Because Scott asked for photos, I give you photos. Click here for Saturday night silliness.
Is rather pathetic. . . I only lasted about an hour and a half in my high heels. The transvestites you can see in the picture behind me lasted in their Manolo’s until three. They also had better legs than me. But that can’t be helped. Most men that are willing to put on a dress look better in it than the average woman will.
I glance at that cloud, it looks like a piano. I think to myself—mention it in some story that a cloud floated by looking like a piano. There’s a scent of heliotrope. I rush to make a mental note: cloying smell, widow’s flower, use it in describing a summer’s evening. I catch my every sentence, every word—yours too—and rush to lock them up in my literary storehouse—maybe they’ll come in handy! . . . I can’t escape myself. I feel like I’m a parasite feeding on my own life. –Trigorin in The Seagull
I pulled out my moleskine and wrote down a blurb that Jesse had just said that was amusing, “Of course I’m miserable! If I wasn’t miserable I would be unhappy.”
“I always do this. People around me are much more interesting than I am,” I apologised as I wrote.
“Do you know The Seagull?”
“Yeah, but it’s been years.”
“Act Two Nina and Trigorin. He’s talks about writing stuff in his notebooks. The same disease that you have.”
I laughed. “It is a disease. And sometimes, I look at the note and I don’t understand what it means. Why it was so important. Like this. . .” I flipped to a page and read, ‘And I let him speak because he hadn’t spoken in years!’ I have no idea what that is about. Other stuff is good though.”
“Spill it.”
I flipped back a few pages. “Ah. I was walking down 6th and a couple was walking the other way and the man said, ‘Macy’s? Like why?’ and she said, ‘Why? It’s like, an ENTIRE city block. .”
“It is. Have you gone?”
“I’m avoiding it. Nothing good could come of my going inside. Or this. . . this is something that I said but I wrote it down. My friend was teasing me about something. ‘First off. Fuck you. . . Second. What did you say?’ Or this is from Stuart, ‘I never drink at weddings. Only wedding I’ve drunk at was ours.”
Jesse laughed. I flipped back a page. “Or this one is good. I was on the Eurostar coming back to London and there were these two American girls. Couldn’t have been older than twenty. They were going through a Paris Vogue like they were in an art museum and they were talking about London and people they might see and one said with an uptalk accent, ‘I would be more excited to see JK Rowling than the Prince.’”
“Funny. You’ll need to use them. I’m still waiting for a novel or a play or something.”
“I know. I know. . .”
“What was the one line from your play I liked. . . Was this you. . . ? ‘Who will hold me if I’m holding you?’”
I had a strange experience of hearing something familiar yet new. Like when you see a photograph of yourself that you know is you, but you have no memory of it being taken.
“I think it was me. But I don’t remember. Probably from one of those one-acts sitting in a drawer.”
“It’s a good line.”
“It is. I’ll write it down.”
Tonight I am going to my first Fancy Dress party. When I first heard the phrase ‘fancy dress’ I assumed that it was a euphemism for black tie. But no, ‘fancy dress’ means costume party. The odd thing is Brits don’t do Halloween really but they love fancy dress parties.
Tonight it is for a work mate’s Thirtieth Birthday and the theme is to come dressed as what you wanted to be when you were little.
I’ve had a bit of a hard time. At first I thought of Princess Leia but that look wouldn’t be particularly attractive on me. Laura Ingles Wilder and Inspector Cloussou gave me a similar problem. I thought about Marilyn Monroe not out of any particular wish to be her, but because I wanted to be an actress and it would be a fun chance to vamp it up. That choice however would have required my dropping 70 quid between the dress and the wig.
I’ve settled on a sexy librarian, which only requires me to buy some fishnets. Wearing my hair up in a chignon, my 1950’s cats eye glasses, brown silk (tight) shirt, black skirt, wicked high heels that put up to around 5’6’’ (taking ballet flats with me for walking to the tube and to switch out when the inevitable pain becomes too much) and will be carrying a copy of The New York Public Library Desk Reference.
Since Stuart has decided that he is drinking, “Ad hoc. Don’t look at me like that. I can drink if I want to.” I may decide to allow myself a few cocktails. I was bad in New York. My defence is it came after I got a text from Stuart that told me that he was lashed.
For Buettners 40h Matt and I are going to arrange for him to receive a coffin at work. That should fuck him up for a while.
It couldn’t have come at the worst time. I was waiting for my friends at a very sexy New Yorky steak house and I was gagging for a glass of red. I used his transgression as a get out of jail free card for some vino.
He wasn’t happy that I could tell he was drinking from a text.
I’m in New York City for the Performance Improvement Conference- and god knows that I need to improve. Should be good stuff- although the classes that I have picked for myself are rather telling. They include:
Storytelling Impacts Performance
Have a Nice Conflict
The Narrative Spark: Leveraging the Instructional Power of Story
Training to Image: Improvisational Tools for Enhancing Performance
Even though my flight arrived at 11:40, I wasn’t sitting in my hotel until a little after 3PM for reasons too tedious to report in their minutia, so I have seen nothing of New York other than the view of Times Square from my window.
Last night there was a little opening session and reception at 5:30- but given that I had gotten up at 5:00 GMT I wasn’t up to having conversations where I would have to pretend to be an intelligent, thoughtful, funny and interesting person and all I had in me was, “Guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Which way did he go George?” I decided it would be best to not attend. So I called Janelle and we made plans for me to walk to her apartment and hang out for a couple of hours.
At 4:45 I knew that wasn’t going to happen so I cancelled, ordered a very tasty but ridiculously overpriced hamburger from room service and was in bed by 6:45 PM.
Of course I then got up at 4AM. The plan was to wait for the sun to rise and then go for a walk. Then I got hungry around 5:30 so at 6 I ordered a very tasty but ridiculously overpriced Denver omelette and trolled around online.
Today, when I’m done at 5, after many classes on how to enhance knowledge, know-how and results, my plan is to put on my walking shoes, walk to central park, walk back, get ready for dinner and then go have a very large, ridiculously overpriced and hopefully very tasty steak.
“I was in analysis. I was suicidal as a matter of fact and would have killed myself, but I was in analysis with a strict Freudian, and, if you kill yourself, they make you pay for the sessions you miss.” –Annie Hall
In an attempt to de-crazy myself, and because I’ve often thought it might be interesting although a bit solipsistic– I’ve started seeing a shrink in the office.
Today was the first appointment.
When I was talking to her about my background, I almost started laughing because it sounded like a Jerry Springer Christmas special. It actually popped in my head that she is going to think I’m making all of this shit up.
“Because you want to know where the triggers are, you know?. . .If you’re at all interested in what I do, then check out Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson, check out Louis Armstrong—they are the essentials. I’m only a mish-mash of what I’ve heard, you know? And I’ve taken it my own way, but listening doesn’t hurt.” –Keith Richards
I’ve always loved The Stones. I think it may be because of the blues. I dig the blues more than any other kind of music and The Stones at their heart and soul are all about the blues.
Back in 1993 I was driving with the guy I was seeing at the time (Kevin, if you’re reading this, hope you don’t mind my telling this story.) and I had a copy of Hot Rocks in my car. He picked it up and looked it over.
“I like The Stones.” I said.
He tossed the cassette aside. “They’re not the Beatles.”
I didn’t say anything, but I thought, Well. No. That’s because They’re The Rolling Stones.
When we saw the preview for Shine a Light, the documentary concert flick about The Stones directed by Scorsese, I thought, I wanna see that.
Stuart got us tickets for tonight. They had 100 theatres across the UK that screened it in tandem with the Leicester Square premier. Before they film they showed the band arriving on the red carpet and were each quickly interviewed by some bird. Was moderately entertaining, but the best bit was when she was talking to Keith Richards, he was rather flirty, kept touching her arm and before he walked away said, “Take a card.” He had given her his card. Was fantastic. I don’t think he realised he was on camera. I hope his wife wasn’t watching.
There was a part of me that was worried about the film because I really don’t dig watching filmed concerts. They lack the gravitas and energy of an actual live show. While Shine a Light isn’t as good as seeing a live show, it’s pretty damn good.
There’s a ton of energy and the old clips are hysterical. There is also something sweet and almost shocking in seeing their baby-faces against the miles of life on their face now.
The best part of the concert is the song with Buddy Guy. That alone is worth the price of admission.
Mick Jagger’s unrelenting energy is nothing short of amazing.
It looks fantastic which is no big surprise not only because of Scorsese, but it was shot by Robert Richardson (The Aviator). A quick bit of research online also shows the camera operators aren’t slouches either. They include John Toll (”Legends of the Fall”), Robert Elswit (”There Will Be Blood”), Andrew Lesnie (”The Lord of the Rings”), Emmanuel Lubezki (”Children of Men”), Stuart Dryburgh (”The Piano”) and Declan Quinn (”Leaving Las Vegas”). The coverage that they get is kick ass. They’re able to tell a story. You see Richard’s eyes flick and connect — the give and take and listening as they work together.
The sound is also nothing short of remarkable.
So, go. If you like The Stones, check it out. You’ll have a good time.
Did you ever see the mid 80’s flick The Believers? I saw it when I was 16 when I was on one of the handful of dates my teenage self went on.
There is a scene where the witch doctor touches Helen Shaver’s compact. The music tells you something evil has happened. Unaware of any hocus pocus she uses it later to powder her nose. Over the next few days she develops a spot on her cheek, then a boil, than a big nasty oozing ulcer until it bursts and thousands of spiders and creepy crawlies come marching out of her face.
As a teenager, you can imagine that scene left an impression on me.
Why do I mention it you ask?
That spot. The one big enough for spiders about to go marching two by two?
I have one right now.
Stuart and I are now on the wagon. As in the not drinking wagon. So here I am.
Not drinking.
Not having one.
No sir-ree Bob.
(What is it about quitting drinking that makes you want to drink?)
Is good though because I’ve gained two stone since I’ve moved here and I’m sure it is entirely due to beer. And vin rouge. And me being a lazy cow.
I’ve gone a month here and there not drinking, but overall I have been rather bad since I’ve moved here. Drink at least two times a week (sometimes more like four) sometimes it would be just one or two pints. (What am I saying. It was never just one) and sometimes it would be five. Times that by four times a week and that is a lot of guinness.
I don’t know if I’ve known Stuart to go an entire week off the sauce, but he tells me that I am wrong and that he has. I am choosing to believe him.
Told Al what we were doing. “It sucks because I’m going to NYC next week.”
“He won’t know.”
“That’s wrong.”
“True. And if you don’t drink when you are away from each other and he does, then you have the moral high ground.”
“Exactly.”
So, keep a good thought for Stu and I on day one on the Train to Soberville.
This is not an April Fool’s Day joke.
I wish it was, cause I really could use a drink.
Long time readers and friends know that Stuart calls me by my surname, a habit that has been picked up at work by others. Sometimes I even sign e-mails ‘thomas’ as my bosses, boss is named Nicole and it makes things easier and it is a little quirky.
I don’t mind going by my surname- however I like my first name and professionally –as in my writing (that thing I don’t do anymore so much other than this dribble) I like the look of my name. Equal number of characters. It looks balanced on the page.
Written by Nicole Thomas
Looks good, yes?
Why am I telling you this? It will come clear.
I’m in New York City next week for a training conference and I am trying to arrange seeing all of my friends that live there now.. .One is Jesse, a mate from Uni. We e-mail maybe once a year and have managed to meet up twice in the last 16 years. He’s a director and directs and teaches all over. He always encouraged my writing and in 1996 when he did the Lincoln Center Directors Lab, he chose my feminist Alice in Wonderlandish on Serious Hardcore Drugs existential one act. He’s living the dream. He’s working in theatre. The man has more guts than me.
Our alma mater is Southern Utah University, which is also home to The Utah Shakespearean Festival where many of us worked in House Management, concessions or as wenches during the Elizabethan Feast.
In our e-mails arranging meeting next week, Jesse mentioned that this year, he will be directing Two Gentleman of Verona at USF. I’m well chuffed for him. I hope it goes well because a steady gig like that each year would be fantastic.
I did a search for the Web site because to be honest, I haven’t thought about the festival for years. The last time I was there was when they did a reading of my thesis play back a million and one years ago when I was a wee wide-eyed bitchy lass of 24.
So I log on to the Website. I see they have a link to all the past plays from The New American Playwrights Project. I decide to be vain and see my little name up in Website lights. There under 1994 there it is.
The Color of Bruise
By Thomas Nicole
It’s a plot.
Any donated funds are not tax deductable and will most likely be used to purchase something that is very bad for her.
Design by Eliza of Weblog Design Studios
All words © Nicole Thomas unless otherwise credited.
Not that I think that anyone would be silly enough to steal my ramblings, but in case you may be thinking about it. . . the very act of my writing this means that I own the copyright. Really. Look it up.
So, please don't plagiarize. It just ain't cool. And what I say just isn't that interesting. Trust me. Most of my friends don't even read this.
That being said, I do subscribe to the T.S. Eliot philosophy of "Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." There is a difference between Stealing and stealing. . . This is not to say that I am mature. If anything. . . I'm rambling aren't I? That's what I do. I ramble. So, yeah. I'll shut up now.
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