February 13, 2007
The Laser Rip and The Charity Pimp
It's the month after the night before: February. In the January episode The Laser Man waged war on The Alien Baby, which turned out to be an evil spawn of The Rip, who promptly admitted of faking the ectopic pregnancy of The Baby. Both are now dead and carried away by The Stork and all that is left of them is an aching scar.
The whole kafuffle of guessing and waiting got me so thoroughly pissed off that I headed off to Stockholm for ten days over the New Year to hang around with my street-dancing chums. I haven't been to the city for ten years and haven't seen Ambra, my old work buddy from Helsinki, for a good donkey's years and the rest of them I've only met briefly five years ago on Leicester Square during one of those hazy nights when you just have to throw up into a wheelie-bin mid-sentence. I was looking forward to get to know them better.
Now I always knew that they were good, but I didn't alway know that they were still going on. The company's called Bounce and their latest show is based on One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest realised in a funky street/contemporary/multimedia dance-theatre kind of way... Err... Sounds like a chicken caesar salad with strawberry jam and some raw mackerels, but the show rocks like an epilectic junkie with parkinson's. These guys have a great product and stacks of talent propped up by some bloody-minded hard work, but, being artists trying to promote themselves while being ripped off by fat accountants and sneaky producers, they've never got the exposure or the profit they deserve. I've heard rumours of interest from the West End to bring the show over. Keep your eyes peeled for them.
So Stockholm was good for me: I got fed, massaged, pampered and loved. What more can a man want? I came back thoroughly refreshed and hit the pool like my childhood idol Johnny W and gyrated on the gyrotonic machine with such fury that if my pole-dancing friends would have turned into bright green emeralds from a merest glimpse of my moves. Other than some laser action, icing, hydrating and the rest of the rehab I've also had enough time to get the positively ancient central heating system, originally fitted by Gaius Brassmonkeynuttus from the Roman Guild of Plumbers, re-newed by a bunch of local boys employing some serious cowboy-tactics. At least I was broken enough to stay at home to watch over them with my trusty baseball bat. It's all fine and dandy now and the place is positively toasty. The windows are getting an overhaul in the end of March, so that'll finally stop the curtains flapping in the wind.
Having time off hasn't been that bad, really, but devil does play tricks on the iddle mind, like that time when I flew to London for a week and, rather than flying back, I bought another motorcycle and rode it back. It's really such a cute little country this United Kingdom... And it's got such a badly maintained and organised road network and so stupidly expensive and unreliable trains that it's no wonder that people are so earger to create their own tropical paradise (sponsored by Ryanair). Who am I to say anything about it with my jet-setting, motorcycle-riding, import-wine-drinking lifestyle? But the truth is that if you want to be green in this country, you have to try really hard, because there is no infrastructure to support your aspirations. The second time I bought and read The Independent might have been a step too far and I've certainly had too much time to sit in the sauna thinking about the way this country is being run that I really am considering hiring a crane from Hewden plant hire and pissing from a great height on Gordon Brown with his promises of eternal commercial growth. My aim isn't the greatest at the best of times, so I'm sure the rest of the political poo-machines would feel the power of my golden shower and I'd even have a few drips left for who ever wrote that so poorly sarcastic and badly researched holier-than-thou response to the company's fund-raising effort of auctioning mine and Soon Ja's time to the highest bidder. If it's acceptable and people are happy to pay for a chance to play and talk about chess with Mr Kasparov, what makes it so obscene to have to pay for a chance to meet up with a perceivedly glamorous show-biz personality, or even a lowly dancer? Oh, I forgot: dancers are invertebrate physical slaves with no minds of their own, so you couldn't possibly be interested in having a conversation with one. We're just pretty objects that people want to touch and we're so helpless that we can't stand up for ourselves. Last time I checked the Hallion club was such a nice place that I was a fully paid-up member of it, so, in the case I, or Soon Ja, encounter any unwanted company while there, the staff will be more than happy to escort the dirty mac out in the most polite manner while we carry on with our highly likely excellent dinner. Yep. Who ever wrote that dross can suck my fat one.
I've got far too much time and energy without the usual outlet of dancing and other assorted activities so I occasionally launch into some semi-political ranting. Maybe I would be a nicer person if I'd spend more time passed out or sleeping off a hang-over... Nah... That's boring after a while, so I'll just have to learn to channel the un-marinated me. Where ever I end up channeling myself, I'll take some pictures of the results and write about the aftermath. There's a fondue party around the corner and a couple of chihuahua-eating monsters in need of a new home waiting in the wings. Watch this space.Posted by Jarkko at February 13, 2007 10:37 PM