To me, the notion of translating has always held laborious connotations. A flashback to those green and white Latin textbooks with miniscule charts of conjugations and tenses. Translation equaled time-intensive research and required at least one or two dictionaries in addition. It was what the traditional librarian embodied: someone accustomed to getting lost in the stacks scouring ancient and obsolete volumes, meticulously searching for exact meaning.

I recalled Saturday haircut nights with Garrison and A Prarie Home Companion.Dad would cut his sons’ hair  to the segment where the host tried to make librarians sexy again. I dreamed of a world where librarians were no longer old maids loudly “SHHHH”ing laughter and joy from children. Instead a world where the women behind the reference desk were svelte temptresses who just so happened to spend their days aroused by Joyce and Wilde. 

And then you showed up with your sleek and smooth battery-operated translator with the plug-in charger. It translated paragraphs of cyrillic into standard American English nearly instantaneously. In fleeting seconds your glossy machinery boiled down a string of memories, preconceptions and fantasies and encapsulated a transformation.

You popped it closed and slid it into your back pocket. “Happy Defender of the Motherland Day!” -AR

Nada que merezca la pena aprender
puede ser enseñado.

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”

Oscar Wilde

The Shot

by Alexander Pushkin

The Idiots

by Joseph Conrad

A Fight With A Cannon

by Victor Hugo

The Selfish Giant

by Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde: A certain genius
PR5823.B346 2000
828.809

It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.  ~Oscar Wilde

I was standing there staring at the board in front of me ‘PERE LECHAISE CEMETERY’. A burial ground for the rich and famous in Paris. I was still wondering how I ended up being here on a hot tuesday afternoon. An arrow on the board pointed out, ‘YOU ARE HERE’.

And I was thinking to myself “WHY?’

Everyone in advertising dreams of going to Cannes, atleast once in their career. And almost everyone when they do go, also end up extending their trip to cover more of Europe in as less Euros as possible. We were no different. Rajiv and I.

Rajiv, the only servicing guy who managed to make himself worthy enough for this trip of a lifetime. But Rajiv is more like the creative types. Sees good films. Listens to good music. Reads good books. And mostly speaks good english. Appreciates good food. Has an enviable collection of music. And has posters of inspirational people on his bedroom walls. For him it was genuine interest. For me, it was more of an occupational hazard for being in creative. I have always wondered why we needed to expose ourselves to such great pieces of work, for doing the crap that we do. Otherwise, maybe we’d be feeling much nicer about what we were doing.

Rajiv, for the way he was, it was a perfect way to spend his afternoon. And for me and my fucked up luck, this seemed like a perfect way to spend mine as well.

We had arrived in Paris the previous night from Cannes. And thrown our luggage at a cheap hotel, since this part of the programme was not being sponsored by the office. The only good thing was that we no longer had to bother collecting every single bubblegum bill or make the French understand that we needed food bills for the booze we drank. We were here on our own money, and all we had to do was blow it, without keeping a tab. And in Paris, all you need to do is take a cab, the metro, have a cola, some peanuts and take a piss at a public lavatory, and yes you’ve blown it all.

We made grand plans of taking a detour to Norway and do whale hunting, or hire Harleys and take off on some beer trail, or go to London and pile on some unlucky friend we had spotted on facebook. After all the google searches. After all the free reading up of lonely planets at bookstores. After all those advices from lucky art directors who had managed umpteen trips to Europe to shoot some undies indoors “Oh you must visit Cinque Terre in Italy, it’s breathtaking’……we were now at a cemetery, ya breathtaking of a different kind I guess.

All it took was one call from the office “There’s a pitch, so the two of you better get back to office.”

Ok, they were kind enough to grant us 2 more days.

So here is how we spent a good part of one of those two precious days in Paris.

It was Rajiv’s idea. Like this one visit would make up for all those places we didn’t.

I was here only because Rajiv woke up about 15 minutes before me. And blamed me for ruining his day by waking up late. And he took complete advantage of the guilt I was going through and tricked me into this. Before I knew where we were headed, I was bundled off into a metro and we were here…in front of a cemetery.

A little gate lead us into this exhibition of graves. A big board that resembled a BDA site allocation at the entrance gave us a rough idea of whose corpse lay where. We stood there, staring at the board trying to locate Rajiv’s favorite dead men.

“Jim Morrison is here.” he pointed after studying the board for about half an hour.

“Oscar Wilde is here” he pointed at the other end of the board, after staring at it for another 29 minutes, leaving just another 8 hours and 1 minute for our flight back home.

“Who is Oscar Wilde?’

“What the fuck are you saying? You don’t know Oscar Wilde?” Rajiv asked like it were the first question in the copy test for any copywriter.

“Ya, I have kinda heard of him. He writes, right?’

“You are pathetic dude. He is considered as the God of playwrights and poems.”

“He can’t be God, now that he’s here.”

“It’s not funny chooth.”

“Ok. Don’t get wild.”

“I told you it’s not funny.”

“Hey relax bugger, that one was not a joke. It just happened.”

“Shut the fuck up”

“So he wrote poems!!”

“Ya. Poems. Any student of English Literature ought to know his poetry by heart. He’s that fuckin great.”

“Ok” I tried to look as ashamed as possible. Rajiv had become a different guy ever since he’d stepped here. This should have ideally been an excursion with his classmates of English literature. But destiny had made me his companion.

I took a snap of the board so that we could use it to navigate our way through this morbid maze. And we proceeded in the rough direction of where Jim Morrison was resting. Detailed maps were on sale for 20€, but not worth it for locating a couple of dead men.

I had heard of Jim Morrison. I knew two of his songs decently well enough. ‘Road house blues’ and ‘Riders on the storm’. Oh one more…’L.A. Woman’. They were nice. I liked the first one more than the others, maybe because the local bands played that more often. But I knew that I do not qualify as a true fan unless my favorite number of his is something that nobody’s heard of. I had a rough idea of how he looked. I had seen his pictures on the walls of many advertising folks. A skinny shirtless chap who had just one picture of his in circulation, where he looked like Steve Tyler from far, with maybe a smaller mouth and of course younger. Somehow to me, most people with long hair looked like each other. I knew that he was an important man to like if you were in advertising. Even the most cynical of them found him deserving enough to be included into their drunken discussions.

But all this information wasn’t enough to make me feel for him. Now that I was here, I had to make this visit purposeful for myself. I decided to become his true fan by the time I reached his grave. I plugged in my ipod and started listening to every other number of his. Ya, the ones that only get picked up in shuffle, and last till you manage to reach the skip button. I had no time for it to grow on me. I had to fall in love with it instantly. It was getting difficult. You know…I had a (I hate the pun but)…..deadline. I kept skipping to get a quick update of his discography. Most of them sounded good. Or maybe at that time, I just had no option but to make them sound good, for my own good.

Appreciating English numbers is an occupation by itself. First you spend time in figuring out what the words are. Then memorise them. And since they don’t necessarily believe in rhymes or a regular meter, it’s that much harder to remember them. Then after that, you practise them and start to like them more. Eventually you google the lyrics only to find out that whatever you’ve been singing all along, is all wrong. You then undo the lyrics in your head and rehearse the right ones. And since you have spent considerable time and effort, you now try to understand what they actually mean. But each of them come with a unique context. God knows what! There’s a hell lot of trivia attached to every line. You then research the context and try connecting the words with the context. It still makes no sense, because it’s mostly written by the writer when he’s smashed on weed. So you need a good dose of it yourself to get closer to what the damn thing actually means. Somewhere you give up and get back to your initial interpretation of what this was all about. I know that this may not be true with most of them, but with me it’s mostly like this. Maybe I’m trivialising it, but yes, it is all about the trivia. Hindi numbers have no such problems. They are either about love or not finding love, and in case you get stuck, all you probably need is a legal drink. Nothing more.

Rajiv walked ahead purposefully scanning every epitaph on the way. And I was trailing behind getting acquainted with the man that I had to mourn for. I really wanted his death and his music to affect me. I had to get a rush when I see him lying in his grave. Because I knew Rajiv was going to get it. And his day will be made. I had to make mine too.

I decided to become a Jim Morrison fan after returning. A late Jim Morisson fan maybe. Coming to think of it, I don’t even know where they buried Kishore Kumar.

On the way I saw many other graves of kings, queens, mathematicians, actors,  dentists and archeologists and taxidermists and other miscellaneous french people who seemed to have graves, sometimes as big as a three bedroom bungalow.

There was one bombshell who’s statue towered above the rest, appropriately drop dead gorgeous. One look and I immediately felt sad that she was no more. I was wondering why it should take such an effort for Jim Morrison. In my head, Jim Morrison still seemed to be the most famous celeb in that place because he was the only guy I had heard of over there. So I assumed that he’d have had the grandest cremation out here.

I fantasized his grave to be the showstopper. One that the others would die again for. I imagined a huge statue of him, welcoming you with outstretched arms, with huge speakers around, belting out his numbers, and hoped that one of them is Road House Blues so that I could sing along. I was losing it, but was imagining it in the best possible way just to keep myself motivated.

Ya, there was Oscar Wilde as well. But Morrison seemed easier of the two. Even if you don’t understand it all, you could settle with just liking the tune of his song.

We had now walked for about 3 hours. We had no clue where we were going. I kept referring to the snap in my camera, but it was as good as searching for Kakinada in the world map.

But Rajiv kept walking in a particular direction like Morrison’s spirit was calling him. The cemetery seemed endless. It looked like every famous man in the world who was dead, was buried here. I was wondering if there were a lot of creative clashes among the spirits at night. They would feel so helpless that they can’t even kill each other over it. I derived a little moral of the story for myself ‘No matter how rich and famous you may be, at the end of it you die.’ I decided to craft that better after getting a lowdown on Oscar Wilde.

We saw no human being or rather no human being who could speak English. The only ones who knew, were probably six feet under. So we walked like zombies hoping to meet someone who could lead us to the grave of grave importance.

We rarely met anyone on the way. And even when we did, it was useless. If they had the 20€ map, they wouldn’t know English. And if they knew English, they wouldn’t have the map.

But Rajiv looked like he was prepared to die searching for his grave. At every pit stop he’d give me anecdotes of Jim, just to create a mystery around this dead soul.

“You know Morrison used to pass a bowl among the audience where they could do anything in it like spit into it, piss into it, pour beer, tap their ash or do whatever they pleased”

“For what joy?”

“And he would drink it at the end of the show.”

“Why would he do something like that?”

“Fucker. That’s how much he loved his fans.”

Just like Morrison, even I found this hard to digest.

I had bought a little guide to Paris and peeked into it to see what all I was missing, sitting here in this burial ground. Thankfully there was nothing in it that I was passionately attached to. But even if there was, I could do little about it. I had no clue how to get out of here. And the only way to was to have shelled out 20€ at the beginning. I was trapped in the middle of a million crosses.

After meandering here and there, we finally found a tribe who also happened to be searching for Jim’s Soul. Thankfully they were the ones who valued their time a lot and had invested 20€ for this search. So we hung around like friendly tourists and followed them wherever they went.

And in a few moments, we managed to reach where Jim Morrison lay peacefully. Until then.

It was nothing like I had imagined. He was tucked away into an obscure corner. An insignificant looking grave with the inscriptions “James Douglas Morrison’ with a few dried up roses on the marble, and some assorted cigarettes tossed around by his fans, for Morrison to smoke up incase he woke up at night.

There was another big monument of an unpronounceable French chap that blocked half the view. You had to kind of lean over from the side to get a glimpse of his grave. You could barely read the inscriptions on it. Rajiv put on his zoom lens and took a gloomy picture in grey.

I felt cheated. I had walked the whole afternoon. This wasn’t enough for a 3 hour old fan. I started doubting his popularity. Surely his fans could have done something better after all the piss that he drank. But Rajiv looked composed. He shut his eyes and murmured a prayer. There were three other fans around him, who did the same. Between their meditations, they kept looking at each other. Noone was sure that having coming here all the way, what were they exactly supposed to do now. They took pictures of each other. In all combinations possible.

Rajiv asked one of them, a funny looking oriental guy, “You’re a Doors fan?”

I paid attention to the reply only to know if there was another idiot who was here for the same reason like me, ‘just like that’.

The chap placed his hand on the chest and said “Truly brother. Truly. Jim Morrison all the way.”

And leaned over and loudly sang a verse of his number and screamed ‘You rock dude….you fucking rock’. His voice was so croaked that I could almost see Jim Morrison turning in his grave. He then pulled out his cigarette pack and casually chucked half a dozen sticks on his tomb to pay homage.

I looked at Rajiv to see if he would follow suit. It was a challenge to his fanaticism. He took out a pack of Gold Flake Kings and dragged out seven sticks. But then it was the last pack. He took a good look and decided that he needed it more than Morrison, maybe. He waited till his challenger turned away, and quietly slid back 5 into the pack and quickly tossed two for Morrison. He was emotional, but was Indian for far too long to get carried away.

With this, I thought the condolence ritual was over.  But no, we just hung around. Like people at a funeral, who just feel obligated to hang around. Nobody seemed to be wanting to leave. Like Morrison might just rise again and start giving them a posthumous performance.

So we waited like unsatisfied fans who refuse to leave even after the rock show has come to an end…hoping that the singer might suddenly get back on stage and scream ‘You want more.”

The moroseness of the situation was getting to me.

“Shall we go?”

“Wait man!!”

“For what?”

“Don’t be so insensitive dude. Hang on.” Rajiv barked back.

“For what? He’s dead man.”

Everyone around me glared at me like I killed him.

Rajiv walked around behaving in a strange manner. I then noticed carefully. The guy was actually humming a song for his idol, who lay beneath the stone, deaf. For a second I wanted to swap places with Morrison. We had spent over 4 hours in this stupid graveyard. I was getting sick of this. I had just 2 days in Paris. In fucking Paris. The only way to come back to Paris meant winning a Cannes. Every minute was precious. I didn’t know where to go. But I atleast knew that i didn’t want to be here anymore, listening to a madman closing his eyes and singing back a song to a man who wrote it. It was like torturing him back to life.

I waited patiently for about half an hour waiting for Rajiv to finish his cover versions.

“Ok. Let’s leave.” Rajiv announced finally parting himself from the departed, and walked away from the scene as fast as he could.

“Where now?’

“Oscar Wilde.”

“Do you really really want to go? Do you actually love his poems so much? I mean, can I not just gift you an entire collection of his poetry or whatever else he wrote.”

“You can go wherever you want to but I’m going to meet him.”

He made it seem like the two of them were going out for a beer.

“Ok man. Can you tell me a poem he wrote….like a kickass one. So that even I feel like meeting him.”

“OK, have you heard of Athanasia…..

O that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught

“What does that mean….?”

“It means……..” Rajiv lead the way to introduce Oscar Wilde to his latest fan.

By the way, Happy Birthday Rajiv.

Teggno Records did it again! This has got to be one of their best EPs to date. 4 quality tunes, all great in their own way, it is very hard to place your finger on one that stands out the most. This is my first EP in a while where I have purchased all tracks at once and am blown away. The contributors are some of the familiar names to our loyal readers; Chris Rusu, Kotov & Wilde, Justin James and Nick Cenik. Support the music.

Teggno – Knuts & Bolts

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”

- Oscar Wilde

Per chi considera una Stella del cinema la bionda Marilyn Monroe, eccovi la sua gemella, stella bruna, Audrey Hepburn che le soffiò il ruolo in questo fantastico film. Una delle icone del cinema statunitense per eccellenza, ricordata nei film di successo come “Vacanze Romane” (1953), “Sabrina” (1954), “My Fair Lady” (1964) e tanti altri.
Colazione da Tiffany, titolo originale “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, commedia nata nel 1961 dalla mente del regista Blake Edwards (La pantera rosa, 1964), ispirato al romanzo di Capote, è destinato ad essere ricordato per sempre, soprattutto per la splendida interpretazione di Audrey Hepburn, nel ruolo di Holly, e George Peppard, Paul, anche lui uomo di fascino e incredibile bravura.
Un film che tratta con ironia la storia di due vicini di casa, amanti del successo e del denaro, sfruttando il loro tempo in contatto con uomini di alto rango e disponibili a cambiare preziosi doni in cambio di love story poco credibili e fallimentari.
I due capiranno presto che solo un rapporto sincero che racchiude una favola d’amore può davvero renderli felici.
Originale e geniale l’iniziativa di intitolare il film “Colazione da Tiffany”, e ottima la trama, coinvolgente e simpatica, forse ricostruita a grandi linee e rivista in qualche altro film futuro, ma non di certo ricavando lo stesso enorme successo. Forse grazie anche a quella deliziosa canzone vincitrice del premio oscar nel 1962, composta da Henry Mancini “Moon River”.

Curiosità:

Il romanzo di Truman Capote fu modificato e riadattato al ruolo della Hepburn, escludendo l’allusione bisessuale della protagonista, fondamentale nel libro. Ma a subire una gran modifica fu il lieto fine, inesistente nel romanzo, dove Holly prende il volo e anni dopo Paul si chiede ancora come vada la sua nuova vita. Capote aprì le vie al suo successo con “A sangue freddo”. Un autore accostato spesso a Oscar Wilde, brillante e maledetto.

George Peppard è John Smith “Hannibal” in A-Team, telefilm andato in onda nel 1983-1987 e riproposto più volte anche in Italia. Sposato ben per cinque volte (d’altra parte…un uomo così…). Morì a 66 anni di polmonite mentre combatteva qualcosa di più grave come il cancro ai polmoni. Aiutava un’associazione contra la dipendenza dall’alcol.

Il vero nome di Audrey Hepburn è Audrey Kathleen Ruston, nata a Bruxelles 4 Maggio 1929. Ha vinto Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Golden Globe. Nel 1988 fu nominata ambasciatrice dell’ UNICEF, ricevendo in seguito la medaglia presidenziale della libertà. Nel 1944 da Ballerina professionista, partecipava ad una raccolta fondi a favore dei movimenti contro il Nazismo. Si sposò due volte. Morì a 63 di cancro al colon, seppellita a Tolochenaz in Svizzera.

Voto 10

Wasted Youth by James Hopkins (via Today & Tomorrow)

So I’m sitting at the bus stop, minding my own business, reading The Wit and Humor of Oscar Wilde, and thinking its kind of sad that they had to rename it that after its original title, Epigrams of Oscar Wilde was phased out in 1959.

This kid sits next to me, about 11, braces, freckles, etc; and he’s sitting a respectable distance away so I don’t really pay much attention until he says “Excuse me”.  It’s funny that he bothered with that little piece of politeness, because next moment he had scooted over until he was right next to me, leaning his head in towards mine and pulling out his phone to take a couple-style photo with one-hand and a loud fake CHA-CHIING! I had less than a second to react, and faced with all these conflicty anger-shock-confused emotions sort of automatically ended up pulling a lame peace sign.

Straight after, he ran away to his squealing friends, and I was left to awkwardly pretend nothing had happened. Why do they always love me and leave me?  Why are they never old enough to drive? What if those photos make it on to  Facebook (or more likely Bebo) and are seen by my employer (or the police)?

(I suppose this is what I get for bemoaning the lack of  “boys” in my life, huh K? From now on it’s “guys” all the way, promise.)

Nato a Dublino, 16 ottobre 1854 – Morto a Parigi, 30 novembre 1900

Nella scelta del nome per Oscar sua madre volle significare molti riferimenti:
•Oscar secondo la mitologia irlandese era il nome del figlio di Osin nato nella terra dell’eterna giovinezza, da ciò l’augurio di rimanere sempre giovane;
•Kingsbury, in omaggio alla famiglia della madre;
•O’Flahertie dall’antica parentela della nonna paterna

Mi colpisce particolarmente l’attualità di queste citazioni!…

• Ogni uomo ambizioso deve lottare contro il suo secolo con le proprie armi. Ciò che questo secolo adora è la ricchezza. Il Dio di questo secolo è la ricchezza
• Avere avuto una buona educazione, oggi, è un grande svantaggio. Ti esclude da tante cose
• Oggi essere comprensibili equivale ad essere scoperti
• L’unica cosa che valga la pena di fare, oggi, è l’essere moderni
• Nulla è pericoloso quanto l’essere troppo moderni. Si rischia di diventare improvvisamente fuori moda
• Viviamo in un’epoca in cui il superfluo è la nostra unica necessità
• Solo chi sembra stupido ha accesso alla Camera dei Comuni e solo chi è stupido vi ottiene successo
• Fino a quando la guerra sarà vista come una cosa crudele, avrà sempre un suo fascino. Quando sarà considerata come volgare, cesserà di essere popolare
• Vi è solo una cosa al mondo peggiore del far parlare di sé, ed è il non far parlare di sé
• Il Libro della Vita inizia con l’immagine di un uomo e una donna in un giardino. Termina con l’Apocalisse

Critic as Artist or Critic vs. Artist

Is theatre criticism a learned craft , an organic art form, or both?

Put differently, are artists themselves not critics of sorts? And, are critics not also artists in their own right?

One need look no further than the writings of G.B. Shaw and Oscar Wilde for historical evidence that playwrights can write criticism that is both witty and personal and informed and theoretical.

The discussion of critics and reviews on the Parabasis blog continues along with today’s post “Who Owes What to Whom?”.  My most recent comments are below:

“The question of who owes what to whom (or the literary, ethical, and content obligations of reviewers and who is their primary audience) is an important one. But I’m not so sure I agree that potential audience members (if I’m reading Isaac correctly) are THE primary readers. From a dollars and cents, butts in seats standpoint, yes, potential audience members read reviews and, I’m sure, appreciate being provided an explanation for WHY a particular show seems well or poorly done and therefore (not) worth, say, the cost of a ticket. Particularly potential viewers for whom theatre going is a novelty. In which case, a single review’s ability to persuade them AGAINST seeing a show is a scary thing. Gives A LOT of power to the voice of the critic.

Regardless of whom critics perceive as their primary audience, the reality is that the audience/readers of theatre reviews are as much people in the theatre industry (practitioners (not just the ones whose show is being reviewed), teachers, students, funding bodies, and other critics) as non-theatre people (who may or may not pride themselves as supporters of “the arts”) looking for something fun to do on a Saturday night.

Perhaps, the cliche about, say, a lead actress, director, or playwright,etc. anxiously awaiting the arrival of reviews of their show that has just opened has lost its basis in reality, but I think we all know better. With that said, beyond basic human vanity or ego, those in the industry read reviews because they hope for and appreciate constructive feedback, whether it’s ultimately what they want to hear or not. And, while their is camaraderie in the theatre community, there is also good healthy competition, and so theatre folks read reviews to know what others are doing. Beyond this, reviews serve a practical purpose for theatre people, they are the stand-in, given how challenging it can be when you’re doing a show of your own to see those of others. All this said, I’m still left wondering, what qualifies one to be a theatre critic? Not what a review should or shouldn’t contain, but what credentials we believe critics should hold. I’ve posed and explored this particular point a bit on my own blog. As someone commented earlier this week on one of Isaac’s posts, ‘everyone’s a critic,’ but, seriously, given we ARE people who read reviews, just how much do we know about the critics who write these reviews? What qualifies them? The bios I’ve read of some critics make them little more qualified than ‘anyone’ else.”

Thoughts?

Hi Everyone,

I apologize for forgetting to get this up.  Special thanks to Lindsay for reminding me.  If I ever forget again, please let me know!

This week’s reading, Pygmalion in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, on reserve, is short, which allows you extra time to read for next week. It is also available online.

Ovid (born March 20,  43 BC) was a Roman poet.  He re-told many of the classical Greek myths.

I will also screen a surrealist film.  It is about 45 minutes in length and references the myth of Pygmalion.  It’s a beautiful film, but a bit confusing if you don’t understand the basics of surrealism, so I’ll give a brief lecture at the beginning of class.

Next week we are discussing all of The Picture of Dorian Gray, so be sure to allow yourself plenty of time for reading.

October 20 — Pygmalion & Cocteau

• Ovid, “Pygmalion” in Metamorphoses. Reserve.
• Screening of Blood of a Poet, a film by Jean Cocteau, 1930.
  

October 27 — The Picture of Dorian Gray

• Oscar Wilde Picture of Dorian Gray, entire text.   In bookstore.

If you ever can’t find the readings here, take a look at http://3v96.wordpress.com/about-the-course

Please let me know if you have questions.

It is another glorious and beautiful day; you wake up stroll to your closet put on some clothes and head out the door.  But wait. Did you even check to see what you were wearing?

Maybe you should.  Despite the fact that Halloween comes around once a year, allowing everyone to embrace their inner child and dress any way they wish without facing ridiculous, funny looks or side comments, the other 364 days of the year to seem to hold the Halloween theme.

Maybe you put on your top that stops right below your chest, showing off your tinny or large midriff. Along with your “booty shorts” and ratty flip flops.

Possibly bright yellow rain boots, jean shorts and, well no shirt, is more of your style.

How about some lime green pants and an orange shirt? That is festive right?

Or maybe on this day you would like to go as the Marlboro Man. So you leave your house with your cowboy boots on, your denim jeans and red flannel button up. But on your way out you realize you have forgotten something… your cowboy hat, so you go back and grab it, and walk around the rest of the day looking identical to the Marlboro Man.

Maybe you did not even have time to get dressed this morning before you headed out to do your morning chores and you leave the house with your pajama pants still on, hair a mess and ratty t-shirt to beardy keep you warm.

While you may not hold up anytime inline, from the second you get out of your car past the moment you get back in, you will be the talk of the shop.

Where Oscar Wilde may have said, “there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about,” in his novel Dorian Grey I doubt that he meant that you should walk out of the house looking like you have no sense what-so-ever in order to her the whisper of conversation about you.

Before you go out to do your shopping next time, recall all those times you stopped, looked at a child and thought, “There Mother let them where that out of the house?” Or when you looked at a grown adult who was dress so outrageously all you could think was, “What are they thinking? Did they even look in the mirror before they left the house?”

Once a year Halloween comes around, for those of you that may have forgotten, it is on Oct. 31, and on this day you have your free pass to dress as outlandishly as your heart desires. Any other day of the year try and keep your wardrobe mount functions in check so that you are not the joke of the day.

Friday wrote Mr Kipling. Let’s all go into town with a signed photograph and meet some people. Via the joys of Twitter via the retweeting of @Cartoonbeardy I met the jolly nice @mrjames in Soho Square. Mr J is working on the new Clash of the Titans remake and it seems he is being stalked by pigeons…

After a stroll and a cuppa on the South Bank On Friday evening we went to see Stephen Fry read excerpts from his new book in Bloomsbury. Afterwards Stephen kindly took time to chat and agreed to become #APOTSPOAB number 814! Thank you Mr Fry for being such a kind, generous and lovely chap

On the way out I got interviewed by a couple of girls from an internet site called WinkBall. I think somewhere on their site there is a rather rough looking me insanely selling the signed photograph and saying nice things about Stephen Fry. I darn’t look! But here they are!