Soccer and High Heels

Hot on the high-heels of Felicity Huffman’s critically acclaimed Transamerica, She’s the Man is a gender bending comedy of errors, recycled from parts of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and Robin Williams’ Mrs Doubtfire. In it Amanda Byrnes plays a girl who pretends to be a boy in order to play soccer.

“Everybody has a secret...” reads the almost necessarily long tagline on the movie’s poster. “Duke wants Olivia who likes Sebastian who is really Viola whose brother is dating Monique so she hates Olivia who’s with Duke to make Sebastian jealous who is really Viola who’s crushing on Duke who thinks she's a guy...”

You might be wondering how I read to the end of the poster and still saw this movie. Surely a film with this many interlocking romantic triangles is one for a hot date? Not in my world. In my world this is the kind of film that I am cajoled into seeing by my slightly weird, thirteen year old, male (I should mention) cousin.

I thought, at the least, there might be some eye candy in the form of the female lead. This is usually where I find my solace in being cajoled to watch a sub-standard romantic comedy. I didn’t find it in this film. Amanda Byrnes, though perfectly lovable, looks about 12 years old. And, when disguised as her older brother, a 13 year old boy. This does not appeal to me. And so, with what remained of my appetite, I took what solace I could find in the mouth candy of my popcorn.

But, with exuberance as boundless as his baldness, the greatest consolation, by far, was an excellent turn by David Cross as the school principal. Essentially reviving his role as Tobias Fünke in Arrested Development, Cross’s headmaster is an even less convincing ‘man’ than Byrnes’ – awkward in his skin, weirdly effeminate and occasionally alluding to a penchant for cross-dressing. “Have you ever tried running in high heels?” he asks. “It’s not that easy...it’s not that easy.”

And have you ever tried sitting through a romantic comedy pitched at an age group, an IQ even, dare I say, a gender not your own? It is, I imagine, like running in high heels. It’s not that easy. It’s not that easy.

Baby Brown

Nannying has had its fair share of bad PR. British au pair, Louise Woodward and her murder trial did little for its image; so too did Jude Law when he, rather bizarrely, cheated on his fiancée, Sienna Miller with his children’s nanny. Then, of course, there was the Robin Williams film, Mrs Doubtfire, in which the profession is depicted as an opportunity for some cross-dressing, gender bending, slapstick humour. (“My first day as a woman and I am already having hot flashes.”)

And though, in her casual clothes, she does look somewhat like a small boy, my ex-girlfriend, Beth, is single-handedly improving the public image of the au pair industry. She is meticulous in her care of the four Wheeler children and careful too, to instil some racial tolerance at an early age. I witnessed this first hand yesterday, when I met with Beth and her youngest – two-year old Bea.

“I like your shirt,” I said. “It’s pink. Do you like pink?”
“Yeah,” she replied, coyly.
“My shirt is blue.” I said, pointing to it. “Do you like blue?"
“Yeah,”
“And what about brown, Bea?” asked Beth. Then, pointing at my face, “Do you like brown?”
She thought about it. It was an excruciating moment, but rewarded with relief.
“Yeah,” said Bea. “Brown!”

Be still my stupid heart.

Do you remember that college film, in which a guy cheats on his girlfriend on camera, accidentally sends it to her and then embarks on a road trip to retrieve the tape before she sees it? You know, he and his friends hit the road...in a trip across the States? And lots of funny things happen on the road and during their trip? What’s it called? ‘Road’ something? Something ‘Trip’? I don’t know.

Anyway, I find myself in a similar circumstance – more tenuous, I suppose, than similar. But having returned from my own road trip I now find myself chasing an item of mail, in an attempt to exonerate myself of a stupid incident. There was, I suppose, driving involved, and sex. No videotape however (most unusual), but a letter – and a stupid one at that.

You see, towards the end of my trip, I found myself in the embrace of an ex-girlfriend – one I didn’t think I’d ever see again. In the moment and, I guess, out of my mind, I found myself in a compromising situation and, convinced that this was the result of her undying and unrelenting love for me, wrote her a letter whilst on the plane home.

With a combination of jetlag, fatigue, and the after-effects of that blasted in-flight romantic comedy, I dropped it in the letterbox and essentially sent her a letter of sympathy. I could not, I wrote, find it in my heart to love her again.

Imagine my surprise then when I returned home to an e-mail from said lost-love. It was nice to see me, it said. And nice too, it went on, to relive the passion. “See you later,” it finished. “Cheers.” What I thought was the star-crossing of two paths, nevertheless a rocky road, was nothing more than a booty call.

I was, of course, happy to oblige. But there was a letter, on its way, with a far less casual tone. It must be stopped, I thought. I might not have saved ass, but I was hoping, at least, to save face.

I implored her not to read it, but couldn’t imagine how she would not. Especially with all the imploring. I wondered how long it would take to arrive; I worried that her roommate/ex-boyfriend/whatever might read it; I wished I hadn’t sent it.

Today, I got a letter. In fact, I got two. The first read:

“Dear San, I didn’t open this letter. Alas, I don’t know how to steam it open, but I also trust that if you really wanted to say something to me, you would just say it, unapologetically. So, here is your letter back, unravaged by my curiousity. I hope you’re well… Always, X”

The second was mine, enclosed.

Blog Author for Sale

In my last post, pointless though it was, I asked whether my trip to California had changed me. The question plagued me for, oh, fifteen minutes. I had just as soon forgotten it when Vodafone, my mobile phone provider, called with an answer.

If I had changed since my trip it was financially. Whilst out there, it seems, I made a number of calls, resulting in a bill of £360. I have changed. I’m broke.

Hotel reservations, e-mail checking, booty calls have cost me more than my car rental. Hell, they’ve cost me more than my flight! And now, I need to find a way to recoup my costs.

First to go is my match.com subscription. I’m not going to find love within six months and I don’t even qualify for the guarantee. I haven’t organised enough dates, or rather, dates haven’t always shown up.

Next, are the extravagant Marks & Spencer ready meals. No more Char-Grilled Chicken Linguini with Salsa Verde for me. I bought a sack of potatoes today.

And I’m drastically cutting my shoe budget. – gasp –

Saving money is one thing. Making money is another. And I’ve been thinking of ways to do so with as little effort as possible. See the ads above? Now click.

I figure, with my site statistics, I should make an easy...15c per week. To supplement that I’ve also gone into publishing. Self-publishing, rather, with Lulu. No, not the famed 60's singer (though my books and my prices will make you want to shout! – that’s going on the cover).

Lulu is a free self-publishing site that prints and ships each order as it’s bought. You keep your rights, design, price and 80% of the profits. And, since I thought that I have a much smaller percentage of free time available to write books, let alone paltry blog entries, I decided to publish some of my earlier works. Namely, a university paper, The Thrills: Michael Jackson, MTV and Multi-platinum Success; my dissertation, The Funk: A Cultural Response to the Disappointments of Post-Civil Rights Era America; and, slightly less academic and, arguably, less entertaining than Michael Jackson, MTV and funk music, a compilation of my best blog entries.

And, as a final measure, and perhaps to compensate for having to cancel my match.com subscription, I researched online escort agencies. (This is part of a money-making scheme, mind you, not just a way to blow my remaining money on some good company.) Ideal Escorts can help you make £500 per night. And, I figure, I’d be killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Well, hopefully, no girls will have to die. But they would be helping a worthy cause. We both would be.

And you can help too. Click an ad, order a book, order me!

It's a kind of magic

Somebody asked me tonight if I was a long baby when I was born.
I said, “Yes.” I said that I was unravelled like a never-ending handkerchief from a magician’s sleeve.

And just as I vanished to America for a month, I now feel suddenly pulled from a hat – a floppy eared bunny rabbit!

Ta-da.

OK, I may be no more floppy eared than usual (they’ve always been big) or, indeed, as highly sexed as a rabbit, but did my vanishing act to California change me?

I think that whenever you leave and return to a place, you give yourself the opportunity to start afresh or, at least, a new chapter. It’s like an artificial New Years. It starts with so many resolutions. Keeping them, though, would be magic.