Last night I was in a Mike Nichols film

Or just a similar situation that would have fitted in one. I was a strong woman character. Don’t know exactly if you would have been proud of me, but I am positive you would have at least raised an intrigued brow. I had some good lines. Came up with them on my own. Even surprised myself on the process.

But this post is not about Mike Nichols, or myself, or any other film. It’s about music. And how I love that spark of excitement I get from time to time from American bands in this overwhelming sea of British power. And just to name a few in hope that you will give them a chance if you haven’t already done so, I applaud until my hands hurt, the order is completely not important: The National, We are scientists, MGMT, Interpol, the almighty Strokes and I'm sure the list goes on in every separate head. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to turn this into a US vs. Brit debate. I love both equally in measure, but completely different as type of love and what they make of me. The British band genius is over expected and most of the times beyond human in its ease, that's why, when an American band is genius it's even more overwhelming.
I’m supported by: Fake empire, Ghouls, Kids, Pioneer to the falls, and Ize of the world. These are strictly my personal choices and no one could tell me different.

1st hypothetical situation of an imaginary conversation

Hello, luv [as in the gentle over-the-phone-head-petting of a Scottish receptionist in her late 50s]. Huge apologies are in order. I so can’t believe I’m such an amateur (won’t blame you if you won’t have to do with me after this). But I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. And I remember your saying yes to second chances so I’ll take mine now if you will be so kind. We’ll re-shoot an important scene. I hope this won’t be a major set back. Back to the explanation.
You see, I am the child of 2. Number 2. Well, 2 people as well, I guess. I was born on the 2nd. Of February. And so was my grandma. My 2nd up in line. I was 2nd in my class (only where grades were concerned). I’ve always picked the 2nd card, always been governed by this number, and rigidly lovin’ it every 2nd. I always take the 2nd thought that pops in my mind as the best and always chose the second road when I’m driving. Hell, I even like taking a shit better than number 1. So, I guess I come in 2s.
Cut to:
Having gone for the cure on the band debate. SUPER CUT! What a wrong answer! That’s minus a lot of points for me. I mean, yeah, it would have been nice to have this fucked up girl with a twist, saying that you’re her cure. But it’s ridiculous, way too cheesy. I got too carried away and completely forgot I’m in the 1st league now (even though I would have gone for 2nd for the obvious reasons).
I was the biggest dick to type the first thing that popped into my mind. (btw, this reminds me of that Seinfeld episode where George came with a good punch line after the subject was already dead and buried.. amateur, I know). Get to the point. Here it goes: if in this imaginary conversation I could get even an inch close to the vicinity of muse (which, btw, kinda swept me up and it had better been from the heart, or else you’ve been crueler than before (even though I realize I deserved that non-creative freak show to be displayed at for not coming up with this when I was supposed to)) you are definitely editors. And that’s a wrap!

walked my dog in Central Park

this gloriously beautiful morning seemed the perfect opportunity to do so. we strolled out of the subway and headed for the light. it was just me and my perfect Irish setter. 2 stains of red on that green blanket.
we felt like stars him and me. even if he's too old to tell, he still got that slim look. undoubtedly the most handsome dog. heads turned. for him. for me. who's to say?
i was wearing this white dreamy skirt. not exactly see through, but enough to get the mind working. and a gray top (that i had slept in) who gave up the fight with my breasts and just let them hang at their own will (such a nice chap - one of my favorites).
this guy passed by from the opposite direction. he was riding his bike. smiles hooked up in the air. but nothing else.
i was so craving for a latte. vanilla if possible.
Sasha was all over the place. like being a pup again.
we sat on the grass when i saw these candy colored toe nails. like skittles, begging to be licked. i though they were mine, but i was wearing running shoes. thank god for that. just imagine getting into some carnivorous lust for my own toe nails. they were this chick's. she got up. she wasn't more than 16 and smelled divine: newyorkish sweat mixed with some Chanel Chance leftovers.

what a great way to start your day. my creative zen was screaming from my bag:

She said I'm going use my teeth and my breasts
I'm gonna make it happen
She said Run run run run run run
And you cannot run or ever, ever escape
You cannot run or ever hide it away
Something glorious is about to happen

And it did. The whole moment was glorious. little 16 took some pictures of us, smiled the whitest happiest after party smile and took off.
Sasha sat next to me. tongue out, but still having the wisest air. looked as if saying: we sort of made it, sister, haven't we?
I concurred with a smile and turned the volume up:

She don't think straight..
No, no, no, She don't think straight

Then I woke up.

pop up

action.
sometimes noun.
most of the times in your face.
produces surprise, a bit of excitement and a dash of adrenaline.
could be the crazy corn peas hooked up on microwaves & grease rush. they smack their heads on paper walls and end up all dilated. what a party that is!
or it could be the virtual windows that computers open incessantly. the noise is somewhat similar to that of the party geezers from upstairs.
before you know it, you get whirled up in this never ending popping machine. pop this, pop that, everywhere pop, pop. it turns into this cheesy music from a german 90's commercial (still used proudly to this day where i come from).
it has gotten to the point where it's so natural and part of you as your gagging reflex. each time you swallow, something somewhere pops.
best to enjoy it. with the beat from the keyboard's clickety clack, it's the music that surrounds you on a daily basis.
call me old fashioned, but i'll disable the sound option. and play mint car. much more exciting, lovable, even with a touch of pop. the other kind of pop.

20k leagues below my league

Anger. Disappointment. Misbelief. Exhaustion. Or I guess I’m simply tired of thinking that everything is going to be OK, when in fact it’s hardly ever going to. It’s not OK at all, but I have just learned to settle (not necessarily for less, but for what I can get) and to say that the OK that I get is the OK that I have been expecting or the OK that I’ve been dreaming about.
I guess I’m a settler, which can be really cool in this looking-only-for-wins-type-of-life, but the more I come to think about it, the more I realize that I’m so far from the league I would picture myself in.
This is only because the picturing myself part has no boundaries, at least not for me, and the childhood princess in me will always struggle to come out and be crowned as queen. And I couldn't possibly say no to her.

too busy fuckin' Bs

you wake up (sometimes in the shower, other times when you get to work), have a coffe and get your lazy ass in the car. drive for 1 hour to the office and spend 9 more chained to your desk. Sometimes you have lunch, other times fun, but most of the times you don't have the nerve to say fuck off, i don't need this.
and so you get trapped in some sort of mind altering machine that displays your possible well being as an end to your stupid-job-means.
you believe, you hope, you work and in the end you're nothing but this fucked up slave.
no mind of your own. you’re told when and where to pee, when to wake up, when to get to work, when to eat, when to fuck. and you do it proudly. just as you’re taught/told. because you're dying to attain the end. sometimes it's that forever end, other times it's not that radical, but not even close to what you have expected.
whatever happened to running barefoot in the mountainish rain, to snogging in the morning for hours, to fucking the job and going for a picnic in the woods, to lay in the sun and have your lover stroke your bony back with a straw of grass, to just laughing for no reason?
could I get more rhetorical than this?
it’s a good thing we have movies, videos and commercials to put that stuff into, while we keep this working-spending cycle alive and never get to that promised end which is as fake as the money we make and the stuff we think it buys us.

Featuring September

No rush. The sun is up and coming.
Your face pressed to the windshield.
Windy smell salutes your nose.
I'm happy. Happy to be able. Happy to fall off
The heat and the overrated summer,
The pressure of concrete roads.
I drive. I'm going far and hoping
The rain will flush my hair
And soak the heart out of my skin.
Reluctantly I grip on my shivering shoulders.
I like it. It just makes me smile.
It seems so plain and simple from the outside.
Instead of laughing I could cry.