Every once in a while I venture out to other planets and then it hits me: Not everybody lives on Planet Gorgeous. And the scary thing is: the people residing on these other planets are totally unaware that they are not surrounded by beauty. They accept the ubiquitous unattractive, unpleasant and unappealing circumstances they are living in without any attempt to change it, and this makes me really sad.
Creating something beautiful, delightful and gorgeous comes naturally for those of us who live on Planet Gorgeous. Pursuing beauty: It is what we do. It is our religion.
My friend, Belg Droller, and I were commissioned by an art centre, about an hour’s drive from Planet Gorgeous, to showcase artwork, jewellery, textiles and accessories in a creative and ingenious way. We decided on presenting them with a fashion show without fashions. Talk about ‘thinking outside the closet’!
At the first meeting we were given the following information:
We get three rehearsals and one dress rehearsal before the show. (Are you serious? Rome was not built in a day. Rome was not even built in three days. In fact, Rome is still being built. As we speak, Roman construction workers are wolf-whistling women walking past scaffolding.)
The budget is non-existent. (What? No elaborate set? No pyrotechnics? No laser display? No dancing bears or singing monkeys?)
Because of H1N1, 70% of the models will not be attending the rehearsals, but should be better the night of the show, fingers crossed. (Wonderful! Choreographing and rehearsing without models will be like writing without a pen or attaching false eyelashes with breakfast cereal.)
The committee looked at us with nervous and expectant smiles on their faces.
“Can you do it?”
Can you stop inflation? Can taxis adhere to road regulations? Can Keanu Reeves act?
Belg and I looked at each other. Did I detect a hint of fear in his eyes?
“Where do you want to present the showcase?” I asked apprehensively, trying my best to disguise an impulsive menopausal hot flush. Belg was also sweating.
“We have a hall you can use, but there are no lighting or sound facilities,” declared a committee member bravely.
On the way home after the meeting, Belg and I decided to stop somewhere for a drink and after a bottle of champagne decided courageously: What the hell! Life is an adventure. If we can make this work, we can make anything work. It’s up to us, New York, Neeeew Yooork!
We had our work cut out for us. Swine flu swept through the cast and I was contemplating choreographing with a surgical mask. Michael Jackson would have been proud.
Some of the art work was still in the process of being completed, so I had no idea what I was working with and had to improvise. I asked for a smoke machine and I was informed that they don’t have a smoke machine at the art centre, but there is a vending machine with beverages I could use. “No, darling! Not a cigarette machine! Smoke! I want lots and lots of smoke to camouflage the flu ridden models that did not come to rehearsals and do not know the choreography.”
The lighting technician arrived half an hour before the show with two lights and a smoke machine and placed them on the stage. TWO lights to light a stage and a ramp! My life flashed before my eyes.
“Do you need help getting the lighting board out of your car?” I asked. But I was being optimistic. Or paranoid. Or maybe this guy is a genius. Maybe Nicole Kidman’s face is Botox free.
“No thanks” he replied surprised. “I’ll just get on stage during the show and switch the light and smoke machine on manually. When would you like me to do it?”
I had a small stroke. When I finally came to, and after the catatonia and hair loss cleared, I was surprised to still see him alive. Maybe I could just hurt or maim him a little?
“Belg!! I’m aging! Help!”
But Belg had his own problems trying to set up the powerpoint presentation for our spectacular multi-media fashion show, and just threw his hands up in the air summoning the seven muses for inspiration, while fighting a losing battle with cables, his laptop, an overhead projector, gaffer tape and an electronic screen that is supposed to go up and down during the show.
Showtime. The audience filtered into the auditorium in anticipation. Since we couldn’t afford a stage manager I prayed that the models were on standby backstage, as I could not see them from where I was sitting at the sound desk.
Opening number: Power point cue perfect. Belg is a genius.
Music cue spot on. I’m a genius.
Lighting cue: not much you can see with two lights.
Smoke: where the hell did the smoke go?
I rushed backstage. Someone had opened the stage door and all the smoke was being sucked outside. My red gels were disintegrating before my eyes. The two lights kept being kicked out of focus by the unrehearsed models.
But the show must go on. And go on it did, with only a minor hiccup here and there.
After the show we were congratulated on a wonderful and creative performance. Belg and I nodded and smiled and thanked the people for their compliments, no matter how drunk they must have been in order to enjoy the show.
Next time I’m going with dancing bears.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Animal Planet
On Planet Gorgeous we just love going to parties. The people are beautiful, the food is beautiful and the champagne cocktails are beautiful. On other planets parties can also be fun, because I get to see creatures in their natural habitat grazing, preening and hunting, and also learn a lot of behavioural patterns from species I might never encounter on my planet.
I was invited by friends to a birthday party held at a club in the city. As I entered the venue I immediately orientated myself by scoping out the lay of the land. Where is the best lighting? Where is the bar? Where can I position myself to observe the status quo?
I saw some people near the bar and joined them in order to catch up on the latest gossip, but the music was so loud that trying to converse respectably was like a listening to a record player needle jumping around on a seven single: “How. You. Pwzghjh. Where. Plant. Gxyngw. Truck. Cheese. Qmzks.” I could not understand or hear one bloody word anyone was saying. They might as well have been speaking Lithuanian.
Two young studs joined us and one offered to get me a drink. I know this because he was miming his offering. How gallant of him. Good looking and good manners! Maybe this party will be fun after all.
As he handed me my drink a wrinkle free twentysomething with legs up to her armpits appeared out of nowhere, grabbed him by the arm and coughed up something in his ear that sounded like ‘cougar’. He smiled at me apologetically and shrugged. She gave him a dirty look, frowned, and very subtly wagged her finger at me. What did this little charade mean? What just happened here? Have I been living on Planet Gorgeous for so long that I have become ignorant of certain societal rituals? I signalled to one of my friends that I needed to get some air and a cigarette.
As soon as we were outside, I braved my dilemma.
“Did you hear that giraffe in there say ‘cougar’?
My friend nodded knowingly.
“What does it mean?” I asked nervously.
“A cougar is a mature woman who scores with much younger men. Demi Moore is one. Susan Sarandon is one. And admittedly, Boefie, you are one.”
I did not know if this was a compliment or not. I decided to mitigate the situation.
“It makes me sound like a predatory feline who hunts, stalks, and imposes her attention upon some innocent, inexperienced young male. And believe me, these young men are not that innocent. The term was probably thought up by an insecure jealous twenty-five year old whose boyfriend was looking at a gorgeous older woman. Fifty is the new thirty! Wouldn’t you rather go out with a man that has a sixpack and only one chin? I would date Ashton Kutcher in a heartbeat. Tight ass, tight abs…”
“Boefie, calm down! You are ranting. I don’t understand your problem. You ARE dating younger men. Jealous women need to justify their emotions and feel better if they can label and classify their shortcomings.”
“Okay, so why do I all of a sudden feel like I am committing some heinous crime against society? I mean what about those awful lecherous old Sugar Daddies with arm candy draped like trophies? Shouldn’t they be called ‘lions’ or ‘cheetahs’ or ‘panthers’? Ooo, yes, let’s call them ‘cheetahs’, because they are all a bunch of predatory adulterers.”
My dear friend looked at me with an expression of ‘and your point is?’ I felt trapped. Do I need to justify my behaviour at my age? I have to accept the fact that it is the law of the jungle to survive at any cost.
So, my darling young gazelles, there is a cougar in your territory. Be careful.
I was invited by friends to a birthday party held at a club in the city. As I entered the venue I immediately orientated myself by scoping out the lay of the land. Where is the best lighting? Where is the bar? Where can I position myself to observe the status quo?
I saw some people near the bar and joined them in order to catch up on the latest gossip, but the music was so loud that trying to converse respectably was like a listening to a record player needle jumping around on a seven single: “How. You. Pwzghjh. Where. Plant. Gxyngw. Truck. Cheese. Qmzks.” I could not understand or hear one bloody word anyone was saying. They might as well have been speaking Lithuanian.
Two young studs joined us and one offered to get me a drink. I know this because he was miming his offering. How gallant of him. Good looking and good manners! Maybe this party will be fun after all.
As he handed me my drink a wrinkle free twentysomething with legs up to her armpits appeared out of nowhere, grabbed him by the arm and coughed up something in his ear that sounded like ‘cougar’. He smiled at me apologetically and shrugged. She gave him a dirty look, frowned, and very subtly wagged her finger at me. What did this little charade mean? What just happened here? Have I been living on Planet Gorgeous for so long that I have become ignorant of certain societal rituals? I signalled to one of my friends that I needed to get some air and a cigarette.
As soon as we were outside, I braved my dilemma.
“Did you hear that giraffe in there say ‘cougar’?
My friend nodded knowingly.
“What does it mean?” I asked nervously.
“A cougar is a mature woman who scores with much younger men. Demi Moore is one. Susan Sarandon is one. And admittedly, Boefie, you are one.”
I did not know if this was a compliment or not. I decided to mitigate the situation.
“It makes me sound like a predatory feline who hunts, stalks, and imposes her attention upon some innocent, inexperienced young male. And believe me, these young men are not that innocent. The term was probably thought up by an insecure jealous twenty-five year old whose boyfriend was looking at a gorgeous older woman. Fifty is the new thirty! Wouldn’t you rather go out with a man that has a sixpack and only one chin? I would date Ashton Kutcher in a heartbeat. Tight ass, tight abs…”
“Boefie, calm down! You are ranting. I don’t understand your problem. You ARE dating younger men. Jealous women need to justify their emotions and feel better if they can label and classify their shortcomings.”
“Okay, so why do I all of a sudden feel like I am committing some heinous crime against society? I mean what about those awful lecherous old Sugar Daddies with arm candy draped like trophies? Shouldn’t they be called ‘lions’ or ‘cheetahs’ or ‘panthers’? Ooo, yes, let’s call them ‘cheetahs’, because they are all a bunch of predatory adulterers.”
My dear friend looked at me with an expression of ‘and your point is?’ I felt trapped. Do I need to justify my behaviour at my age? I have to accept the fact that it is the law of the jungle to survive at any cost.
So, my darling young gazelles, there is a cougar in your territory. Be careful.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Coming out of the Age Closet
“Oh my God, Saffy darling, help. I’m having a hot flush. I don’t believe it. It’s a hot flush. Feel my skin.”
“Mum, you’re standing too close to the kettle”
(Edina and Saffron Monsoon, "Absolutely Fabulous")
Sweat is dripping down my cleavage, making the underwire in my Wonderbra rust. My face is on fire, and I’m convinced that I’m spontaneously combusting. My perfect coiffeur becomes sentient and I look like I have been caught in a tropical rain storm. What is happening? Am I experiencing global warming up close and personal?
I’m sitting in a restaurant with friends trying to not only look cool, but be cool too. It seems, though that I’m fighting a losing battle against the prevalent climate conditions of physiology. I remove my jacket. It doesn’t help. I need to take off all my clothes. Now I know why some people call it a hot ‘flash’. I grab the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and press it against my chest. Aaaahhh! Bliss.
“Boefie, are you okay?” my date, Getafix, whispers concerned.
“Yes, fine. Just a hot flush. It’s over now.”
The rest of my friends look at me as if I have just danced the fandango on the table in army boots. After an eternity of uncomfortable silence, Getafix, a healer, offered to bring me magic potions to ease me through…gasp…MENOPAUSE.
There! I’ve said it! I’m out of the closet. I feel totally liberated. I now have an excuse for being a total bitch, because I suffer from menopausal mood swings. I’m vindicated from crying for no reason and losing my temper at incompetent waiters, clueless shop assistants, lazy film crew and precocious children. I can finally stop feeling guilty and thinking I’m a horrible person in need of therapy or a personality change.
My brother, Donnyo, is optimistic about my condition. “So, will you be giving men a pause now?”
Another downside of this “change of life” is the sporadic bouts of memory loss. Learning monologues take twice a long as it did a few months ago. But I have become an expert at creative improvisation while saying my lines, convincing directors that the new lines are much more powerful than the original, especially due to seasoning the dialogue with a few frustrated expletives.
Shakespeare, once a source of perpetual inspiration, has now become a source of perpetual perspiration for me. Rehearsing a scene from Anthony and Cleopatra with my actor friend, Feral Beast, the other day went something like this:
Boefie as Cleopatra: “Your wife Octavia, all coy and…fuck!..ing shi..she is no match for me. But come, come, Antony.”
Feral as Antony: “What are you talking about? That’s not in the script.”
Boefie: “Just say your bloody line!” (cue simultaneous mood swing and memory loss)
Feral: (recovering and in character as Antony) “O, quick, or I am gone.”
Boefie: (on the floor holding the dying Antony in her arms) “God, you’re heavy! No, wait…how heavy…bloody hell…I knew this an hour ago…shit!... I feel a hot flush coming on…oh no…it’s here! Get off me!”
Getafix prescribed Memory Pills for me, but I keep forgetting to take them.
Other symptoms include:
Hair loss (but that could just be because I have been bleaching my hair for thirty five years resulting in permanent follicle destruction) (It’s true what they say about blondes…)
Difficulty concentrating (with all the knowledge accumulated these past fifty years I’m not surprised my brain is rebelling).
Brittle nails (I don’t know about this one because my nails are acrylic).
Dizziness (it could also be the champagne).
Sleep disorders (party all night so you don’t have to sleep).
Night sweats (like I said: party all night so you don’t have to sleep and then deal with another symptom, fatigue, with the excuse that you have partied all night.)
So, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go outside in the winter cold, naked and tired and scream obscenities at pedestrians.
“Mum, you’re standing too close to the kettle”
(Edina and Saffron Monsoon, "Absolutely Fabulous")
Sweat is dripping down my cleavage, making the underwire in my Wonderbra rust. My face is on fire, and I’m convinced that I’m spontaneously combusting. My perfect coiffeur becomes sentient and I look like I have been caught in a tropical rain storm. What is happening? Am I experiencing global warming up close and personal?
I’m sitting in a restaurant with friends trying to not only look cool, but be cool too. It seems, though that I’m fighting a losing battle against the prevalent climate conditions of physiology. I remove my jacket. It doesn’t help. I need to take off all my clothes. Now I know why some people call it a hot ‘flash’. I grab the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and press it against my chest. Aaaahhh! Bliss.
“Boefie, are you okay?” my date, Getafix, whispers concerned.
“Yes, fine. Just a hot flush. It’s over now.”
The rest of my friends look at me as if I have just danced the fandango on the table in army boots. After an eternity of uncomfortable silence, Getafix, a healer, offered to bring me magic potions to ease me through…gasp…MENOPAUSE.
There! I’ve said it! I’m out of the closet. I feel totally liberated. I now have an excuse for being a total bitch, because I suffer from menopausal mood swings. I’m vindicated from crying for no reason and losing my temper at incompetent waiters, clueless shop assistants, lazy film crew and precocious children. I can finally stop feeling guilty and thinking I’m a horrible person in need of therapy or a personality change.
My brother, Donnyo, is optimistic about my condition. “So, will you be giving men a pause now?”
Another downside of this “change of life” is the sporadic bouts of memory loss. Learning monologues take twice a long as it did a few months ago. But I have become an expert at creative improvisation while saying my lines, convincing directors that the new lines are much more powerful than the original, especially due to seasoning the dialogue with a few frustrated expletives.
Shakespeare, once a source of perpetual inspiration, has now become a source of perpetual perspiration for me. Rehearsing a scene from Anthony and Cleopatra with my actor friend, Feral Beast, the other day went something like this:
Boefie as Cleopatra: “Your wife Octavia, all coy and…fuck!..ing shi..she is no match for me. But come, come, Antony.”
Feral as Antony: “What are you talking about? That’s not in the script.”
Boefie: “Just say your bloody line!” (cue simultaneous mood swing and memory loss)
Feral: (recovering and in character as Antony) “O, quick, or I am gone.”
Boefie: (on the floor holding the dying Antony in her arms) “God, you’re heavy! No, wait…how heavy…bloody hell…I knew this an hour ago…shit!... I feel a hot flush coming on…oh no…it’s here! Get off me!”
Getafix prescribed Memory Pills for me, but I keep forgetting to take them.
Other symptoms include:
Hair loss (but that could just be because I have been bleaching my hair for thirty five years resulting in permanent follicle destruction) (It’s true what they say about blondes…)
Difficulty concentrating (with all the knowledge accumulated these past fifty years I’m not surprised my brain is rebelling).
Brittle nails (I don’t know about this one because my nails are acrylic).
Dizziness (it could also be the champagne).
Sleep disorders (party all night so you don’t have to sleep).
Night sweats (like I said: party all night so you don’t have to sleep and then deal with another symptom, fatigue, with the excuse that you have partied all night.)
So, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go outside in the winter cold, naked and tired and scream obscenities at pedestrians.
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