What is it with this bloody season?
If one more person says to me "be nice its Christmas..." - i'm going to head-butt them. And I don't mean like Zidane - into the chest. My forehead will crash into their nose. I live by the code that while a person... can be smart - people are dumb. This is just a fact of life. Riled up a crowed will do anything while a single person may have moral objections or otherwise. That doesn't speak very well of our species' average.
Now I don't profess to be an aberration, or an exception to the norm - but when is it going to strike everyone that a retail holiday is exactly that. "Here, take the day off to go buy some presents for everyone else (using the money that you slave for us for). Feel good about yourself and treat others with respect in this joyous time of Christmas."
Some blonde-haired, blue-eyed 12 yr. old sighs complacently as the first snowfall of December makes her think of Christmas-y goodness. 'Tis the season to be jolly. The rest of the year though - yeah - you can be a dick. As long as that "Season's Greetings and Best Wishes!!" card goes out every december, you've absolved yourself of the 11 months of bitchin' you did behind their back. Everyone bitches - so don't act like you don't. But MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
Lets look at another. Valentine's day. (sigh) A day to fully express your love for the one you.. errr ... love. So buy some flowers, cards and candy and get laid. Buy your way into people's hearts - and its masterful in its construction isn't it? It starts with the primary intention of getting laid. If you're 25 or younger - don't even f-in lie to me - you know what you do and why you do it. There are 365 bloody days in the year to "love your lover", yet this is the ONE day that you must pay your dues??? This is the day you must find something romantic to do. Why?
Mother's day, father's day... it goes on and on. Since I can't change it, I'm going to join it. My 5 contributions/suggestions are below:
1. Hash Bash (April 20th) - Street food vendors roll up onto a particular street (its your neighbor hood - pick one!) mid-day. Meanwhile, everyone has spent the day hooking up all sorts of bammy in J's, bowls, bongs, blunts, spliffs, chilliums. 4:20 pm, the bell rings and food is served! Roll onto that street and comfort your munchies with some great food.
2. Choot Day (June 5th) - Multiple interpretations depending on where you live. For some, a joyous occassion to beat the shit out of those that you consider choots. In other parts of the world, a day to frolick and mate with whomever you choose. 'Consent' becomes a perspective on this day.
3. Maha-Choot Day (August 1st) - AK 47's with scopes issued for one day only. Sign up today!
4. Wet Day (October 1st) - Stock up on liqour at ridiculously discounted and tax free prices - and get wasted off your ass. You can't get served alcohol the next day - so you might as well be too fuggin' hungover to remember it!
5. Asshole Day (December 15th): Feel free to walk around 10 days before Christmas and tell people what you really think.
For instance - "Hey man, can I talk to you for a second?. Look... I know you've got a gimpy face. I know you 'twitch' every time you smile, and yes... I know its an involuntary physical disorder that you were born with... i DO understand that...
but seriously... if you smile one more time while talking to me... I'm going to kick your balls so hard, they're going to pop out your mouth."
Doesn't really matter cuz in 10 days, he'll be on an operating table with forceps in his mouth, reading a greeting card from you - "Best Wishes for the coming year... - lots of love, hugs, kisses and ice - Aye Dav."
December 12, 2006
December 06, 2006
December 2006
December is here. New Years' Eve is approaching swiftly and in its haste has blown Winter's icy winds across the narrows of New York. It is a festive time of the year, when dawn comes late and dusk sets early - a seasonal trait, I am particularly fond of. But my nocturnal nature is not the topic today.
On a recent weekend, Pattu visited from Cornell and we went for 'Il Barbiere Di Siviglia' (The Barber of Seville) - a most fantastic and highly recommended rendition featuring everyone's favorite Opera character - Figaro. Directed by Bartlett Sher, this performance featured the delightful and sultry voice of Diana Damrau (playing Rosina). Now, generally, I am rarely impressed with female leads -but she was magnificent. Her presence and antics on-stage uplifted the performance in a very natural and noteworthy fashion. Though I didn't care much for the set, the actors and orchestra functioning in total congruence was truly remarkable. Peter Mattei plays the lovable Figaro, and immediately involved the audience with his famous entrance on his mobile barbershop, led in by a donkey. I want to take a moment to harp on the appreciation I had for this cast to execute each dialogue, verse and action in perfect harmony with the Orchestra, all the while making it seem effortless and obvious. There is natural talent and overall brilliance at work here that one can't even fathom.
The only point in this performance which I had major issues with - came at the conclusion. Now, I happen to be a fan of 'Romantic Comedy', especially from the late 18th/early 19th century, but I find the concept of "profession of love", as I call it, absolutely unbearable. Close to his exit, Almaviva professes his undying love for the beautiful Rosina. Almaviva, then, professes his love for Rosina... again. Almaviva, then walks across the stage and professes his love AGAIN! Juan Diego Flórez must have lost his mind playing Almaviva's most annoying conclusion solo, especially after 3 hours! DUDE! You love her - I got it the first time! SHUT UP! This profession wasn't even a poetic ensemble of metaphors - that might have been bearable -this was the same thing over and over again! 30 minutes of it and I had my playbill rolled up into a tight, solid structure as I mapped a trajectory to deliver a deafening blow to Almaviva's skull. I had already considered that before his unconscious body would hit the wooden floor, I would have dived across the audience with remarkable strength and veracity to reach him and ensure that his head fell on a pencil. And I would bask in my glory, bathing in his blood, spouting from his impaled, lifeless body. Then Pattu came up with a better option - "FUCK! - lets leave before I kill myself). That was Friday.
(I have issues - believe it or not - so do you... so F off!)
Saturday presented itself in a predictable manner - as we drenched ourselves in alcohol and engaged in lies, deceit and superficial conversations. Amidst all this, the "bumping into" never ceases as I found myself in unforseeable situations with avoidable individuals. Hearts a-poundin'... I've found my existence to be marred by the habitual occurrence of 'The Weekend'. Its incessant need to throw me into a degenerate new stance, while I defile my being and celebrate new levels of decadence. And on Sunday mornings, I find myself cross-eyed, covered in gloss and confetti - as the celebrations have passed. I hide myself from the sunlight.
Monday rolls around, coffee and cigarettes to make this pass - and I can't wait for the weekend again.
On a recent weekend, Pattu visited from Cornell and we went for 'Il Barbiere Di Siviglia' (The Barber of Seville) - a most fantastic and highly recommended rendition featuring everyone's favorite Opera character - Figaro. Directed by Bartlett Sher, this performance featured the delightful and sultry voice of Diana Damrau (playing Rosina). Now, generally, I am rarely impressed with female leads -but she was magnificent. Her presence and antics on-stage uplifted the performance in a very natural and noteworthy fashion. Though I didn't care much for the set, the actors and orchestra functioning in total congruence was truly remarkable. Peter Mattei plays the lovable Figaro, and immediately involved the audience with his famous entrance on his mobile barbershop, led in by a donkey. I want to take a moment to harp on the appreciation I had for this cast to execute each dialogue, verse and action in perfect harmony with the Orchestra, all the while making it seem effortless and obvious. There is natural talent and overall brilliance at work here that one can't even fathom.
The only point in this performance which I had major issues with - came at the conclusion. Now, I happen to be a fan of 'Romantic Comedy', especially from the late 18th/early 19th century, but I find the concept of "profession of love", as I call it, absolutely unbearable. Close to his exit, Almaviva professes his undying love for the beautiful Rosina. Almaviva, then, professes his love for Rosina... again. Almaviva, then walks across the stage and professes his love AGAIN! Juan Diego Flórez must have lost his mind playing Almaviva's most annoying conclusion solo, especially after 3 hours! DUDE! You love her - I got it the first time! SHUT UP! This profession wasn't even a poetic ensemble of metaphors - that might have been bearable -this was the same thing over and over again! 30 minutes of it and I had my playbill rolled up into a tight, solid structure as I mapped a trajectory to deliver a deafening blow to Almaviva's skull. I had already considered that before his unconscious body would hit the wooden floor, I would have dived across the audience with remarkable strength and veracity to reach him and ensure that his head fell on a pencil. And I would bask in my glory, bathing in his blood, spouting from his impaled, lifeless body. Then Pattu came up with a better option - "FUCK! - lets leave before I kill myself). That was Friday.
(I have issues - believe it or not - so do you... so F off!)
Saturday presented itself in a predictable manner - as we drenched ourselves in alcohol and engaged in lies, deceit and superficial conversations. Amidst all this, the "bumping into" never ceases as I found myself in unforseeable situations with avoidable individuals. Hearts a-poundin'... I've found my existence to be marred by the habitual occurrence of 'The Weekend'. Its incessant need to throw me into a degenerate new stance, while I defile my being and celebrate new levels of decadence. And on Sunday mornings, I find myself cross-eyed, covered in gloss and confetti - as the celebrations have passed. I hide myself from the sunlight.
Monday rolls around, coffee and cigarettes to make this pass - and I can't wait for the weekend again.
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