You’re not supposed to have imaginary friends after a certain age, or you might get diagnosed with some kind of mental illness.
I have an imaginary assistant. She lives in my brain. I can describe her rather thoroughly: she has a small face with pleasant yet common features, she has a shiny straight hair with bangs. Her bangs are cut straight and are supposed to fall like a curtain, but because she removes it with her hand often, is a mess. She has a plain blouse, I think it’s a grey twinset and a plaid midi skirt. I don’t know why.
Her work place (my memory) looks like the waiting room of a private detective from a 40s Hollywood movie. The ones with Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. Think Maltese Falcon and similar.
It’s all wood – old and dusty, almost colorless with time. It has filing cabinets from floor to ceiling FILLED with files. I put the files in there. For decades now. I had no system, so it’s very hard to find a specific file.
Files on movies, books, songs, personal memories about lost lovers or friends, places I’ve visited or things I did. Some are bright pink and tied with a pretty bow. Some are dark and gloomy, like a November sky. Ranging from my first pair of heels to long-term relationships. Cats. Dogs. People. Beaches. Quotes. Jokes. Rumors. Some are a few days old, yet they are thrown in the back of a drawer out of reach, some are 30 years old, yet they are close and handy.
My poor assistant is very efficient. She moves fast among the drawers stuffed with files and she finds what I’m looking for. She’s quiet like a mouse, she’s my personal female version of Radar from M.A.S.H.
When I have a lapse, it means that she searched for the file all night long. I wake up and suddenly remember, but she’s exhausted, sleeping with her head on her heavy wooden desk.
Sometimes she’s out to lunch. Or she’s in love with a boy and she forgets herself walking hand in hand with him in the park during working hours.
As time goes by, she’s less helpful. Maybe she’s getting old too, maybe she’s bored and blasé with her routine job. True, I replaced some of her workload with Google search, but still, she has a heavy-duty job.
I just sit in my office and shout for various files:
“Hey, what’s the name of the guy who plays Sid in Ice Age? The Colombian very talented guy?”
“Who’s this lady talking to me? What’s her name and where do I know her from?!”
I need her more and more often and she’s growing more and more tired. I should grant her a leave. Maybe give her an all expenses paid holiday in a posh resort. Or at least a gym subscription.
Or a retirement plan.
Farewell 2012 and good riddance! It was probably the worst year of my life or at least this is how it seems.
Beside personal troubles, sorrows and mere disappointments, it was sound proof that this world should come to an end.
Instead of less commercial vs more spiritual, it was exactly the opposite.
First, the most watched video of the year, a South Korean who struck gold. Nobody understands this humongous success.
What people don’t consider is the strength of social networks. This is the only secret. It’s NOT the most stupid song on earth, nor the worst dance.
Almost every year humanity was blessed with a stupid song: ai se eu te pego, ketchup song, el meneaito, the penguin dance, dragostea din tei, macarena, lambada…
Just that at the time they were reaching people on TV and radio, on videocassettes or God knows what.
It wasn’t measurable, that’s all. So here’s your “CHANGE”: now you can count how many stupid people fall for a stupid song.
Adele – that overinflated Celine Dion with her lame music. As far as I can tell, it’s a one album wonder, I don’t think we’ll hear from her soon. She’ll be rolling in such deep, I don’t think she’ll ever come out again.
She’s not the first Brit with a short story. Long before she died, Amy Winehouse vanished. Where’s Duffy? And probably many more I didn’t even bother to notice.
Talking of Brit – they had a glorious year – with the Olympic Games directed like a Hollywood blockbuster and the glamorous Jubilee celebration.
Over the pond, Obama was reelected. Not as spectacular as 4 years ago and somehow predictable, but anyhow, cheers!
And last, but not least, the munchkin that took the web by a storm, the most famous meme, so ugly that she’s adorable, the little kitty named Tardar Sauce.
Over 25 years ago, Garfield was born, but he’s just a drawing and far less of a bitch. Times have changed, it’s so much harder to be a genuine hater, as so many bloggers and artists adhered to this trend.
And here comes this ugly puss and makes us all laugh and forget what a miserable year this was.
God bless Grumpy Cat, she saved us all from the Aztec Apocalypse and incurable stupidity.
Have a smarter 2013!
In this time of harsh economic and moral failure it seems artists try to lure us in a better world. Music seeks refuge in the 50s, movies rediscover superheroes and fashion… ah, fashion transports us in a better era.
More than ever, fashion turns into a fantasy realm, with fabulous creatures that don’t belong anywhere in an unemployment line or a discount store.
Leading the pack are Miuccia Prada and Marc Jacobs with their interpretation of Edwardian outfits and surreal hats.
But there are others, an entire pack of story tellers that wrap us in yards and yards of silk, velvet, brocade, cashmere, precious leathers, feathers, furs, sparkling sheer deceiving fairy dust…
Oh, and the jewels… More opulent and spectacular than ever to match such high fashion.
It’s like a luxury denial. The oversize replaced the tight, skinny and tiny. Generous coats, large pants, sheer flowing and billowing shirts. The tall boot replaced the bootie. Bags grew in size, gloves, hats, sunglasses, everything, from the everyday clothing to each and every accessory.
Like stage costumes – opulent, visible, loud, dramatic.
Now… what I DON’T get is who the fuck is buying more expensive clothing during recession?! I completely admire the endeavor. But to what end?
I mean… are we supposed to watch it simply as art and entertainment and carry on hunting for bargains? Most likely.
There’s an entire half of planet not affected by financial disaster. Arab countries soaked in oil, Asian markets filled with new and old money.
What we can learn from this amazing display is that sometimes is fine to dream. Nobody expects us to walk the streets in turn-of-the-century costumes and hats the size of my car. Just to allow ourselves an escape from mundane, bleak pessimism.
And yes, buy a hat. Listen to some jazz. Watch a superheroes movie. It can’t hurt.
Sometimes you should have champagne, though you’re on a soda budget. Fuck it, long live decadence!
… a perfect hour in the morning, when it’s still a bearable temperature.
While sipping my creamy exquisite espresso, I leaf through pages of design and style, and I recollect the Italian film that charmed me as a teenager, when I didn’t have my own love stories and I craved on fictional ones, even sad ones, when love dies and Venice crumbles.
And life happens to be absolutely completely flawless.
For an hour. In the morning.
I represent my sign with a rigor worthy of a better cause.
Just in 24 hours, two of my best friends called me “mother of all bitches” and completely “Samantha” (the character from SATC who behaves like a ruthless man hunter).
The first statement was due to utter surprise, because I was all mushy about a wedding. I like both the bride and the groom and I really truly believe they are the real deal, not just a cliche.
I was gratulated with an incredulous “YOU of all people?!”
Whaaat? I have a heart, I’m not all bitch. And against all odds, I told you before, I’m a romantic. I do believe in true love.
I just don’t believe in forever. I believe in a moment of passion, of shared joy. Actually time has nothing to do with it. Forget about it completely.
Hold on to the words, the laughters, the caresses, the things you both like and discuss till dawn, the completely natural and uninhibited way you make love, when nothing seems out of place, the perfect choreography that celebrates love.
Recently I read an article written by a famous sociologist who was very upset that she hears more and more often the expression “just sex”. She says it’s demeaning. It’s true.
There’s no such thing as “just sex”. It’s desire, prelude, courtship, flirting, passion, performance… It’s no “just” involved.
Well, unless you are really unlucky and he’s “just this long”, or she’s performing “just” boring sex.
Wow! See? I’m dual! In almost the same paragraph, I turned from softie to bitch. Told ya!