Sunday, May 07, 2006


My flatmate just performed for me his impression of my apparently loud arrival home at 6am, complete with the back-to-back karaoke stylings of Goldfrapp's Ooh La La and Robbie Williams's Forever Texas, to which I apparently sang along to my i-Pod while consuming my 'dinner' of another Kronenbourg and chips with chili sauce, and dropping half of the contents of my yellow styrofoam box all over the floor. It was a lovely recreation of my (apparent) inebriated state when he heard me (apparently) saunter through the front door when the sun was rising this morning. I would see his performance again. Hell, I'd pay for it.

I have not hung out in Camden since my early 20s when I used to come to London on holiday, back when I flew across the pond and did not see the light of day for 7 to 10 consecutive days. But for some reason, pub and club decisions made by my wonderful friends have brought me back to Camden for two consecutive weekends in a row. I don't even remember the name of the club we went to last night? I guess this means I had another paralytic weekend, but whatever, I worked my ass off last week, so again, I needed it. I'm so thankful that my friends are ultimately decisive about where to go - this way I can remain apathetic to everything in my social life and not have to plan a damn thing. And now, while sitting in my bed with a vat of coffee at 3.30pm on Sunday, I can remember all the fun new people I met last night...but how did we end up at that club, anyway?

On Friday night I dragged a few friends to Actart, which billed itself as an exciting evening of photography, performance art, and multi-media. This was the biggest debacle of shit I've waded through in years. I'm the type of person who frequents 'alternative' theatre, photography galleries, and just odd-ish art period. But this was pretentious non-talented shite at it's absolute high of pretentious non-talented diarrhetic shite. Don't get me wrong - I work with celebrities and media moguls much of the time, so I have no problem with pretense. But, um, I only like pretentious people with talent. Or at least good-looking pretentious people who fully comprehend that they're pretentious snobs. Or at least pretentious rich people. I'm allergic to poor artists. And on Friday night, I sneezed nonstop.

Some of the evening's samplings included an early 30something tone-deaf indie showtune queen who thought he was performing in front of his bedroom mirror instead of before a group of paying customers. Later, when this guy saw me at the bar, he offered to put my drink on his performance artist tab, as if I was supposed to be impressed with his high-level celebrity status. When he asked me what I thought of his "art," I coincidentally had to excuse myself for the toilet. Strange, how I didn't return after having a wee.

Another devastating act was a French chick who wore lingerie and face paint, and lip-synched to some French diva's spoken word act while climbing around on top of a dummy. I was embarrassed for her, so much that I wanted throw my jacket over her and help her escape the building. I refused to clap when she had finished, although all the Eurotrash surrounding me applauded and offered empty, pretentious commentary while puffing on three cigarettes at once. Because, as everyone knows, when you chain-smoke and watch performance art pensively while wearing early-80s Mancurian post-punk apparel, you are deep, introspective, and intelligent. (Whatevuh. Ain't bovvered.) Again: mortified. Then two guys who were supposedly shocking (I guess?) stood onstage and took knives to each other's chests, slicing flesh wounds and thereby creating permanent scars in their skin. But at least it was "for their art."

The more drinks we had, the more my friends and I would wander around the three-floor building, pushing our way through clouds of marijuana smoke, and laughing our asses off at everything in our immediate vicinity. During one dramatic number, we tumbled onto the floor with laughter, so loudly I thought all the grandiose artistes were going to kick us out. On another floor, I was asked, "What do you think of when you hear the word Hard!? Quick, tell me everything that comes to your mind, and I'll paint it and then act it out for you!" By this point in the evening, I answered to the artiste, "Oh, get a fucking job."

After my weekend of bad art and Camden kids, this afternoon and evening I find it mandatory to go sit with some yuppie friends in a yuppie cinema in yuppie Islington and watch tacky, brainless Hollywood films.

Bad artists always admire each other's work. - Oscar Wilde