Friday 30 March 2012

EAST END BOYS

I love when I meet true characters. Not that we’re not all in possession of our own unique character, cause we are, but those people where you walk away from them and think that either they should be put on film – unlike most of the bland monotonous types that are on celluloid – or are sure to be found in the pages of an Elmore Leonard novel.

I met two people like this recently. For anonymity’s sake, they are brothers that operate a small jewelry business in London. And from the moment I met them in their small office tucked away in the jewelry district, my writer's brain perked to attention. They were both East End boys – for those of you that are not English – think no nonsense, salt of the earth types; a bit rougher in the accent (in American speak that just means you will understand them even less) and work hard for what they have in life and are perfectly happy telling you that. Within five minutes, I could ascertain that one was the creative brains of the operation and the other more business minded; although something tells me that Mr. Business spends most of his time looking for things around the office that's he's misplaced and taking smoke breaks.

Mr. Creative Brother was like me; he had the gift of the gab and was not afraid to use it. Ten minutes in, I knew he was married, had kids, where he lived, what his wife’s comportment was like, and that we both had a fondness for Formula One (he’s a lexicon when it comes to F1 trivia, which I find utterly fascinating). From there on out it was 1000 questions - but oddly, not in a prying way, his demeanor somehow made you happy to volunteer the information - followed by story after story that left me contentedly in the position of the watcher as he used a variety of different machines to make the piece he was working on. [I love watching people perform skills I have no contemplation of, especially if gold and diamonds are involved].

But the best bit was watching how these two individuals interacted. Being one of five girls with a strong family dynamic, I’m profoundly curious how other families operate. Again, within minutes you could tell where the balance of power, envy and personality resided between these two brothers. Partly because Mr. Creative was so apt to share when it came to his feelings about his family, the dynamic between them, and how they call came to be in the jewelry business. There is also something to be said for professions that are handed down, crafts if you will that the father teaches the sons and how that carries on. As Mr. Creative amusingly pointed out, then again, you can certainly try to teach your kids the craft, but not all of them are going to take to it. Hence, why his brother spends most of his time shifting paper and smoking cigarettes while he designs rings.

The funniest thing is that I actually look forward to going there as each time I visit (I’ve gone a few times now as they are redesigning a piece of jewelry of mine), I pick up some new tidbit of information that I log into the character conceit book within my brain – you have no idea how full this book is. I end up sitting in this little office for up to an hour, watching, listening and taking mental notes, as time just ticks on by. I suppose it’s partly the joy of soaking in the many characters there are in the world, and partly that when I’m not with the King I’ll sit just about anywhere if it means I don’t have to wipe anyone’s nose or change a diaper.

HAPPY FRIDAY all.

Thursday 29 March 2012

THIS LITTLE PIGGY IS GETTING THE CHOP

[We're going back in the archives for this one. I promise a new blog for tomorrow].

According to a new article, women in the U.S are heading to their plastic surgeon’s offices to have foot surgery so that they can fit into their high-end designer shoes without pain. I’m thinking the epicenter for this drive for bizarre and absurd perfection is somewhere around Beverly Hills. But perhaps I’m being too cynical. Although, something about this craze sweeping Duluth, Minnesota just doesn’t feel right. I’m sure in Duluth it’s about making one’s snow boots fit as comfortable as possible.

Apparently, there are several options for your hoofs to consider, one is called the Cinderella procedure, which makes your feet thinner. How they do this is beyond me, and frankly I do not want to know. Then there is one that shortens your toes. Yes, you heard me, they shorten your toes so that they will fit into the shoes better. And the last – utterly horrifying – procedure is called a foot-tuck fat pad augmentation. In short, they suck fat from your stomach (I’m thinking they should suck it from the person’s head!), and inject it into the balls of the feet. This supposedly provides more pain free cushion when you’re standing in heels all day.

I have a few suggestions of course for those contemplating these procedures. Firstly, wear flats. That’s for starters. They’re cute, you won’t run the risk of looking like a two dollar hooker, and you won’t have to worry about your newly shorn toes bleeding all over Sunset Blvd. Secondly, may I suggest a full frontal lobotomy? That way, you’ll be blissfully at peace, and you won’t even be able to find your feet, let alone put them in a pair of overpriced stilettos that you’ll never wear. And thirdly, and most importantly, seek psychological help. If you’re contemplating cutting off your toes – I shall repeat, CUTTING off your appendages, or altering your feet in any way so that you can wear a certain type of shoe, Sistah, you need help.

I’m all for enhancing or changing one’s appearance through natural methods: diet, exercise, the latest hydrating potions. Hell, I’ll even get on board with spanks and various smoke and mirror techniques that allow us to look a bit slimmer and more toned – in fact, where the hell did I put my spanks? I could use them right about now. But I’m thinking when one is contemplating sucking fat from their stomach and injecting it into their feet, they’ve lost sight of the overall goal of life. Then again, I hate heels (although I can admit they make a woman’s leg look damn good….well, some women’s legs), I find them tortuous, and I don’t care how many toes you cut off my foot, I’m never going to find them comfortable.

Monday 26 March 2012

DEAR MR. NEIGHBOR PERSON

I thought I’d let the King write today’s blog. Seemed only fitting as he has some anger (sorry, my word not his) to work thru in regards to our downstairs neighbor who keeps banging on his ceiling with a broom and slipping angry letters through our post box.....Take it away little muffin.

Dear Large Man that is not remotely (whoooa, big word) as attractive as my father. He’s not even within the same racetrack…I love cars. Cars are great. Ball –cracker- bird-look over there, wow!--Sorry, my attention span isn’t too great. Anyway, my uber cool, hot, amazing mommy, tells me that you’ve been banging on your ceiling with a broomstick because you’re angry at the amount of noise I’m making during the day – cracker-car-bus-hungweee-no bath no no no….She says you do this a lot, and despite the fact that I’m just 20 months old and don’t know any better than to just have fun and make tons of noise, you don’t understand this cause well, you’re a…wait I know it starts with an M…(cracker, car, bus, bath biiiiiird), oh yeah, MORON.

She also says that you complain even though I go to bed at 7:30 – no sleep- sleep bad-car-hot hot hot – and spend most of the day walking in the park looking for birds, cars, and construction sites. Dump trucks are so cool. She suggests that if you want silence, you should move to a shack in the middle of Siberia, but I’m not sure where that is. If they have big cars there I think you should go. Cars are the best….car-boat-bat-duck, frooooog!

She has explained to me that sometimes on this planet, people are just unreasonable – I overheard her saying that sometimes that applies to toddlers too. I think that means me….car-boat-truck-door-open, bwaaaaa baaaa baaa…She says you can’t reason with the unreasonable. She also said Mr. Neighbor Person that the fact that you are complaining about the noise is very ironic. [That’s a big word, that’s kind of hard to say..not like bird-car-or hot, hot HOOOT]. Especially because you and your girlfriend – that mommy calls Pushover (that’s a funny first name) – fight all the time in the middle of the night about your drinking and indiscretions with other women…I like women too. They’re so pretty, especially the ones who smile at me when I’m on the swings.

Mommy said to let you know that if you use the broom again to bang on the ceiling when I’m playing during the day – a perfect acceptable time to play she says as long as I don’t bang on the glass with my cars, she hates that - that I am allowed to in return bang my cars – truck, boat, car, hoooooot, battth – on the floor really loudly. Or with the pots from the kitchen. I LOVE doing that, (I hope you use the broom a lot). She also says that I can do this at 6 a.m. on a Sunday when you’re hungover from too much Gin you necked down at the pub (not sure if Gin is like Milk, but I love milk). My mommy is the coolest, isn’t she? Anyway, that’s pretty much it Mr. Neighbor Person. Oh, one last thing, I suppose I should tell you that if you think I’m noisy now, wait until my vocabulary increases and I walk around the house shouting BALL, BAT, WHY, DOG, NO, NO, NO, PIG, DUCK, CAUSE YOU SAID MOMMY (!!!) at the top of my lungs. I hope that’s as fun for you as your weekend trysts with your assistant.

...Oh, and mommy also said that the pen is much mightier than the broomstick. Happy Monday everyone. Signed, the King.

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