.
Only the women who are bludgeoned as well empathize. And only I have a fit of mirthless laugh.

Rihanna was beat up by her very own Chris Brown. No joke, people, this is serious as they get. The picture was just released and Rihanna's pretty pucker had the shape and size of an elephant ear. So we know he's been working out.
All irony aside, it is parlour-lady scandalous that in our day, age and not to mention social status, a not-21-years-old-yet man sees no wrong (or simply ignores the wrong) in striking a woman. A not-20-years-old-yet woman.
The fact that they're both icons of the modern world makes it even funnier: the angels we pray to for looks and talents such as their are rolling on their clouds laughing.

"You wanna look like this?"
"No, but I do wanna have his right hook."

What we should do is throw the little Michael-Jackson-follower behind bars for some time hoping to rid him of his violent habits. No bail, please, we all know he can pay that and be out and running (in his case, biting, was it?) faster that you can say "expensiveplasticsurgery".
For Rihanna, I feel sorry a bit. (Stressing "a bit". I find it hard to empathize with people who are so incredibly far from what I am and do, it's a fault of mine.) You meet a guy who can dance you to Neverland Ranch and sing you well into a comfy mansion on the hillside of dear old Hollywood. He looks like a prince, probably is smooth, ergo you fall for him. The next thing you know he's "borrowing money from you and spending it on other dames and betting on horses", in the immortal words of Marilyn Monroe. So guess Chris Brown isn't all that special: at the end of the day, he's nothing but a mean-spirited horse with an appetite for kicking.
And Rihanna's nothing but another abused person joining the pool of homeless kids, moms who leave their husbands, children who kill their parents, dogs who bite their owners and Whitney Houstons/ Tina Turners.

So, today, for the world, we have Rihanna's swollen picture staring at us with a pained expression. Today, she was just an abused lover.

The difference is somewhat made by the possiblity of plastic surgery, but that's another story.

That's the way the cookie crumbles! (or something in that category of sayings that imply food falling apart being a major event)

A Most "Revolutionary Road"

Okay, so I went to the movies.
I saw "Revolutionary Road" by Sam Mendes, with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio playing a couple planning to pack up and move to Paris.
All I can say, without much revealing the delicate plot, it that Mr DiCaprio has finally shaken off his "Leo" title. Ageing has proven itself profitable for him as it has for so many actors who find wisdom after their thirtieth anniversary - which kind of makes you hate fate for killing James Dean so young. "Leo" is, my friends, "Leo" no more. He's grown into the great actor we all hoped he was. Let's face it, we all know he blew our minds with "What's eating Gilbert Grape", but it's not like he's done anything as astounding since. But this - this Revolutionary masterpiece - has given former "Leo"-lovers the chance to say "I told you so". He's good, and I'm usually judgemental. He's very good.
Now, for his on-screen-wife, April. Kate Winslet has had a field-year, if I may say so. "The Reader"'s value was mostly of her making, yet she does not dissapoint us in this movie either. She plays the wife-who-wanted-more so superbly, it actually made me rethink my opinion about actresses nowadays. I, for one, am rooting for an Oscar here, because I think she is one of the few valuable people who have stepped foot in Hollywood this century. Call me melodramatic, but she's talented, and there's no argument against that.
Behind the heavy amount of liquor and cigarette smoke Sam Mendes sought fit to decorate the movie with, you will find no happy ending. Nobody's merrier at the end. Weakness and strentgh double back on each other until they creat such chaos you, as a viewer, become confused: are those who live on stronger? It has so many loose ends I wouldn't know where to begin to tie them: the oblivious [or not!] wife, the husband in love with another woman, the husband who calls his wife neurotic for wanting more out of life, the couple who wraps themselves in the blanket of self-appreciation ["We're not like all the others!"] - until they see it's too full of holes to keep them warm. It challenges mediocrity, monotony, hopelessness, endurance - take my word for it, it's a good movie.

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all."
Or not. Just see the movie.



P.S.: Grim would have hated this with all his heart.
P.P.S.:"We will always have Paris..." [Bad joke, I know.]

Sincerely Stinging - "Songs From The Labyrinth"

"Cleare or cloudie sweet as April showring,
Smooth or frowning so is hir face to mee,
Pleas'd or smiling like milde May all flow'ring,
When skies blew silke and medowes carpets bee,
Hir speeches notes of that night bird that singeth,
Who thought all sweet yet jarring notes outringeth."

Indeed, ladies and gentleman, the one and only Sting. Identically Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, him and his bedazzling talent paid us a visit tonight.
Released in 2006, his album "Songs from the Labyrinth" contains songs written by various medieval singers. Accompanied by Edin Karamazov's leute, he sung us all into awe.
You would never believe how, in an hour and fourty-five minutes, one man can mix his very enticing British wit, his sly handling of a leute, his mesmerising voice and fantastic originality to create what was just about the most wonderful concert I've ever seen.

To tell you the truth, I hadn't done much research about the new album, so I was basically walking into the concert hall with "eyes wide shut". I saw about six instruments propped up on an uncanny Persian rug, four anorexic microphones in the back and...that was about it. I expected an average concert, doomed by the fact that it was held indoors, marred by its lack of instruments and cursed by the amount of over-sung pieces of music about to be heard.
Never did I imagine that by stepping onto that stage, Sting will have single-handedly topsy-turveyed my idea of a concert.

The minute - no, the moment! - Sting sat down and spoke to us, in his mellifluous voice, of John Dowland, I was charmed, enchanted and blessed never to be able to take my eyes off him. John Dowland, one of the fifteenth century's foremost lutenists and composers, wiggled his melancholic tunes into Sting's playlist: Come, heavy sleep, Come again, Flow my tears, In the darkness let me dwell - all of them and more were revived, renewed and re-gifted to an unexpectant auditor: me. Each song had a story, each song was preceded by a fragment of one of John Dowland's letters to the Queen. His reading made my blood stand still, his singing painted this open-mouthed, idiotic grin on my face which I was not capable of getting rid of until well on my way home. I reached the conclusion that everything - and I'm not exaggerating - was impeccable. Even the lighting gave everything an intimate touch: soft copper colours hit against the sombre darkness of the singers' attires from every angle. Simple, but not plain.

What I saw, for once, on a concert stage, was the naked reality of the performer in front. A history lesson, a revival and renewal of the past, a wonderful idea brought to the world by two very modest men, a choir of young and talented singers - all without the useless paraphernalia involving a concert for someone as famous as Sting. Without a touch of tiredness in his voice, or in Edin karamazov's fingers, they were able to create such a warmly electric atmosphere than I have seen anyone do. By their spirit, making me enjoy every moment of the concert for its uniqueness, its grace, dignity and warmth.

It was well worth skipping my last class - which was, coincidentally, History -, I realised. I needed a walk in the "Fields of Gold".

"You'll remember me
When the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley."

P.S.: You see, that's where he was wrong, though I hate to admit it. I'll be keeping him, his voice, talent and spirit constantly, at the back of my head until I find a better sound. Or feeling.

Grim Reader

Some of you might have already guessed this: I met Grim today. Again.
[It's inevitable, I have to meet him every Monday. Almost.]
He once again shared with us his movie preferences. Happy-happy, joy-joy, I tell you.
He listed [hold on to your hats!] "A Walk to Remember" as one of the movies he thought the most educative. Bien sur, what can be more wonderful than the story of the high school freak who happens to see the light thanks to her fatal disease and who marries the high school it-boy, turning his principles, life and demeanour round?
God forbid we ever admit to having a dark side crept up somewhere in a corner of our souls! The more pink and perky we get, the more bubbly and beatific our personalities are, the more we are headed down the road to perfection...and destruction.
In a world where things might get ugly from time to time, we want the arts to stay as oblivious as possible to the dirt and grime of the city streets. Keeping arts off the streets is our goal. We seem to find refuge in this fantasy universe songs paint, and movies build. But, let's face it, we're only kidding ourselves. We're teaching our minds, souls and bodies to let in only the good, the pure and the marvellous; what we find down the street is so completely and irreversibly different that it makes us close our eyes to everything we deem unfit. We become the judges in a world where the need for patience is spilling over the brim of the cup.
So is it that bad that we sometimes are shown how dark and twisted are our fellow souls inside? It is so bad that we are shown the story of an illiterate German woman who joined the SS only to save her reputation? Is it so horribly wrong that we are shown how, at a complete loss for what to do and too little courage to do what is right, she ended up becoming a murderer? Is it so wrong that she took the entire blame upon herself, being thus landed with a life sentence? "What would you have done?" That is the idea. Under pressure, shame, panic and distress, would you - would anyone else - have saved the people she considered right to lock inside the burning church?
Now that's soul-searching. And that's "The Reader". For all Mandy Moore lovers [I still say she should stick to singing, her acting isn' really all that good] just take a peek at Kate Winslet.
And remember, the Grim Reader is the little voice telling you to stop trying to understand darkness and let yourself be blinded by the light.
Over and out.

P.S.: And, let's face it, "A Walk to Remember" is cheesy.
P.P.S.: I know the story was real. Reality makes a much better example than the movie inspired from it, don't you think?

Trolley Trance or The Silent Society

I honestly don't know what it is about trolleybuses, but I'm starting to believe they're the hidden drugs of the era.
Touch your nose if you've noticed it before, but as soon as people enter the malodorous, cramped, crowded and awkward world of the trolleybus, their functions and intellects take a deep plunge heading for the sidewalk. Thinking is flicked off, breathing is only a reflex, blinking is slow and forgotten more than oft and if you find anyone who so much turns their head in your direction, it means you're special. Very special.
My best guess is that people who build the trolleybuses must rub morphine on the floors and bars we so innocently touch. Atoms and atoms of morphine slither beneath out cells and make us all numb. It's my best guess, like I said, because I can find no other reason for people to act so uniformly dumb.
Seriously now, I can find no logical reason that in the midst of such opportunities of socializing, people basically turn themselves off, shut themselves in. They become a closed society, not noticing others, and never being noticed. It's like trolleybuses are moving devices that create zombies. Don't know if you've ever seen the mass of people in a bus staring outside: they look like corpses under a thick layer of ice.
Rarely does a dying ember crane a neck, blink or blow his nose in scary proximity of another. But with every movement, every slicing of the air, one causes the other embers to completely die away. The more you want to come close to them, the more they cringe and recoil.
You smile, their faces lock in a constipated rictus. You sigh, they back away fearing your vapours of sorrow might cling to them. You sniff, they frown distantly, as though a heavy noise bothered their deep meditation. You so much as look at them and they make a point of blinking lazily and staring forward.
The few passings of words have a strictly material purpose. People demand information they need. They don't care about why you've just rolled your eyes or pursed your lips. From the beggar who demands money by jutting a bumpy hand in front of you, from the lady who paints on a peasantly cold face and asks you if she could borrow your already used ticket, they are all ruled by their needs. I've often wondered, while looking round the cramped space that holds so many inert things, if they wonder as well. Do any of them see my ruffled hair and ask themselves why I choose to live without a comb by my side? Do they see the old lady who's munching on pastries like there's no tomorrow and brushing off crumbs from her enormous belly, thus showering the people in front of her with an assortment of edible debris? The yawning child, the wrinkled beggar, the driver who has pictures of his children and a few naked women on the windshield, the white-shirted student, the ostentatious Barbie, the tired young woman, the couple holding hands, the obviously disgusted punkrocker, the painfully blonde backpacking tourist, the skinhead with an electric aura nobody wants to step near, the old man with spectacles as thick as elephant hide, my reflection in the grimy window.

I see them all.

But do they see me?

Firefighter's Bobbing Head

Hm.
The U.S.A. - three letters that for most people represent wealth, freedom, and...er...help me on this one, please. Well, all in all, we like the U.S.A. and typically hold its supposed lack of rigidity quite opposite from, say, the U.K.'s world-famous protocol-love.

Right.

Funnily enough, just recently a man - a firefighter! - was suspended from a marching band for nodding [uh-huh], quite subtly, to the new pres, Barack Obama. Allegedly, the pres waved first, and Drum Major John Coleman said he was just acknowledging him. I mean, you can't risk being rude to the president of your country, even if you were told not to make any gestures.
After being suspended for six months, Major Coleman quit his job.

Okay, I get that we're talking about the president here. And I get there's a protocol to follow, but isn't it sad that something like this happens in a nation which promises not to be a subject to the rigidity imposed by royalty? It seems to me only absurd that a man got suspended for nodding to the very man who called himself a "mutt". The purpose of his suspension was...Ooh, I see, teaching all those nodders out there that such a gesture is so indecent that it must not be done in the presence of noble people. There's no suspension for winking to women on the street, no suspension for Bush's dropping bombs, no suspension for people who swear in traffic, and for so many sins the harm the world. But God forbid we nod publicly! God forbid we, the people reputed as the welcoming, unprejudiced race, put a toe out of line and show that we are as human as we claim to be!
Not to say "I told you so", but this great nation has once again proved its falsity. It's slightly boring, and it makes the world a slightly sillier [uglier] place.

And while I can't judge the Nod's implications on the world and the ceremony, I can smile, nod, wave, scream, shout, cheer and do all the ill-reputed things that ruin a perfectly cold, frozen and picture-perfect Technicolor moment. No one can suspend me, which makes my efforts worthless. But hey, someone needs to cheer for Mr Coleman, or else he's the jester to an empty crowd.
In my ears, though, the message rings on.

P.S.: "Smile and wave, boys. Just smile and wave."
P.P.S.: Oh, and despite the efforts to mimic other rigorous displays of solemnity, I pretty much think Mr Obama suspects those little people blowing on the strange thingies are not tin soldiers from a fairy tale.
P.P.P.S.: I quit now. Good night.