The Final Fronteir

Or.. Herbert Goes To The Movies.

Alone.

So a few years ago when Herbert was young and more didactic, it was stated that never, EVER, under pain of anything, would Herbert suffer what was perceived as the final, ultimate indignity of being a singular personnage - going to the movies ALONE.

As with all grand statements, time will make a fool of us all and so it was that on a rainy, cold, Monday afternoon after spurning the temporary warmth and hipness of st jeromes, I found myself buying a ticket for one to Tristram Shandy at the nova.

The day before I'd had to sit through an afternoon of my friends swapping their funniest moments from the film (it was a chestnut, boys, not a walnut) and their favourite quotes so what is one to do but get on the quote-quoteing-bandwagon and slap down some cash? One does want to be able to communicate with ones' peers afterall, no? Besides, I'd rather enjoyed 24 Hour Party People and although I'd long suspected that Steve Coogan might be a cunt I'd always assumed he'd at least be a funny one.

But no.

Not even a knowing, postmodern, direct to camera, winking-like-you're-epiletic-knowingness could completely sell this film to me. Steve Coogan is a cunt. And his cuntishness is the same as the small minded, bizarre, showbiz-specific cuntishness that has been highlighted and mocked since Billy Wilder/Robert Altman/any novelist writing about hollywood today. Just cos he has a wicked accent and a hot scottish "girlfriend" (kelly macdonald - you were so hot in Trainspotting , call me!) doesn't mean his behaviour as this Steve Coogan-Tristram-Shandy is any more interesting or endearing than anything shown on Curb Your Enthusiam or Arrested Development .

The ending, with its strange openness - as if the audience is at the bar with all the actors and actresses - is less-good than the best part of the film - the bickering between Coogan and Brydon over the end credits. This was one of the few points where I laughed out loud.

And how about seeing a film all by yourself, Herbert?

Well the fact that I'm happy to refer to myself in the third person somehow sez it all, doesn't it?

Something something like a Ready Made

Alright I don't remember the words to that Beck song but I do remember going, finally, to the ReadyMadeMarket today.

To no one's surprise it was really rather good. It was also madly busy in places, which made me, a rather tiny slip of material thing, a bit overwhelmed. Luckily I bumped into a friend who was similarly overawed and also terribly hung over which is what you want on a Sunday.

I purchased this rather fabulous bracelet on my way out which I am going to try very hard not to lose. Don't you think it brings out the colour in my eyes?



I had an even better bangle in this style but unfortunately I lost it one night in a haze of red wine/poker/boredom-induced-boy-lolling badness. After I'd just glued the damn thing back together too after JZ had thrown it on the ground (repeatedly) to see what would happen (result: it broke)

I wanted to buy a brooch of a camel whose insides seem to promise a trip to the exotic Arabian nights but there was no price and I got scared and had to run away.

Little Red Riding Hood

Or some shit about paedophiles and fourteen year olds

Due to the sudden emergence of my mad street writer/fighter skills I won two free tickets to the film "Hard Candy".



At the hour of winning I was pretty stoked until I invited my friend JZ along and he was all "oh, that film they're trying to get word of mouth about by giving away tickets to?" Er, yeah. That film.

So I went and drank beer, legitimately, in the cinema which was pretty sweet but it was pretty much the only sweet thing about the film.

I was persuaded out of my initial and extreme hatred and my expressed desire for the celuloid used to beam the dreary diatribe at me to burn in hell by the thoughtful analysis of JZ on the shit that went down. Although he managed to stop me from declaring a war on the claustrophobic, seemingly endless close ups, I still can't help but think - in the end - there was no exploding car and what the hell is the point of watching ANYTHING on a Saturday afternoon (unless it's a cooking show) if there is no exploding car?

Sample dialogue after the film (and after I had contemplated sending a message during the film to JZ informing him of how much I hated it and how much I wanted both the characters to die, suddenly and unexpectedly in, preferably, a car explosion or failing that, a gas leak which causes the sitting room to explode like in Speed 1 with Jeff Daniels and shit)

"Fuck that shit I fucking hated it, what the fuck was that all about, jesus? and with the ending, DID THEY THINK WE WERE MONGOLOIDS? WHAT THE FUCK? "or not" FUCK!"

"aw, you know, the way they developed the story from a crazy 14 y.o. until you realised that she wasn't crazy and that was kind of interesting and stuff"

"I suppose the way they speeded up certain bits was... ok... but why did they do that??"

"lions gate makes trashy films - think how cheap that was to make!"

By this stage I had allowed myself to let go of the rage and instead consider such pertinent points as:

Would it have worked if the girl had long hair? (no)

Why did she have to have those goddamn bogan curls at the back though, they shat me so much I wanted to hit her? (unknown)

Was she really going to go and see a film with some friend after persuading someone to kill themself - and, if so, which film? (unknown)

What happened to her skirt and red stockings, why did she change into jeans? (possible continuity error?)

Result: See Hard Candy if you have free tickets but don't expect any cars to explode

Beyonce and all that

So the other day I was purchased my Step Towards Independent Womanhood Item Consumer Thing*.

Said item was, in fact, a rather large pink jellied vibrator. I had to hide it under my bed for a good seven days before I really, psychologically, accepted that the... impliment? was now mine to do with what I would. While it hid under there, sidling into my dreams and causing me to wake up at odd moments and fret that the switch had clicked on inadvertently, I took the chance to think about serious shit like - why did I now have a vibrator? Would it eat me while I slept? Were the sparkles in the gummy plastic coating a nice touch or a weird "my little pony" throw back?

So of course there is the whole 'why wait for indifferent orgasms from others when you can Take Power Into Your Own Hands Princess Shera Stylee' argument. There was also the 'it worked for that Charlotte character on Sex and the City and, although fictional, she was waaay more repressed than you so wasn't it about time you caught up with Charlotte - the fictional character?' argument which was particularly persuasive. Then there was also the old 'everyone else has one, what am I missing out on?' argument that really kicked me over the line. So I bought it. I hid it, I came home not-sober one night and finally tried it out and... well... I've had worse one-night-stands, it's true, but I didn't pay $42 for them either. Then again since I did purchase it I guess I now have time to get used to it, bend it to my will, teach it to laugh at my jokes and I'll never have to share my drinks with it.

At the same time, is there not something just slightly ridiculous about shoving a whirring, gummy, sparkly enormo-faux-dick up one's clacker? It is hard to lose my sense of the absurd.



*It has a name. It's name is Beyonce. Don't question, just accept.