The Brogue
Back in the Internet cafe. I just bought a gram of 20x salvia extract from a head shop a few blocks away from my flat, as well as a little bubbler made out of a tiny Smirnoff Vodka bottle. Tonight should be interesting. Effectively a $60 investment, but I don't mind at all.
Something's fucked up with my email. Either that, or no one's written me for the past week besides Saks Fifth Avenue reminding me that James Preserved Denim has introduced a men's line. I'm titillated, obviously, but I'd prefer a message from an ex-lover detailing how they can't go on living without me. What are the odds of that happening?
We got reviewed in the Scotsman today, which is (I've been told) a relatively highbrow Scottish newspaper. Akin to the Times. They gave us two stars out of five and said that our acting and writing couldn't match the intensity of the subject matter. No shit. The show's the kind of thing that if anyone besides a family member of the cast saw, they would say something along the lines of "Cute" or "Great effort." The director is stoically rebuffing any attempts to improve the show, which weakens it even more as everyone feels the weight of its infantilism and caprice.
Can't stop clubbing. I've been to this drum and didgeridoo show at this crazy three-level club called Smirnoff Underbelly tice in the past three days. Took absinthe shots and chased them with Red Bull-vodkas. Or vodkars, as they say here. Two drinks deep and I develop a thick brogue, suffixing every other sentence with "mate" or "yeah?" or, my favorite, "Cheers!" an all-purpose expression which communicates everything from gratitude to salutation.
Tomorrow night, I might take the train in to London with a couple of friends, but it's £40 (about $75) each way, and as spectacular as London is, I can't justify spending $150 to spend four hours in a strange city. I dashed away from the bar where my friends are at to buy a pack of stoges, which somehow engendered a trip to the ATM, the aforementioned salvia/bubbler purchase, and a quick trip to the Internet cafe for an espresso. I know I should get back to the bar and have another drink, but really, I'm happy right where I am.
Something's fucked up with my email. Either that, or no one's written me for the past week besides Saks Fifth Avenue reminding me that James Preserved Denim has introduced a men's line. I'm titillated, obviously, but I'd prefer a message from an ex-lover detailing how they can't go on living without me. What are the odds of that happening?
We got reviewed in the Scotsman today, which is (I've been told) a relatively highbrow Scottish newspaper. Akin to the Times. They gave us two stars out of five and said that our acting and writing couldn't match the intensity of the subject matter. No shit. The show's the kind of thing that if anyone besides a family member of the cast saw, they would say something along the lines of "Cute" or "Great effort." The director is stoically rebuffing any attempts to improve the show, which weakens it even more as everyone feels the weight of its infantilism and caprice.
Can't stop clubbing. I've been to this drum and didgeridoo show at this crazy three-level club called Smirnoff Underbelly tice in the past three days. Took absinthe shots and chased them with Red Bull-vodkas. Or vodkars, as they say here. Two drinks deep and I develop a thick brogue, suffixing every other sentence with "mate" or "yeah?" or, my favorite, "Cheers!" an all-purpose expression which communicates everything from gratitude to salutation.
Tomorrow night, I might take the train in to London with a couple of friends, but it's £40 (about $75) each way, and as spectacular as London is, I can't justify spending $150 to spend four hours in a strange city. I dashed away from the bar where my friends are at to buy a pack of stoges, which somehow engendered a trip to the ATM, the aforementioned salvia/bubbler purchase, and a quick trip to the Internet cafe for an espresso. I know I should get back to the bar and have another drink, but really, I'm happy right where I am.