Hau`oli makahiki hou !

Happy New Year Hawaii Style!

It's two weeks of surf (pray for me), sand, sun and eye explosions courtesy of some pretty awesome scenery for me tomorrow and I can't wait.  Two weeks does seem like an awfully long time, but who knows, I may surprise you with a post or two while I'm gone.  Life's full of surprises if you just let it take you that way - by surprise. 

Here's to a 2012 full of surprises.  Have a Rock - A - Hula New Years, baby!

xo

Confession

So, I have to tell you something.

I feel if I don't tell someone I'm going to burst at the seams and no, not because of Holiday Excess people, but because this secret needs to be told!  I need to get it out from inside me so I can start living my normal life again. Or what's left of it.

Okay.  Here goes.  Please.  Don't judge me. 

I went to the movies.  In the middle of a work day.  Damn it was fun.

GASP!  I know!  Me!  Uber diligent me!  What have I started?  Where does this end?  Mid day massages and manicures?  Oh, never mind.  That's kindergarten compared to this caper.  Am I really a closet slacker just mascarading as a hard worker stiff?

Perhaps yes.  Perhaps no. That secret stays with me.  I like where this is going, don't you?

Festive Friday!

My love affair with Christmas is well known, and today I extend this love to all of you.

May the true spirit of Christmas ring in your hearts throughout the year, may you always be surrounded by those you love and may 2012 bring you all that you hope and wish for.   (Even those of you who feel it necessary to wear Christmas ties & festive jewellery - why?!)

You've maybe learned a bit about me this year - that my overt sentimentality often clashes with my jaded cynicism to the point I often feel hypocritical.  Well, why change now?

Enjoy ... :)



And ...

Merry Christmas. xxoo.

Tactile

Am I a dying breed?

I read newspapers and books.  I print pictures I take.  I mail birthday cards.

I won’t argue if you think I’m a tad old-fashioned, hanging on to a life and style no longer considered normal, new and modern.  I agree completely and wholeheartedly.  I AM hanging on to a life and style no longer considered normal, new and modern.  I am not evolving and I’m being rather stubborn about it.  Oh well.

I like touching things:  to anxiously turn pages of books while curled up in bed; to quietly rifle through the weekend newspapers endless cup of coffee in hand; to nostalgically pour over photo albums with a laugh and a tear; to carefully write addresses out on envelopes and pop them in the post (how’s that for an old-fashioned sentence).  I don’t want these little life pleasures to go the way of the dodo where everything is stored in some imaginary Neverland that doesn’t really exist. Where IS it?  I want to touch it.  I need to touch it so I know it’s real and not some magic trick of the eye or slight of hand. 

I wonder where I would have been in eras past, poo-pooing modern inventions as common tricks of the local charlatan.  Well, I’ll tell you:  riding a horse, lighting candles, writing telegrams, watching silent movies and living large as a complete curmudgeon.  

I wonder if Thoreau had it right, eschewing modern society and invention and heading off to Walden Pond in search of a simple life and simplified lifestyle.  Well, he may have had it right for him but that’s obviously not the move for me (cabin.  woods.  alone.  two. years.)  I’m all over modern conveniences like the world wide web, air travel, the Blackberry, iPod (oh yeah, an original 4G which – by the grace of God & Bono, yes, I know, not the same thing - is still rocking), running water and the like but I’m not entirely keen on losing everything that once was in order to make room for what will be, especially when that new thing doesn’t seem to actually be anything.  Don’t you miss records?  Talking on the phone?  Writing letters?  I do.  I miss all of it.  So I’m keeping what I can because I want to hang on – to literally hang on - to things I can see, feel and touch.  As things move forward, I’m stepping back.  I think that’s rather revolutionary.  

Firth Friday

I know! I know!  Where am I, you ask ?

Here, there, everywhere ! 

But this is not the time for excuses or explanations, just a little apology and a knowing - between you & me - that I'll be back in full force soon.  Trust me!

So, on with things, then?  Right!  Here's something from Colin that's perfectly fun and silly and completely ridiculous, complete with a Greek restaurant, some singing and an Acropolis birthday cake. You know where I'm going ... Perfect, right?

Enjoy!

Bridget Jones's Diary

http://youtu.be/1-mYuhkXaEA

(More Apologies:  I have no idea what's going on with the embedding thing and quite honestly I'm in no state to figure it out ...).

Firth Friday

Yes, this movie is most serious. Yes, it won Colin an Oscar. But, oh yes, it also made us laugh. So, for this Firth Friday, a Friday that sees many of us run down (me), behind on everything (me) and anxious about a super huge weekend (me) let's have a little laugh, shall we?

The King’s Speech



Now, tell me, don't you feel better?

I know. Me too.

Thank you, Colin.

Firth Friday

It’s December!

December means many things to many people. For me, it means snow and birthdays and Christmas and hugs and family and gingerbread and friends and Love, Actually. December is all about Love, Actually. I’ve seen this movie a zillion times and every time I watch it, it gets better and better. Best is when I can watch it with someone that has never seen it before and get those first time view feelings for real. Love this. I recently found out that my dear SF only now just saw this movie. I know she kept this from me (or maybe I blocked it from my mind?) because I’d probably have broken up with her, or flown to YVR to force her to watch it. Anyway, that’s over now. This cinematic and life wrong has been righted and, of course, she loved it. Even with all the hype and expectation and my going on and on about it ad nauseam year after year she loved it. A movie has to be pretty amazing to withstand all that hyperbole. But seriously, how can you not love it?

It’s Love, Actually!

The interwoven storyline dealing with all facets of love is so charming, heartwarming and poignant it kills you. It’s hard to say which storyline is my favourite, my thoughts on this shift every year depending on where I’m at. Yes, every year. I watch every year most definitely at my Love, Actually viewing party where I gather ‘round with all my peeps and feel the love en masse. Sometimes I spoil myself silly and watch more than once. It’s typically on for the whole month as pseudo background condo-companions as I clean, bake and putter. I want every month to be Love, Actually month. Every day to be a Love, Actually day. The movie is perfection. And, now,I’m gushing. And getting off point. It’s Firth Friday! I feel that it’s a testament to how God really feels about me (because, like rappers and Award Show winners I feel God is there for just me) that Colin was cast in this film. His presence doesn’t make the movie by any stretch, it would have been amazing without him, of course, but with him? With him, in his particular thread, it’s better than the best. What's better than the best?  Why, brilliant, of course!  So Colin, so British, so Love, Actually.

Enjoy. And really, if you haven’t seen this movie come to my party. It’s going to be so great. No. No, it’s not. It’s going to be brilliant.

Happy December!  Happy Firth!  Happy Love, Actually!




(Thanks to Kory, I can now embed. :) ).

Poof

I often worry that I will forget the sound of my Dad’s voice. 

The voice of reason, playfulness, authority, sarcasm and wisdom.  The voice that told such amazing stories and sometimes sang.  The voice that seemed to say just what was expected, and needed, in as few words as possible. 

My Dad’s voice was mildly accented as he had a slight problem with “u’s” and “w’s”, so August was always ‘Avgust’ and Hawaii ‘Havaii’.  We loved making fun of him for that.  So silly, us kids.  It was booming and almost commanding, the kind that could lead a cavalry into battle, completely incapable of a whisper.  So embarrassing, to us kids.  He loved to sing and when we’d worry or obsess about something (usually me) he’d trot out “Que Sera Sera” and somehow we would feel better.  So hopeful, us kids (especially me).  Best though, was my annual birthday call where his voice would sing me Happy Birthday.  Always on my Voicemail and after he finished his little tune, he’d leave a little sarcastically toned sentence about how I was ‘too busy to talk to your own father’.  Little did he know I didn’t pick up on purpose: I saw the name display, didn’t answer and waited for this great message so I could play it back anytime I wanted, or at least for as long as the voicemail saved it.  Never told him that. So dumb, me kid.  Now, of course, it’s all gone.  And the further away I get from this, the scarier it is.

I know there’s lots of video I can pull up and watch, but I can’t do it.  He’d be right there and nowhere.  Nowhere I want him to be.  Like right in front of me – talking to me, singing to me, yelling at me.  Anything.  Anything to me.  Watching these tapes would be the most harrowing form of torture I can imagine.  So I must rely on the power of my brain to keep this sound, this voice, this anchor, safe for me. 

Can that last forever?

Quotable - Part 12

"Do it for Tilda."

                     The inspirational J. Rayner, November 25th, 2011. Because sometimes in life, it's just easier to be a perfect little faker.  Tilda would be proud.

Firth Friday

I love Abba.  I love Mamma Mia. 

We know Colin can’t really sing.  We know no one looks good in jacked up disco garb.  It takes a special kind of humility to know you’re not going to be good, but do it anyway; to know you’re going to look absurd, but not really care.  That’s our Colin.

In honour of Suzanne’s birthday, two scenes today.  One not sounding great, one not looking great.  I never said he was perfect.  But he’s pretty damn close. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0lcd0VRKR4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTCT6J2hO9M

Live!

My love of musicals is well known – and now well documented.  Know what else I love?  Concerts.  I love going to concerts.  It’s the closest thing I’ll ever get to a religious experience, right?

My tastes are diverse but generally pretty mainstream and all the shows I’ve seen this year have been pretty special – whether evoking a mood, memory or much needed visceral release of everything inside me as I got lost in that big sound.  This year, Sarah, Adele and Idina made me cry (take that, Julie!), RUSH, in Hamilton, no less, was quintessential Canadiana, a moonlit summer night was made all the more perfect with Stars, I had a full on GLEE karaoke party, Donny & Marie and Barry Manilow brought the kitsch and U2 was, simply, U2.  Last night, Jay-Z (or Jay Zed as my American pal likes to call him) and Kanye West continued a concert streak of greatness, proving that no matter how high your dork quotient, anyone can look cool rhythmically bouncing to rap.  

Kanye, with this his leather kilt and distracting diamond grill and low key Jay-Z are rap impresarios, full of the ego and swagger you would expect from rap impresarios. Rap is anything but subtle. It’s hard driving beats with insane lyrics - offensive, misogynistic, explicit.  Whatever.  Who cares.  It sounds amazing when done well and these dudes  killed it last night.  That shit crazy.  A two and a half hour marathon of never ending boom.  Where they find the time to record, let alone tour – what, with swiping Grammy’s from Taylor Swift (again, who cares, award shows need more cage-match drama) and cavorting around the globe with Beyonce – is beyond me.  Good on them for doing it and not phoning it in (hello, Coldplay, ripping us off with a 45 minute concert last year!). 

When you have thousands of people bouncing to the beat of the same drummer you really feel like you’re stuck in time.  Stuck in a moment where nothing else matters but the next song you’re about to hear, the next scream you’re going to wail.  Who wouldn’t want to do this all time? Come on people!  Above all this, is the connections you make from show to show – common threads or memories that make the nights more special - get this one:  last week, Idina Menzel had me crying with her acoustic version of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” and last night, Jay-Z had me grooving to ‘Hard Knock Life”. That’s right, yo, both from Annie. The first musical I ever saw. The watershed evening that propelled my love of musicals and my love of live.  How’s that for monumentally awesome?     

So, the throne, it’s been watched.  And Jay-Z and Kanye will now pass the torch to Prince who takes the stage at the ACC for two sold out shows this coming weekend.  The man’s a legend.  An uber talented, peculiar little legend.  I cannot fucking wait.

Thank You

Hard words to simply say?  Hard words to simply take in?

Yes.  Yes, they are.

I'm not the greatest at taking compliments, or so I’ve been told.  Why I can’t just say “thank you" and move on is beyond me.  It always turns into a self-deprecating comment or a weird look on my face (but, really, that’s just my face). I'm just not comfortable with it - like, why are you saying that to me?  What are you getting at?  Why does my hair look great today, did it not yesterday?  Why are you noticing these things about me so much that you must comment about them? Stop looking at me. 

I'm trying to trace this back, and figure out what’s what and why and I think it's because I’m not used to these kinds of surface compliments.  I just wasn't raised this way.  Sure, my parents were supportive and loving and THERE but they didn't really fawn all over my brother and I on matters that they felt were secondary or frivolous  Come to think of it, some important stuff wasn’t really wow worthy either:  good marks in school?  Uh, yeah, that's your job OF COURSE you got good marks in school.  Student Council?  Drama Club?  Fine, fine, Olga - have some fun, but really, just study and be a good person and stop being so stubborn, okay?  I often joke that if we told our parents we won a Noble Peace Prize, Pulitzer or Oscar they'd shrug and say, "that's nice, now go to work / make your bed".  It's not that they didn't care – I never felt they didn’t - but in the grand scheme of their lives and their own childhoods they felt they should be supportive in real, non-verbal over the top ways.  This is the way I like it.  This is what I'm used to.  It was absolutely quality over quantity as the compliments I did get deeply resonated – I may as well have won the Noble Peace Prize, Pulitzer AND Oscar! 

Here’s a sample of Constantopoulos Compliments 101:  it’s a known fact that my initial forays in the kitchen were quite disastrous but I kept plugging away until one day my Dad ate something I cooked (not baked, that was never in question) and said “Olga, you’re improving.”.  It was like the skies had opened up and real live angels were singing the most harmonious melody – I was improving!  He saw some progress and recognized my effort.  These three words were so encouraging and soft and did just what they were intended to do:  give me the confidence to get better.  To know I could get better.  I know this is a weird sort of compliment, but really, isn’t this the best sort of compliment?  It’s a statement on your effort, your ability and your determination.  These things are real.  I never felt unworthy or low or un-anything not being fussed over all the time.  I knew I wasn’t a major life disappointment to my parents, teenage rebellion years and all, and they didn’t need to tell me how great I was all the time. Who needs that?  It’s overkill.  And let me tell you, I have come to realize that this is some pretty valuable real life prep.  As adults, in real life situations, who hovers all over you with gold stars and never ending compliments?  Not too many people.  I wonder about kids who are over-coddled and over-encouraged and over-complimented.  Future needy nightmares.  I must sound like a cold-hearted automaton but you know I’m not.  I didn't grow up in some military regime or anything.  It’s about balance, of course.  And knowing your audience, of course.  Sure, some people need it to get them through a hump or challenge, my brother and I typically didn't. I’m really not sure how this chicken/egg thing totally works out, but we turned out just fine not being over-anything’d. 

The whole notion of compliments is now obviously scewed for me.  I know you’re trying to be nice and attentive so I will try my best to simply smile and just say thank you when you compliment something on the superficial.  This is the social norm.  I know I’m not really the social norm on this whole compliment business.  I get it.  I’m trying.  I can adapt.  Don’t try to take me down a road of pseudo-analysis if you say you like my top and I go into a long monologue about how I think it’s completely ugly but the top I wanted to wear is at the dry cleaners.  Please, just don’t.  These are really the worst type of compliments for me. Like, who cares about my top, my hair, my jacket?  Again, stop looking at me. 

I’m getting better.  Just this week I was filled with a warm and fuzzy that took me back to the “Olga, you’re improving” days.  It was after a night of Improv at Wheel and complete strangers came up to me and with real compliments after my performance.  I was shocked, of course.  And surprised, of course.  And I said thank you.  Not ‘oh, really?, you thought so?, I think I totally sucked’.  NO.  I said “Thank you, and thank you for saying so it means a lot to me.” And, you know what, it totally does.  Doing something scary (and I’m always terrified to go up on stage – especially on Monday, doing an entire Improv scene in the style of Tennessee Williams) and putting yourself out on ledge and having it work out and then hearing those compliments made me think that yes, I can do this thing and I want to do more and get even better.  It’s the same with this little blog.  It’s recognizing effort and ability and perhaps making a connection.  I completely appreciate and almost welcome compliments on these things because they encourage me to keep going.  They encourage me to keep wanting to be terrified.  They encourage me to want to do more. 

So go for it.  Pay me compliment.  Make me better.  I will thank you.

Fist

Ever sometimes want to punch someone in the face because a determined full body shake simply won’t do and no matter how many times you say something and how you’re sure they hear you they are not really listening?

Yeah, me too.

Ever sometimes feel you need to be punched in the face because no matter how many times you think something will be different it just isn’t and a benign slap or sage advice isn’t enough to tell you that this is just the way it’s going to be?

Yeah, me too.

Easy Peasy

Um, hi?  Meaning of Life Person?  Are you there?  I’m just here for a life philosophy check-up, please. 

I’m wondering about this whole “struggles make things more worth it” thing.  You know what I mean, right?  Like, the longer you try at something is completely equal to the level of awesome you will feel once you actually get / achieve it? 

Is this the way it goes?  I’m just kind of wondering who decided this?

How about this one:  “the reward is the journey”.  Sort of the same thing?

What does that mean?  I like road trips, sure, but I don’t think this is what you meant – is it?

For me, anyway, I sort of think that if you try so hard for something, once you get / achieve it it will just be a huge letdown.  “ALL THAT FOR THIS?!”, I think is what I’m thinking.   That’s wrong, right?  You’re saying that’s wrong?  Like we shouldn’t really be all annoyed and obsessed-like when nothing’s really easy and it all just seems so hard?  I don’t know, am I asking for too much here?  Be honest, but quite really I don’t like to struggle.  Not all the time.  Things don’t need to be super easy – I’m not lazy – but sometimes you have to admit you get ridiculous with all the work and time and questions and stuff.  I mean, really, you do.  And listen, I will and do appreciate the easy stuff just as much as the hard stuff.  I’m not a take it for granted person, okay?  So lay off, you know.  Would you please?

I’m just saying that if you’re looking into things and want to, you know, to improve people’s point of view about life in general you can start on this one.  Because having impressionable people – you know me!- believe that ‘struggles make things worth it’, or whatever, is kinda like telling the dude that had a bird shit on their car that it’s good luck.  We all know that’s crap.  Oh, sorry.  Was that your idea too?  Well, it is.  It’s crap.  You can’t tell someone that when something crummy happens to them it’s actually a good thing.  It’s not nice.  It really isn’t.  I think it's like a sham.

Anyway, just give it a think, okay?  Thanks.  I do really appreciate it.  Lots.

Firth Friday

It’s no secret that Helen Fielding pillaged Pride & Prejudice when writing Bridget Jones's Diary, so much so she, too, named her aloof romantic hero Mark Darcy.  Way back in 1996 ('96?!) this book was IT and of course when news came that there would be a film adaptation I was worried and anxious.  Five years later the film was released, and thankfully, it did not disappoint because it remained true to our Bridge and was perfectly cast from tip to tail.  Apparently, Firth took on the role to bust out of his prim and proper Pride & Prejudice Mark Darcy image for good.  I personally don’t care why he agreed to do it.  I’m just forever grateful he did.  Aren’t you?  Because, seriously, when you think of Colin, isn’t this where you go first?  I know I do. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbLB6T3uHRs&feature=related

And then they kill us with the Van Morrison ...

Annoy

Tolerance is overrated.

You know why?  Because it gives people the false sense that what they're doing is acceptable when most often it's not.

Are you familiar with Ms All About Me?  Have you met Mr One Up?  These annoying specimens of social retardation need to be stopped in their tracks before they take over conversations and soon the world.

Let me introduce you to the star of the “All About Me Show”.  This person who, for example, after casually asking how you are, and you reply that you’re okay but fighting a cold, goes on to tell you about the near death pneumonia they suffered at age 9.  Charming.

Our buddy, Mr One Up, is no less sinister:  fake -listening to stories and then summarily dismissing them by regaling their own spectacular tale, justthismuch more exciting than yours.  Of course it is.

What are you doing?  This is no competition.  My illness is no worse than yours.  My life no more exciting.  Why can't we simply talk, converse, share ideas and stories.  It's not all about you (unless it is which is fine, but usually it's not) and there is no need for you to be better. Let's just coexist together bantering, talking, laughing, disagreeing, empathizing.

I'm all for living your life wide open, live and let live and all that stuff, but you have to draw the line somewhere.  You have to stand up for something. Well, I’m standing up for social discourse!  I’m standing up to these sorts who mock real socialization with a narcissistic competitiveness that goes beyond banter and fun.  I will not be tolerant and  patient and just listen.  I will not!  I cannot!  It’s my duty - OUR duty - as true and real social beings on this planet to stop the likes of these morons at every turn.  You don’t need to be rude, you just need to be firm.  Interrupt if you must, get a word in anyway you can - support true social discourse!  It is our only option for the greater good.

And with that, unofficial rant week is over.  Again, thank you for listening.  

Assault

My ears aren’t all that sensitive.  I can tune things out, sounds don’t necessarily bother me and I don’t think I really know what "pitchy singing" sounds like.

What does get me going though – what assaults my non-sensitive eardrums to the point I want to stick chopsticks in them – is the sound of people putting words together when the words they're using make no sense.

To whit:
"These cookies are actually very good."

The predominate use of the word ‘actually’ is to stress that a statement is true especially when it differs in some way from what might have been thought or expected.  ‘Actually’ can also be used to refer to what is true or real.   This second use has now become so pervasive that ‘actually’ is vocabulary’s new black.  Things are out of hand.  

I think the statement above mixes things up.  I don’t think the person saying it has any real idea what ‘actually’means – they just think it makes them sound like they are offering a better formed opinion than “these cookies are very good”.  But to me, it’s a sentence riddled with questions - are you telling me you’re surprised the cookies are good or telling me these cookies are really good?  Did you offend me or compliment me?  I know for damn sure that the cookies ARE really good – I made them! – but what is being communicated here?  What are you trying to tell me?  

Do you see?  Do you see why I want to poke my ears with chopsticks?  But wait, wait, I didn’t mean that literally.  Just metaphorically.  Of course metaphorically.  Because when you say things like “I literally died.”, it’s quite obvious you haven’t because here you are right in front of me CRUCIFYING THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE!  

Do not get me started on your/you’re/there/their/they’re.   It’s criminal, really.  I’m not sure what we’re to do.  Has any modicum of proper word and grammar usage gone by the wayside in favour of minimal character texting and Tweeting?  It’s actually quite sad that an entire populace may not know the difference between Effect & Affect.  At least I think it is.    

I know all you are all way too smart for these dumb ass gaffs, so really I'd just like to thank you for reading and if you’d like to talk about this further, come by and we’ll chat over a cookie.  Not sure if I mentioned but they are very good.

Offend

I’m not easily offended.  I can certainly be shocked and I’m often sensitive but I can’t say I get offended – live and let live in this Great Society, I say.  There’s room for everyone, right? 

I was on the subway the other day (why is so much in my life subway related these days?) and I was grossly offended.  Monumentally offended.  Beyond offended.

Thank you, folks at beveg.ca for offending the non-offendable!  Have you seen what these people have done?  Their self perceived brilliant ad campaign aimed at making you a vegetarian? 

They are utterly offensive.  Wreaking of self importance and that kind of ‘holier than though I go without and am thus better’ attitude that outrages me.  I will try to explain them in an objective manner, but it will be hard:

So there’s a kitten, and a chicken.  The ad asks why love one and eat the other.  There’s another ad with a dog and a cow, and then a the puppy and the piglet.  This is the campaign. 

Excuse me?  You didn’t just, did you?!  Is it really the same thing?  Eating chicken or eating kitten?  Really?  I wouldn’t eat the kitten because the kitten probably tastes like shit.  And we don’t do that.  Look, I’m not sure who decided way back when that we keep kittens as pets and kill chickens to eat but this is the way it is.   For those that would prefer not to eat the chicken, move along and eat something else.  Stop having a fucking problem with me eating a goddamn chicken.  Stop making yourself feel superior by likening my love of all things meat to the slaughtering and devouring of cute house pets. 

I mean, really, is this all you’ve got?!

Is THIS the way you’re going to get me to think about my meat consumption? 

You know what this ad makes me want to do?  You bet:  it makes me want to eat a succulent burger, with a side of juicy ribs, right in front of your smug vegetarian face.  

Nice move, veggies!  Nice move indeed.

Firth Friday

Here’s where it all began for most of us:  1995.  Pride & Prejudice.  Classic Austen, quintessential Firth, setting the standard by which all future Mark Darcys will be measured.  No one has ever come close.  Ever.

Without further adieu, the one, the only, Mark Darcy: our template for the aloof romantic hero.  Sometimes the right guy tries so hard to say all the right things, they come out as all the wrong things.  Poor Mark.  Lucky for Elizabeth he figured it out. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JF3ueHjUc3k

Superstar!

Oh, how I love me some musicals!  Unabashed, pure, warm- my- heart love.  I saw my first one at age 7 or 8, Annie at the O'Keefe Centre with my folks, and I was hooked.  I can’t really pinpoint exactly what did it for me but I know I was mesmerized by the singing, dancing and hopefulness of everything - that sun WILL come out tomorrow, dammit!  Years later I'm still hooked, more hooked, completely hooked.  I don't think there's a musical that comes to town that I don't see.  Broadway often beckons and any trip to London isn't complete without a night on the West End.  It's a must.  A life must.  Some shows are obviously better than others but overall it's hard to miss with me.  Compelling stories set to music with dance and talent - how can you not like this?  What is wrong with you that you do not like this?

An annual must then, of course, is Stratford.  This gem of a festival stages the most high quality productions year after year and it often angers me that more people don’t partake.  The yearly rosters are outstanding – Shakespeare, musicals, modern finds.  Actors are often in 2 or more productions and this itself astounds me.  Two years ago, the beyond talented Colm Feore played the leads in Macbeth and Cyrano de Bergerac – how did he DO that?  It’s a common Stratford story, these actors are the real deal and from what I hear the Festival is run like a bit of an army camp.  Relentless, and it all shows on stage.   My Stratford visit came very late in the season this year, so late I almost missed it.  But you know what they say about waiting for things right, that they’re worth it?  Stratford, as usual, did not disappoint.

Jesus Christ Superstar.  I’m not going to get into the story - it's about Jesus for Christ's sake - but this isn’t your Sunday School Jesus.  We’ve got political intrigue, turning of the crowd and interesting love triangle, deception, jealousy – you know, all the good stuff.  The production was so powerful and tight and loud with messages of course that resonant well past the biblical time frame.  It was my first experience with JCS live and now of course I can never see it live again – it was just too good.  The music was 70s rock hard, with tinges of gospel, the choreography was innovative and acrobatic and the final scene was oh so powerful most of the audience was stunned in silence.  Listen, I'm not talking crazy here - this show, AS IS, with a brief stop in Los Angeles, is going to the big leagues.  That's right, Broadway, baby.  From what I recall this has maybe happened three times in Stratford history - unprecedented.  Amazing.  Deserving.

You want to go, right?  Now’s when you can get mad at me*:  yesterday was the last show.  I know - I waited so late, and so late to tell you.  All's not lost, though.  Broadway can beckon us both:  Jesus Christ Superstar for you, Book of Mormon for me.  Just say when - I'm there, edge of my seat ready.

*Oh, come on.  You know I'm not going to leave you hanging ... watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p06CgUoH02U

(okay, this link is no longer available).

Try this one:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv8y2iJQf_U

But, really, we may have to do that trip to NYC ...

Firth Friday

I don’t spend much time on You Tube.  You know why?  It’s a monumental time suck.  I think I watched 2 entire seasons of Alias in 3:14 minute clips one sleepless night.  I am so easily distracted, with the attention span of gnat, that You Tube is the best worst thing ever for me.  But sometimes I need a little hit of The Firth and You Tube makes it so easy.  What better thing to do with your time?  The Firth, of course, is Colin Firth – quite simply a cut above mere actors, boys and men.  

No explanation necessary.  He’s The Firth.  The End. 

Sharing is caring, so welcome, friends, to Firth Friday.  I will spend the week perusing for perfect clips (tough. life.)  to take you into the weekend.  Swoon if you like.  I’ll admire. 

For Inaugural Firth Friday, how about a little d-ahhnce?  Firth & Moore, Courtesy of Tom Ford.  Love. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65WoUIo4rAw 

(I know, I want to laugh like Julianne Moore too.)

Hiatus

No, no kind reader, not from you!  Although sometimes it may seem as though I am on hiatus.  Life of late has not been conducive to spending time with you.  Forgive?

I need a break.  A big time break from something I love with all my heart.  Something that gives me pleasure and allows me to escape and sometimes laugh and sometimes cry but always think and ultimately enjoy.

I need a break from the movies.

(Audible gasp, heard across the universe.).

I know.  This is hardcore serious – the ultimate of breakups.  Full of disappointment and failed expectations.  I want to look to the positive – I mean, come on!  We’ve had such a  good run, the movies and I.  In September alone, as you know, I saw 25 (only) movies within 10 days.  I followed that up with some terrific films, watched a few at home (very, very rare) and now, well, I’ve reached a dry spell. SO much crap.  Too much thinking about the why of how this movie got made, and not enough thinking about the actual movie itself. 

Last night was the clincher.  I film so bad that not even my darling Aaron Eckhart – he of the chiselled face, square jaw and newly discovered perfect physique – could save.  Even the trailers were horrible.  Do not take away my trailers!  

I’m worried, of course.  What if this is it.  My newfound despondence will become the new me – I will no longer be “Opening Night Olga”, but instead a cynical person who only reads books, watches documentaries on PBS and poo-poos movies in general (hate these people!).  What will become of my Awards Show Parties?!  What will I do with all my time?!  What will I talk about?!  No!  It cannot be!  

Please, please.  Let’s not panic.  The movies cannot let me down.  We’ve been through so much together.  I need them.  I want them. I know the holiday season is fast approaching and this does mean more movies – I’m excited about a few of them but this, of course, based on my recent history, can go either way.  Are they going to suck?  Are they going to blow my mind?  Can they get me back?  It won’t take much, honestly.  I’m pretty easy like that.  I love you too much to be too hard on you movies, but come on … gimme a little something.  A little something good.  I’m counting on you.   

little a To BIG E

This is it kids: the final frontier; the last leg.  The end, as they say, is nigh.

It’s last level time in Improv.  Level E, baby.  LEVEL E.

Everything we’ve learned or tried to learn or haven’t yet learned is coming together in Level E.  Character, location, physicality – all at once and all the time.  There is no free ride, no phoning it in.  We are on all the time.  Our new Teach is a master note giver.  This is scary.  You finish your 4 to 6 minute sketch and he gives you 5 minutes of notes.  “What were you thinking when you said …”.  “Uh, dude, this is Improv, I thought we weren’t supposed to be thinking”.  Well, yes and no Grasshopper.  Our skills need to be so well honed that even when we are not thinking in a particular scene, we can anticipate and direct a narrative and have things make sense within a 4-5 minute sketch, while also  fleshing out a character, defining our location and doing something so as not to be a simple talking head.  Think that’s hard?  Try it for a 45 minute free form sketch.  The cliff?  It’s right there.  Jump off it and go.

The only way to get really good at this is to keep doing it.  And, yes, of course your whole life is improv as I haven’t yet woken up in the morning to find the day’s script by my bed, but performance Improv is different.  You need to do it in front of an audience who may laugh or stare at you in perplexed silence.  You need to fail and flounder and sometimes maybe succeed.  So now, every Monday night after class it’s Wheel of Improv in the John Candy Box Theatre where we’re forced onstage for a skit or two so we can see what we’re made of.  Last night, I was made of a fraidy cat, literally pushed onstage for my first Wheel skit.  We spun the wheel and got ‘Number’, which means each person in the scene is given a number and this number represents the number of words each sentence you can speak in contains.  My number was four.  Sounds weird to you?  I bet it does!  You must make sense.  Without being a caveman.  See, hard isn’t it?  Who speaks like that?  No one I know.  It was super fun.  And really quite hard.  Stop writing like that!  Sheesh, how totally annoying!  It all worked out okay, and yes, I will be back next week.  When you’re in, you’re in you know? It’s addictive and exhausting and challenging and fucking scary.  This is my kind of fear.  Bring. It. On. 

I don’t know what comes next.  That’s always the thing, right?  What’s after this thing?  Level E is it.  I’m done.  Hopefully to graduate with a certificate suitable for framing and then what?  I can start from the beginning.  I can audition for Conservatory, but they want a resume that likely wouldn’t be my real life resume and headshots and an actual audition – do you think I can do that?  I don’t think I can do that.  Should I do that?  I’m hoping by the time Es done my non-thinking kind of thinking will have taken over and I’ll just know what to do, but let’s bank all that for now as there’s much work to be done – a big hour show on the Mainstage, many more Wheels and the crazy class itself.  I’m so scared and excited I can hardly stand it. 

Point of View

Can you change your way of thinking?  Like actually wake up and decide you’re in a good mood and you’re not going to let anything shake you?

Not your will-always-be-stressful-just-face-it job, not the overcrowded subway and the dude that lies on the pole not the constant phone ringing and email answering and overall life pressure crap that dogs you day in and day out until you feel like you’re going to snap.

This is hard, right?  It’s so much easier to ride the wave of what you’re feeling and be bummed out, cranky and cynical.  But making that conscious decision to not be this way is simply that – a decision, a choice.  

And this decision, this choice, is yours. 

Can you do it?  Can you be rational?  Can you pause?  Can you listen?  Can you simply take it in and not lash out?  

Yes, yes you can.  It’s all your frame of mind, your attitude, your decision and your point of view.  The point that your view is facing is all up to you.  I want mine facing up. Way up …

15 Minutes

I’m not big into yoga.

I’m not sure if it’s because I can’t really do it or because the whole mumbo jumbo be one with the world thing doesn’t really resonate with me.  Thing is, I want to be into yoga because it’s good for you – or so I’m told.  It can change my life.  Or, at least my posture, which for sure is atrocious. 

So I keep trying.

Last night I tried again and entered class with a clean slate.  Please, please be the class for me.  Sooth my weary mind.  Unkink my bricks for shoulders.  Do not chant.  Help. Me. Teach-dude had an incredibly soothing voice, the kind that could walk you right off a cliff.  This is good.  Great, even.  I’m ready.

So, we’re yoga-ing away and it always comes back to downward dog, which I hate because it hurts and apparently I don’t let my shoulders “go” enough and I’m doing it wrong.  Where are my shoulders supposed to “go”?  How can I make them “go” anywhere?  Well, Teach-dude made them go somewhere and, oh, yeah, okay.  FEELING IT NOW. 

I’m trying to feel calm and enlightened but it’s hard.  It’s hard to find inner peace.

Am I finding inner peace pretzeling my stiff body into position after position?  Uh, no.

Am I finding inner peace as Teach-dude tells me “relax your face and become a good yoga person”?  Uh, no.  And, quite frankly, I think this is very anti-yoga.  What's wrong with me face?

I won't be deterred - onwards I go.  Warrior, Tree, Eagle, blah, blah, blah.  It was neverending.  Relentless. The end of class is in sight and we lie on the floor for 15 minutes and chill out.  I’m not sure where Teach-dude told me to put my tongue in relation to the roof of my mouth, but I don’t care.  I’m lying on the floor and pretty quickly there is nothing in my brain.  I know this may not sound like anything new, but it is.  My brain is typically working overdrive thinking of a zillion things I have no control over and a million things I do have control over.  It’s exhausting.   I’m exhausted.  But not for that 15 minutes.  There’s nothing going on upstairs and I actually feel relaxed.  Maybe not inner peace relaxed, but sort of getting there.  If I tried to do this at any other time I would feel completely guilty and unproductive and wasteful of my time but in that 15 minutes I have nowhere else to be.  Nothing else to do.  Nothing on my mind.

So I see how this works now:  I have to suffer through pain and agony for an hour so I can enjoy 15 minutes of bliss.   Obviously, not fair.  Why do we have to work so hard to get to where we want to be?  Nothing’s easy is it, so why should yoga be any different?  Fine. I’ll be back next week.  I’ll work on my downward dog and my face and Teach-dude can pretzel me a little more and it’ll all be okay.  Especially that last 15 minutes. 

Fit

I’ve been feeling crummy and what better way to alleviate my foul and sullen mood than with a bit of retail therapy.  I know it will only bring a temporary big smile to my face but that’s enough for now.  Mass consumerism is a valid first step to recovery.

I’ve been marginally obsessed with Mary Jane’s lately, and now I know I want - NEED - the mother of all Mary Jane’s.  Mr. Blahnik is speaking to me and he knows how much I need these Mary Jane’s.  He knows they will make me feel better because when all else fails we will always have our shoes.  He understands. Off I go, ready to drop some serious dough on these babies and never look back.  I will walk proudly and defiantly with these shoes until I return to my former glory as a happy well adjusted person.  I’m excited, and hopeful. Until I try them on.  And.  They.  Don’t. Fit.  It’s not the size, it’s my feet.  My feet are too wide for these damn beautiful shoes.  Admittedly, my feet are the width of shovels (yes, I know I am prone to self – deprecating embellishment but seriously, they are as wide as shovels) and well, Mr. Blahnik’s Mary Jane’s are not for me.  The strap is in the completely wrong place and the shoes look terrible.  Supportive friend agreed.  Helpful salesgirl agreed.  I think I actually pouted.  To what end my disappointment!

They just don’t fit and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. 

Can't force it.  Can't fake it.  Fuck it.  They just don't fit. 

Look at them.  You'd pout too.



Move Along

I’m in a bad mood.  This is offsetting to people.  Why?

Why is it a personal affront to humanity at large that for now, and perhaps the next little while, I will be a sullen crabby bitch?  I’ll be back – smiling face ablazing soon, I’m sure, but for now can you just accept it?  Why do I need to feel better?  Are you one of the maybe three people in my whole world that I'd bother talking to about why I'm feeling this way?  Then really ...

Don’t try to cheer me up. 

Don’t tell me your personal story that is undoubtedly worse than mine so how could I possibly be upset.  (This is THE WORST type of feel better strategy I have ever encountered in my life - if you do this, stop now.  People (I) hate it and (I) may kill you.)

You realize it’s not normal to be happy all the time.  If you are, you are absolutely delusional.  I am an optimistic type of person but this doesn’t preclude me from being in a bad mood and I would totally appreciate it if I was allowed to be in this bad mood without feeling bad that I was making you feel bad because you can’t rely on me for my usual cheery outlook on life and the state of things in general.  Because you know what? Sometimes life sucks; sometimes the state of things in general sucks.  Most of the time things just don’t go your way and hopping through life all Mary-Poppins-styles is really, really tiring.  Even for me.  So, please, let me embrace this suck-iness for awhile and don’t make me apologize for it.  Let me wallow.  I will get back out from under it the way I want to: by myself.  Which, quite frankly, is where I should have stayed in the first place: by myself.  Seriously, please.  There is really nothing you can do.  Do not send clowns, send ice cream if you want, but really, just let me be. 

Thank you for caring, but please fuck off.

Oh, Garth

You know I hate to exercise, right? Everything about it, I hate.   Most especially, the fact that I have to do it.  I hate that the most.  But, I’m oldish and have zero metabolism and love to eat and would prefer to buy shoes rather than more (bigger) clothes so I do it. I do it and hate every single minute of it.

I’ve started this new routine that I’m sticking to, but it’s only been about a month so don’t pat me on the back just yet.  I’m getting used to it, but I still really really hate it. 

I don’t think I have more energy.

I don’t think I’m sleeping any better.

I am sore all the freaking time.

I don’t really care.

I don't really care because of Garth.  Garth is, well, great.  Garth teaches a class every Thursday over lunch called Cardio Party.  What does that even mean?  Cardio doesn’t sound like any party I’d ever want to go to.   Cardio Party is simply crazy.  We star jump and kick back and high kick and indecision lunge (like that isn’t the best exercise for me, huh?) and Jesus Christ the whole fucking time is just pure and utter torture, but there, in front of the room is Garth.  He’s floating.  And smiling.  The class is obviously no real strain for a super – fit guy like Garth.  He doesn’t even really wear proper work out clothes.  Yesterday, for example, he was wearing these long-ish seersucker shorts that one would typically find, accompanied by topsiders and a crisp polo, on a prepster in the Hamptons. Garth was wearing them with a perfect fit long sleeve T-shirt and, well, it was all allright.  Quite all right.  His dreds (yes, I know.  Dreds! But they don’t smell like many other dreds I have had the misfortune of encountering) just sort of bounce and he does too and he smiles and laughs and has real fun at this Cardio Party of his.  I can’t stop staring at him.  I mean, thankfully, I’m supposed to but I think it’s too much because I always seem to be going the wrong way in class and starting off the particular sequence on the wrong foot.  It’s all Garth’s fault! He’s long and lean and almost sinewy with the most perfectly formed muscles that are on view in the most discreet way beneath his long sleeve-T and long-ish shorts. I'm not sure how this all sounds, but trust me - it’s all very, very nice.  In fact, if you don’t believe me check him out yourself:  his quite perfect form is on display for all to see in a poster ad for the club which is hanging in the sportshop window right before you get to the club.  He is shirtless, but that's just an added 6-pack bonus really.  Isn’t he just the perfect host, welcoming one and all to his Cardio Party?  Coming Garth!  I’m coming! 

So, yeah.  I still really hate exercise but yesterday I actually found myself laughing in the middle of Cardio Party.  It absolutely wasn’t the lunges.  It may have been the music.  But you know it was because of Garth.  Thank you, Garth – I still hate every minute of exercise, but you’re making it a wee bit bearable. 

Wanna join the Cardio Party?  I’ll hook you up with a Guest Pass – Garth will be thrilled and so will you.