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April 01, 2008
Use A Condom In July
It takes time, effort and the right environment to find the right words. ©
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of yet another liver in the life of Mr L. To add to the grief he has been struck off the transplant list due to popping three perfectly healthy, but untrained livers over the past decade. There are only two options left for our Mr L: the first one is to order a fresh organ from Brazil and painstakingly and meticulously hone it's performance to perfection and the second one is to move to Grenada where the liver seems to get itself automatically rewire itself to convert alcohol into solids. For those of you who have bothered to gather here today I can inform that, although very fond of the rather fetching exports of Brazil, Mr L is currently looking into the possibilities of acquiring some land in the northwest of Grenada to build new premises for his production company that would facilitate him to spend the rest of his days in boxer shorts, pink dressing gown, bunny slippers and aviators with an over-sized brandy glass in one hand and cigar in the other.
Now that the current state of affairs has been established, I can give you a little update of what's been going on, what's in the horizon and why is it so important to use a condom in July.
As far as I can remember the last time I ranted on about things in a fairly self-critical manner. There are a fair few things that I criticise myself about on a daily basis, but this particular day I won't bore you with too much of that. If you are particularly lucky, I might even be able to pull out an entertaining anecdote or two regarding my recent undertakings and the annual health-hazards of a decent weather in the month of July.
At the time of the last entry the company was heading down to entertained the Geordies after three weeks in the studio. Getting the show going again felt like trying to kick-start a moped that had no spark plugs: you work yourself to sweat, but nothing seems to happen. Having a gap in the the tour is never healthy for the quality of the shows, and dancing on the rake was a bit of a shocker again. I'm sure the people would have got more value for their money if Newcastle would have happened straight after Aberdeen when we were suitably used to rolling into the orchestra pit and dodging each other and the set, but after the studio it took a good few days to adapt again and to gather the momentum and concentration to perform again. We did do our best, but it felt like cheating. The challenges of scheduling... Things should be tighter for the next Christmas season with an uninterrupted run of some sixty shows. On the brighter side observing the nocturnal activities of the indigenous folk was quite entertaining and the fact that Captain Bird's Eye and Santa Claus run an excellent Jazz Club in Newcastle in their free time was quite a revelation. The grand old gentlemen remembered the company from ten years back and treated us to impeccable hospitality. If you ever foray to Newcastle I'd be happy to recommend you set a few nights aside for the joys of jazz.
After the last shows of the Beauty shows and some last minute bird spotting I hopped on the bus to London to meet up with Artzi, a magical osteopath and an all-round top cat from Helsinki, for a covert invasion of the Caribbean island of Grenada. So, in plain English: it was time for a well-earned holiday, and, due to my dear friend's 40th birthday, it had to be done in style. I'd pulled a tropical paradise out of the hat and accidentally booked a week's stay in the most happening place on the whole island, The Lazy Lagoon. I left behind a piece of my heart, half of my liver and harem of well-fed mosquitoes and came back home with a horizontally laid-back attitude to life, an empty wallet and a pair of flippers. A big up to the Grenada posse!
It's a dog's life, but someone's got to live it... ©
...at least until the reality of home kicks in. ©
Back at base the reality of Romeo and Juliet, the maternity negotiations and the choreographic workshops leveled a good old hay-maker at me, but missed miserably due to the mad Matrix skills I'd recently come to master. The drawback of an increased surface area to rain on while horizontal has eventually forced me to a semi-reclining position, but I do my best to lean back as far as the Scottish weather allows.
R&J is an ongoing process, but Mr Pastor has been cracking on with it in a very efficient manner. Ever rounder and more radiant Diana finished her piece, and so did I, just in time for the showcase on Long Friday. It was a good to finally be able to try to feel the flow and quality of Diana's piece, but what the real relief for me was to see my own piece being performed with such dedication, precision and passion by Glauco, Jo, Mark, Lou and Daniel. I had choreographed the piece with lights in mind, but, although it was impossible to make the lights happen, the dancers created magic out of my hazy vision. I was a bit overwhelmed by the whole day. Kenny and Susan, aka Cinephile, came to watch the piece and to contribute to the post-performance discussion. ( You can find the synopsis and the score at http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=22150719&blogID=370985808 ) The feedback from my dancers and the rest of the company really touched me. To cope with that in my characteristically unintelligent manner I indulged in too much of everything resulting in the need to finger-bang Kenny's nose and to share my love and the knowledge that the Caribbean is my spiritual home with various people, including my boss, at 6.23 am on Saturday morning. It was a really touching process, you know...
After a good rest of no time at all I was ready to head to the first birthday party of far too many to follow. After a good start it would have been a great shame to stop, so the fact that the last weekend was loaded with three further birthday bashes with another one waiting in the wings to pounce on me the next weekend brings me to the plea of the evening: however good the weather might be and however drunk you might get on that festival/camping trip/house party/holiday/barbeque at your neighbour's backyard during the balmy July evenings, please do use contraception, because an unnatural concentration of birthdays in March will eventually tip the NHS over the edge. The same goes for Valentine's Day for the benefit of public health in November, by the way...
Being a reckless optimist I try to see the positive sides of the assorted madness that I wrap around myself. Over the past few weeks I've learned that it's a good idea to turn off and hide your mobile phone before uncorking the dram, champagne tastes very nice from a teapot, the bathtub is an excellent place to create pornographic poetry while wearing a bowler hat, one should throw themselves into party games with similar reckless abandon one applies to cooking, a game of dominoes can be won by laying one's family jewels on the table and that missing the bus and refusing to call the cab will inevitably result in sobriety and sleep deprivation.
I was briefly toying with the idea of learning to behave myself, but a friend of mine told me that, if I feel the need to try to talk myself into it, it's not the right time yet. Change will happen when the time is ripe. Let's see how much mayhem I manage to cause and how many burning bridges will be lighting my way to a clearer future. Until that day dawns Mr L will be your correspondent from the antipodes of the consciousness.
In the series of the Glasgow Street Chic-picumentary: The YSL Buckie. ©
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