Today was their civil wedding at a beautiful rural English pub. Just close family and friends, a ring exchange, a hilarious justice of the peace and the same registra that presided over Camilla and Charles. Claaasssy.
And now for something not so classy.
Lots of love to my sister and my new brother in law, Roy.
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Last night, I couldn't stop watching "Fair Game" that movie with Cindy Crawford and a Baldwin. The English Sunday Times TV listings described it as "utterly brainless" but its so much more.
Crawford plays a lawyer, the kind that fights for the little hispanic people. You know that she cares about people because she has pine furniture in her apartment and then it is blown up by baddies. You know that she's a lawyer because she wears suits with padded shoulders and really short skirts and says "documents" a lot. Sometimes she's wearing a jogging outfit.
Try and watch this all the way through, it will be hard but rewarding.
So its not as good as "Showgirls" but its a close cousin.
Lets talk about the bad guys for a second, the main baddie is Victor Maitland from Beverly Hills Cop I, the guy with the mole in the middle of his forehead. He plays exactly the same character with the same cool detached British accent. His posse are dressed in black and armed and spend their whole time in a black SUV following Cindy and the Baldwin around. The baddie wearing glasses is in charge of the computer that tracks Cindy and Balwin's every phone call and also can detect thermal body readings in whatever building they are in. This comes in handy when they send in disposable bad guy with long hair and disposable bad guy with the short blond hair to go kill them. Then there's the Latina chick bad guy who wears short black skirts or shorts and says "conyo" everytime something goes wrong. She wears lots of blush and has freckles but short, very severe baddie hair.
The sex scene, after no sexual tension whatsoever, takes place in an empty train compartment that casts lots of 1980's shadows over them - see picture above. Cindy gets her tits out and Balwin shows his ass. Most notable moment? When she reaches down his jeans and pulls out his massive gun.
The baddies eventually kill everyone connected to Baldwin and Cindy, all of his best friends and his cousin at the lab who helps him decode bullet shell mysteries and the like. Balwin's perpetually angry and shouting police cheif is played awesomely by Shooter Maggavin of "Happy Gilmore" fame. He is genuinely amusing.
I never watched the very end because a re-run of The Sopranos was on the other channel and, must I explain?
I am sure it concludes with Cindy and Balwin jogging into the sunset togethor on their way to a pine furniture shop. She probably says something like "if I was billing you this whole time I'd be rich" and he would respond with "bill this!" and plants a kiss on her. He will still have that gash on the side of his face that shifted position slightly from scene to scene.
Freezframe and roll credits.
Last week I watched a made for TV movie called "Dying to Belong" starring Hilary Swank, her mouth, Six from "Blossom" (she's the one who dies) and Zack from "Saved by the Bell". Its about university hazing gone deadly. The lead bitch at the sorority house is played by the blond from "Scrubs" (check out her expression on the movie poster) and she does a good job of not looking totally ugly in the early 90's. I watched it the WHOLE WAY THROUGH and actually enjoyed it. Hilary does well despite the script and the tormenting of the pledges is realisic and enjoyable. It gets a 3 star rating as a hang over chick flic.
After our first day of lounging pool side at La Plage Rouge, we decided to hit the souqs in search of lovely gorgeous things to buy. Heidi was dressed in a cream tank top/mini skirt combo which made visible her hot pink bikini. She remedied the situation by shrouding her fair skin and blond hair in a translucent red shawl which without doubt added to the titillation factor turning her into a sort of walking sex present wrapped in red gauze. In her defence, our decision to hit the marketplace had been a spontaneous one, so she had dressed for a day of lounging by the pool.
After several unsuccessful bouts of haggling that ended with angry shop keepers yelling that we had wasted their time (classic), I found a leather shop with a friendly young chap who left me alone to survey the offerings and gave me mad respeck when I said I was from Marseille (my name was Chantelle). Rita scored a double hit with a leather pouf and bag but complains that the pouf is stinking up her flat. I, a few days later, annoyed my sister and mother greatly by haggling over a berber instrument for 20 minutes while everyone waited and my sister got accosted by a local perv. I got the instrument at long last and think it will make people like me more when they see it in my (future) apartment but it too is a bit smelly. It is made from goat.
After our first night of being ripped off at a mediocre tourist restaurant, my sister tightened the organization hat she wears daily and decided we should make some reservations. Initially, we asked reception at our flee bag hotel for help.
"We would like to dine at a nice restaurant with local food that isn't a tourist trap" Helly explained en Francais to the receptionist who stared back at my sister with annoyance like she was a defective science project. Thanks to the Lonely Planet guide, and lots of poolside calling from Helly's blackberry, we got our names down at some impressive eateries and ate very well indeed for the duration of our stay.
Flight back at crack of dawn with well shameful airline (sort of easy jet version of Royal Air Maroc), and back to the Maiden of Heads after train and car rides. Once home, mom and I had energy enough to switch on the telly and chew food. Happy to be back, who would have thought? The river never looked so beautiful, the vegetation so green...but then everything looks better when you are tan.
Here's the dude I was dating in Morocco. It didn't work out but we're texting.
So Marrakech. I narrowly avoided moped death about 6 times a day for 4 days, a total of 24 times and yes I had to use a calculator.
Lets start the story with the hotel mix up. My sister and I had made the booking with our local travel agent and it is safe to say that something got fucked and by something I mean us.
Our “hotel” was a flee bag complete with Arthur the bathroom wall art (squished bug on wall that was there every day) and “pool” (two metres of water inhabited by Dutch children set in a shadowy courtyard of shame).
The eating area in the hotel is located on a mezzanine and I know what you’re thinking and YES, it overlooked a supermarket that made frequent loud speaker announcements. Awesome. The waiter staff cleaned tables by wiping discarded egg shells and bread onto the floor with their hands and had a perpetual “I’m on my break” attitude which was bothersome as there was always something missing at the breakfast buffet like bowls, cups and breakfast.
Needless to say, we spent every day in search of adventure and luxury. And we found it twice in the form of La Plage Rouge, swanky Delano style pool retreat complete with resident DJ and lots of French tits. We sunbathed to the tune of Jill Scott, Bill Withers and occasionally, the Middle Eastern version of “I Will Survive.”
Wine and cigarettes later and I’m feeling positively jet set until the DJ got Euro at 4pm sharp, turned the volume up to 11 and unleashed an assault of house music. Most offensive was the version of Captain Timberlake’s “My Love” raped by techno. Even though the good song is trying to come through the cancerous beats, its just not enough - like seeing a hot guy and then noticing that he has a tribal band tattoo. Hot with a deal breaker = ruined.
Next time we went to La Plage Rouge we (Heidi) politely asked them to delay the techno explaining that it was like a "hammer to the head". Not only was it delayed (4.30pm), but it was radio friendly hip hop in the form of Outkast and Brandy. Oh happy day.
One day we spent at L'Hivernage Hotel and Spa where Helly treated all us girls to treatments. I had a no nonsense bare ass body scrub delivered by a strong armed local woman who kept pointing out the layer of epidermus she had removed. The dead skin had collected in clumps all over me until she hosed it away, slathered me in green paste and left me in a steam room to think about it. This was followed by another hose down, a full body massage and mini facial. I walked out shiny and new and then executed my new skin in the sun the next day. I feel guilty.
More on Morocco soon in "Morocco Part Deux." Stay tuned.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
Benjy came to London this weekend and rescued me from Maidenhead. We gate crashed a PR party (where professional photographers took numerous pictures of us sipping champagne), we had drinks at the Royal Exchange and dinner with friends.
Today we met up in Primrose Hill and had lunch, walked around and stared into people's homes with envy. Walked up the hill and stared at London for a while then walked down, winded. And in the cab on our way to his hotel, he pulled out The Rene...and then.....
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
So, true story. An old friend of mine used to work at FAO Schwartz on 5th Ave as a toy demonstrator. One day, he was stationed in the "doll wing" and saw this amazing exchange unfold before him.
The doll wing is this huge light filled room with hundreds of glass displays of vintage Barbies worth your rent. At the top of the escalator stands Richard Simmons, jazzercise guru and doll collector (little known fact I happen to be aware of) and yes, he was wearing those small shorts favoured by Olympic Walkers. At the bottom of the escalator is a mid-western woman in Wrangler jeans with one of those huge rectangular asses. She spots the furry idol and screams “OH MY GOD, Richard Simmons!” and Richard, from the top of the escalator throws his arms in the air and screams “OH MY GOD laaaaady!!” and runs down to embrace her in that way he does.
I can only imagine what it must have been like to witness this first hand, especially for my friend who never went to work without doing at least 4 gravity bong hits out of a bucket in the kitchen sink (of the apartment we shared). He would supplement this morning dose with joints during his lunch breaks/bathroom breaks/unofficial breaks. Anything to get him through a day of working at FAO surrounded by America’s, nay the worlds, youth.
Being stationed in the “ball room” was the worst fate possible as every boy child made it his day’s ambition to pelt the toy demonstrator with persistent hostility. All too often parents would stare down at their son with proud smiles and make comments about his athletic abilities, but the minute they turned their backs on little Jimmy, my friend would throw a ball back at the unsuspecting child…as hard as possible. Something else I would equally have liked to witness, perhaps even more than lovely Richard.
Am amazed that my friend was able to retaliate against the children at all, I mean – he was the kind of stoned that shouldn’t be in public, the kind of stoned that has you pleading with your flat mates to call an ambulance certain that you will be the only person to ever over dose on weed. Then again, this is a guy who as a teenager would drop 3 tabs of acid and then go on a rollercoaster.
I guess this is what you do when you grow up in Ohio.
your greatest fan,