Stumbled onto 2021: New Year’s Resolutions

 

‘Stumbled onto 2021’ is the most appropriate title for this post, considering the current global situation. I know we are all in a rush for 2021, but God knows we are in no form to run or walk towards it. We will be lucky if we get there in one piece. I haven’t done too many of these lists, I like to think; I did one for when I turned 25 because it felt like a landmark at the time. It wasn’t. Everything was pretty much similar to 24. However, I am hoping to follow through with this list and this doubles as a future retrospective post for when I have once again run out of ideas. So perhaps my first new year’s resolution is to adopt a more practical tactical brilliance and I can cross it off the list immediately.

Reduce the ‘Hamilton’

I made the mistake of watching Hamilton in July, when it premiered on Disney plus. Yes, a mistake! I know it is amazing; the music, the story, the visuals, the characters, the performances. It is spotless. But also, addictive. We are a group of four friends, let me rephrase that, ENABLERS, that will drop Hamilton references into every conversation, break into song with every opportunity and cry unprompted when people count from one to ten in French. And worst part about it is the breaking into song, because Hamilton, in case you weren’t aware, is a hip-hop musical. And we are white girls that cannot rap. But we don’t let that stop us from attempting Guns and Ships in 0.0025 the speed. It’s been almost six months that I have hardly listened to any music other than Hamilton, scored in the top 15% of their listeners on Spotify and I wasn’t even the highest one of the bunch. This is the moment for this Hamilton obsession to end. Scratch that, this is not a moment, it’s a movement. Oh, crap.

Get a PhD

This may sound like an overly optimistic resolution in general, but I am three and a half years in and ready to burst. I need to move on. But for this plan to succeed, there is something else I need. I need to get the fancy piece of paper that will restitute my time, sanity and honour. Problem is, ideally that fancy piece of paper would lead to a job that would once again revolve around a topic I no longer want to look at, but if push comes to shove I will use it as nothing more than a handkerchief for my tears. Either way, it will not go to waste. In other words, for the new year, I can hope to ignore this blog, TV shows, YouTube and joy in general (Lord, show me how to say no to these) and focus on my good friends, Microsoft Word, SPSS and Matlab. I don’t know why I put a resolution doomed to fail so high up on the list.

Stop ignoring my alarm clock

I am an anxious person. Anxiety is my fuel. Unfortunately, that has one downside. Okay, that has a million downsides, but the one I am preoccupied with at this moment is that in absence of an anxiety provoking factor, I will snooze a couple of times, eventually shut off my alarm clock and lie in wait, falling behind and running late. And there’s a million things I haven’t done, hours to take advantage of, resolutions to… resolute. It’s not even a case of being sleep deprived; I sleep for seven or eight hours for energy restoration and the continue sleeping recreationally. And then my back hurts, that is how much I sleep.

Do a whole vegan month

I have managed a vegan diet for a maximum of 22 days. I think it is high time I add the extra eight days to that number and have a whole month of regular poop. Because that’s what happens when you are a vegan. You poop. And if you don’t know, now you know. Veganism is a difficult task for me, being young, scrappy and hungry, but I like my vegan months; they work well as a detox and they also effectively spice up my diet. I am now a regular consumer of dark chocolate, which I wasn’t, and frequently snack on green apples with peanut butter, which I didn’t. It also very effectively confuses my dad, which is fun, if anything, to watch. Never have I ever seen a man so embarrassed to bring his daughter to a steakhouse and have her eat couscous and mushrooms. NO CHEESE. Left him with nothing but ruined pride, something new inside.

Allow myself to leave a series incomplete

A series of books, as of late. I started reading the ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy in order to watch the corresponding BBC series. They are a very nice collection of books. If you are a teenager. If you have come of age with young Lyra. If you are an adult catching up on Pullman’s cultural effect, it is impossible to follow. The plan was to read a total of three books, the work divided evenly among the three summer months. In the end, I read two books in the span of six months (this reference is so subtle, it leans more towards plagiarism). The reason it has taken so long is that I have abandoned reading as a result of this painfully obvious religious allegory. And friends who care for me have instructed me to let it go. As a gesture. And perhaps then I can let other things go. Like a sunblock that has accidentally been infused with sand, or a movie like Seven Years in Tibet, when it becomes apparent that Brad Pitt’s blue eyes can make a movie only so interesting. This resolution is mostly a leeway to my next new year’s resolution; I want to read at least twelve books throughout the year. And I am not throwing away my shot.

Read at least twelve books

None of which will be ‘The Amber Spyglass’. But I won’t name the rest. I will keep all my plans close to my chest and see which way the wind will blow.

Catch up on my podcasts

Lockdown has taken a toll on everyone. In my case, I have seriously fallen behind on my podcasts. And I love my podcasts; they are my largest supply of Conan O’Brien and fun facts to annoy my friends with. And a good way to distance myself from the musical that shall not be named. I would listen to podcasts in one of two occasions; either when I was travelling places or running on the treadmill. Obviously, lockdown has interfered with both as we are not allowed to travel anywhere much and I have lost the will to act. I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory.

Seriously, reduce the Hamilton

If this post is any indication, the situation is fraught, I need to be carefully taught. Oh, not again. I am helpless.

Stumbled onto a bunch of cooking channels

Lockdown is still in place here in Greece. This means that the things that bring me joy have been limited to series, reality shows, comedy specials, not washing my hair for about a week and food. So let me waste some time on each of these other things and eventually get to food and hence the channels.

I am working my way through Better Call Saul, reminding myself why Vince Gilligan is probably responsible for at least 0.04% of those suffering from Stockholm syndrome. Anti-heroes were never before that loveable, unless they were sexy, And Bob Odenkirk is many things, but he is not sexy. Not unless I have watched six episodes straight and have not been wearing my glasses and, you know, haven’t seen a human male in the flesh for a while. I hope they have clued in whoever cast him for ‘Nobody’ that we are not down for an ab-defined topless Bob Odenkirk scene. Please.

Reality shows are mentioned just in time, as tonight is the show finale for Greece’s Next Top Model. Therefore I will be done with that reprehensible pastime. You know, until Master Chef premieres in 2021. I always go into watching these shows with a cool, dissociated attitude, mocking the process and ‘watching for the cringe factor’. But I am so invested in the show right now, it’s not even funny. I express my rage on Twitter, I drink herbal tea to get over the fact that the judges are biased and just eliminated the most worthy of contestants. I even shush my friends’ sarcastic comments’ even though that is the supposed reason we would watch the show in the first place; this is serious business now.

Comedy specials are the one thing that have rightfully pushed me through this mundane lockdown. Not much to talk about here; I have fallen back in a James Acaster pit hole after being reminded of ‘Taskmaster’, ready to pay good money to watch his live show online. Give me a ginger, tall man that can recite a joke or two and chances are I will stay glued to my screen, never go out and therefore never catch Covid. Unless they produce a hilarious talk show Podcast about needing a friend, I can listen to on the go; then I cannot promise much.

Here is the possibly wrongfully labelled ‘pastime’, as I am not sure that NOT doing something can be considered one. But I guess if you don’t buy a scarf and therefore make it yourself, knitting becomes a hobby itself. Not washing your hair is not just a sign of laziness; it’s not the easy way out. There’s dry shampoo involved and coming up with poor excuses about why your hair roots have literally changed colour and actively avoiding scratching your very, very itchy head. There’s much effort involved. But it’s all worth it; because then you don’t have to use a blow-dryer.

And finally, food. I love food and didn’t realise just how much until I tried to cut down on it. The tasty food, anyway. I have been eating so much fruit and cucumber as of late, I have almost forgotten what bacon tastes like. I say almost, because if I shut my eyes and focus really hard I can almost taste it from memory. But for some reason I also find it very relaxing to masochistically watch other people cook butter-based meals and eat them in from of a camera. Because let’s be honest, that is the most accurate description of cooking channels on YouTube. I have consumed so many recipes that I do not remember or plan to reproduce; I just watch the ingredients stride from one end of the screen to another, not even necessarily decoding what it is I am watching. Is it a cake? Is it a steak? Is it a soup? Couldn’t tell you if I tried. Those videos are truly wasted on me. I hope I am not the only one that passively consumes these cooking channels as a way to unload. Surely. Tasty is too popular for all its viewers to actually engage with the material.

I have come to some realisations after watching Babbish and Joshua Weissman on their very tasty-looking culinary endeavors. The answer to most cooking troubles is butter. Essentially they use shitloads of it and if we all cooked like they do in our everyday life, the dairy industry would run out of cows. And hospitals would run out of defibrillators. Both equally detrimental. Essentially when a recipe requires butter it requires all the butter, when it requires eggs it requires a coup’s worth, when it requires cheese it requires a bucket of it and when it requires any other ingredient, well, it’s just a decoy for more butter. I don’t doubt its effectiveness; adding butter in anything makes it better. But butter quantity in tasty foods seems to be one of those things that is best left unseen. Ready-to-eat is not more healthy, but definitely less stressful. Awareness is not always a pleasure.

There is still hope that one day I will put all this knowledge I’ve received through osmosis to good use and actually make that over-the-top mac and cheese, or overly gooey chocolate chip cookies. I mean it’s lockdown and Better Call Saul is only five seasons long, I might as well. However, it remains most likely I’ll keep on watching butter be stirred and cheese be topped and chocolate be grated than actually do it myself. And if my masochism gives way and I decide to indulge in something tasty of that sort, I’ll probably order it.

Stumbled onto Black Friday during lockdown

 

Quarantine has generally been a time for numerous, possibly useless online sales for me. I say possibly because I don’t see a reason I won’t be able to wear my new All Saints dress to the local grocery store once quarantine is over. Or why my new lipsticks wouldn’t show, just because I’ll be wearing a face mask on top. I think as a society, we have grown beyond mere eyesight and can sense other people’s make up. I imagine we were all pretty bored and looking forward to some sales event and some new, affordable additions to our households to revive this stale feeling of purposeless existence. Too dark? However, here is how the lockdown made this Black Friday interesting to me. I found myself unable to assess what I needed and allowed myself to obsess over price fluctuations for way too long.

I suspect this won’t be relatable to everyone. I know there are busier people than me and much more able to prioritise. Nonetheless I did do everything wrong and felt I should share. Let this be proof as to why I am not the best gift buyer. There were two things I needed; a new coffee maker and a new set of glasses. There were two things I wanted; a liquid blush and a new TV. Instead, I bought some new clothes and make up that in no way can be applied on the cheeks.

I will begin with the situation regarding the TV. My current TV is actually 15 years old. She was an excellent purchase back in the day (yes, it’s a she) by my older brother and I remember, as a youngster, being in awe of the quality, the size, those funky backscreen lights it had. Also, my brother is a tech wizard and had managed to connect this TV with the room’s PC through two different adaptors, which might be less convenient than directly signing into your Netflix account on the TV itself, but not that much of a bother. Things were going great; I had even failed to notice that you can practically see the edges of each pixel on the screen and the funky, accompanying lights had settled for a permanent, boring yellow hue. But then the somewhat younger PC died unexpectedly. Okay, expectedly, because it might have been younger, yes, but was still quite old. I certainly didn’t expect it because, as we have established, my assessments are terrible, but no one else was surprised. The current problem is this TV is old enough that about four generations of adaptors are needed to connect her to my laptop. I decided this Black Friday was my best chance to replace it. And then, I set up an impossible equation. I decided to find the largest possible size for my furniture, with the absolutely most recent technology, from a brand I know and trust, all under 200 euros. And obsessed over it for the duration of the sales. Obviously, this economic angel does not exist and my trusted 2005 Philips will remain in my care until November 2021. Along with its external digital receiver. It’s all very retro.

There isn’t much to my make up purchases, other than they are certainly redundant, regardless of the lockdown. I surely have enough of it, even though it never feels like it. And I certainly won’t be wearing it anywhere any time soon. Although I do have some epiphanies where I paint my whole face, dress up, lie on the couch and discuss the second season of ‘Succession’ with Baymax. However, as a rightful victim to capitalism, I want to try anything that sounds like something I don’t already own. And I know I do not own a liquid blush. But the make up industry is such a black hole that I ended up with new lipsticks, lip balms, brow products and skincare and my new blush craze sort of evaded my Sephora basket. Maybe it’s for the best, maybe it would be good for me to simply dream about a fresh, rosy cheek that can be achieved with products already in my possession, but won’t; if nothing else, as a reminder of this unfair omission of mine. Glasses I never even looked at, I think I have grown used to this humbling fuzziness that shows up when I stare at my screen for too long. Plus I can claim that any spelling or syntax mistake in my blog posts are due to increased short sightedness that has remained unaccounted for. In all honesty, I have minimum short-sightedness; I should just look away from the screen every 45 minutes and I’ll be fine.

I did, however, get the new coffee maker. It is a beauty. It is red. That’s it, really, that is its only redeeming feature. That and it makes coffee without the need for manual labour. Simple enough, and therefore cheap enough. But no, nothing was simple anymore. By now, I was starting to feel that I hadn’t taken enough advantage of this opportunity. I wanted to make sure I made the most out of this Black Friday. So, while this coffee maker was about thirty euros worth, less than the aforementioned unwearable All Saints dress, I wanted to get it cheaper. I checked the site every day. There was a discount alright, but I just felt like they could do more. I thought I’d wait it out, cheat the electronics store and wait until the very end for my purchase. I would squint my eyes to the screen like a cowboy, defying it to make the first move. Until it did and posted the ‘Limited stock’ tag. I have never made a purchase that quick. I folded. I yielded. I embarrassed myself. But I did get three extra euros off, and if that doesn’t count as a Black Friday triumph, I don’t know what does.

Please do not see this post as a sales guide. Do not see this post as an indicator of December content. Hopefully, it won’t be. See this post as it is; proof of my decay into MADNESS! I feel like we have learnt all we can from Covid and now it officially needs to stop. We all took up meditation, we learnt to appreciate the little things, we all watched Tiger King, we all started and abandoned a YouTube workout at home, some of us started eating healthy (which is disgusting), sleeping better, we saw our carbon footprint and how we have been suffocating nature. Lesson learnt. Can we go out now?

Stumbled onto the new era of Disney musicals

 

Stumbled? Not stumbled, more like run out of ideas and decided to diss Frozen and express my love for Moana and Coco. I am sure most people liked all three, which I understand. I am sure a good portion preferred Frozen out of the three. That’s what I don’t get. I personally did not like Frozen; it surely did not help that I was already fed up of ‘Let it Go’ by the time I actually watched the movie. Or that I wasn’t yet a fan of Jonathan Groff, having only seen him play the bastard he did in Glee. But I have attempted to limit this particular bias and still end up disliking Frozen. And loving Moana and crying during Coco every fucking time.

So here is my theory. Frozen was a relatively safe revival of the animated musical genre. I am not entirely sure that this is how the genre is called but I am sticking with it. I have already made a mistake; one that pisses me off when it is other people that make it. That is Frozen did not revive the animate musical genre; Tangled did. Frozen just followed course. It was Tangled that was very successful in 2011 which led the way for another Disney movie with this already successful format from Disney’s best years in animation. But I am not one to hold a grudge for a movie not being the first of its kind. I am not old enough, nor have seen enough old movies for that; I would have fewer opportunities to do so. I think the problem is Frozen was another Andersen fairy tale, with western themes and imagery. I know ‘Let it Go’ won an Oscar and is universally loved and the cast is famous and lovely all around and all that is nice and true. It doesn’t feel like a passion project, though. Not to me and my opinion continues to be of universal importance. It is, however, very possible (certain, some would say) that this ‘passion project’ criticism is just me trying to justify why I never went crazy for Frozen. I like the shift in focus from a romantic endeavour between a prince and a princess to two sisters, two leading female characters, but it seems they couldn’t risk not having a romantic prospect at all. Enter Kristoff (I hope that’s the name of the guy and not the moose. If it is the moose, I assure you I am not suggesting Frozen promotes bestiality). And the other guy, Hans. And a merchandisable snowman. There is still quite a bit of a formula in Frozen and that is what makes me think that executives played a bigger part than creators did. Or a significant enough part to make it feel a bit flat. And I’ll say it, even though no one else is. The rest of the songs are…meh. At best. And the comedy is meh, at best. Except that one joke in ‘Love is an Open Door’; the one with the sandwiches. Look it up, I refuse to plagiarise.

On the other hand, I feel both Moana and Coco were passion projects. Now, I have limited proof for this. If any. Okay, I have no proof for this. Not to say that executives are non-existent in these films. Hei-Hei was a blunt merchandise opportunity if I ever saw one. But the stories are so much sweeter and original. At least for western audiences. The family theme is much more prominent in these films, which is also a lot more prominent in Latin cultures and (I suppose) Polynesian culture. And it provokes a much stronger emotional response, at least it did for me. It is not just immediate family; it’s grandparents and the notion of family, including ancestry etc, it’s finding that balance between loving your family but making your own path through life. If I had to render a guess, this is also a more appropriate and relatable theme for kids. Kids and menstruating 26 year olds in lockdown. Talking about a friend of mine. I also very much enjoyed the colours, the imagery, the influences from a culture I am not frequently subject to. It was much more exciting to get glimpses out of this mythology, these traditions, this art that I would otherwise not look up online because I am a basic bitch. So as someone living in Western culture (not geographically, you know what I mean), it was much more exciting to hear these stories instead of another rendition of Snow Queen. And as I understand it, people from non-Western cultures are equally excited to see their stories, that are so seldom included in mainstream culture, animated and Hollywood-ified. Or they might hate on the inaccuracies, as we Greeks do about Hercules. By the way, awesome, hilarious movie, worth the re-watch at any age.

There is no need for comparison between Frozen, and Moana and Coco, other than getting a bit of friction for the blog. But I will now continue as if I had never admitted to this about how much I loved both Moana and Coco. They were both visually stunning and the music was brilliant. No surprise as far as Moana is concerned; Miranda can do no wrong. But that’s the thing, Moana has more than one incredible song! And each of them is special in a different way. Coco too; ‘Un Poco Loco’ can lift me up any time and ‘Remember Me’ can bring me to tears just as quickly. Quicker even. Also, Moana was originally pitched by Taika Waititi, which is generally enough reason for me to love anything.

It was interesting to see how far I’ll go to just to hate on Frozen. I think I just couldn’t let it go until I had written it all out. The unevenness in reception between this classic snow tale and the two more ethnic and heartfelt features drives me un poquititito loco. If anyone else feels the same way let me say you’re welcome. If this conversation comes into play, remember me.

Stumbled onto another music biopic

 

I did it! This post is actually pop culture related! This blog is back on track for a week or so. But I’ll be honest; it’s not looking good. We are practically re entering a coronavirus lockdown and I might have to bring back the ‘Blog in the Time of Corona’ series, featuring, Leyla, cats and awkward social norms.

I woke up with a relatively positive mood. I say relatively because (1) I woke up with an alarm, which is never a good start to the day, (2) we are indeed entering a semi-lockdown, (3) Greece just went through an earthquake, and (4) I run out of pretty face masks. However, I somehow managed to be optimistic about my day; made a nice breakfast, had a pleasant workout, and took Leyla for a walk. That is until my friend messaged me about the new David Bowie biopic, ‘Stardust’. And now my day is ruined. But every ruined day is a good day to write on my blog.

I haven’t met anyone who does not love David Bowie. Anyone I still talk to, that is. I think it is rare for someone so particular to be so universally loved. Not unheard of, but surely rare. His creativity was out of this world. His music was intelligent and methodical, but also honest and ground-breaking. His appearance was definitive, his whole persona was unapologetic and he was distinguished by his incomformity. He was more than a musician; he was a concept artist. He adopted so many forms and yet retained a British, beautifully twisted core throughout. So I would love to ask the executives behind the biopic; who thought it was a good idea to have a conventional biopic for such an unconventional man?

This is not a recent question; I do not understand how this was the case for Freddie Mercury, or Elton John either. I am starting to feel this is good indication of how Hollywood cannot begin to comprehend British culture. In their defence, I still don’t quite understand how they turned baked beans into a junk food. For the past three years, we have taken a look at norm-breaking, extravagant artists from such a conservative lens. I understand that mainstream usually means more money, but then Bowie wasn’t mainstream and I think he ended up pretty rich. I actually really like Johnny Flynn and thought he would be a good fit, as he is up-and-coming and a musician himself. Also, I see the resemblance. But this tiny glimpse into his Bowie felt nothing but flat and, as the Guardian effectively stated, a portrayal of Noel Fielding/Eddie Izzard rather than the Starman. It might be unfair to judge a movie that has not come out yet; it is unfair to be that predisposed from a trailer. But trailers are meant to entice you to see a movie and right now I have lost all faith in cinema. For like a day. I’ll be back.

It is not just the trailer. It is its predecessors. It is Bohemian Rhapsody. The best thing about that movie were the songs. Actually, that is not fair; I was obviously not expecting some aspect of the movie to surpass the songs. This was actually a poor attempt of mine to be a bit less negative. What I meant to say is the ONLY good thing about that movie were the songs. Okay, maybe the Live Aid scene as well, which was shockingly faithful to the actual show. While this reproduction was a cinematic feat and good for them, the very essence of Freddie Mercury was excluded from the movie. Mercury was larger than life and out of control, he was putting on a very certain face for society, but at the same was deeply hurt by the world. And someone thought this is a story that Bryan Singer should direct! I am not even referring to the fact that he apparently is a shit of a human being; if I have understood the timeline correctly, he made the movie prior to his shittidness being public knowledge. I am merely saying his movies are of a very certain genre; the ‘well-made, but nothing special’ genre. I also mean no disrespect to Rami Malek; I think he did what he was asked to do brilliantly, and acting with these ridiculous prosthetic teeth was probably worthy of an Oscar in itself. But I can relate to what Sacha Baron Cohen expected when he was originally offered the part and left the movie because it was so tame. I cannot believe it. They made a tame movie about Queen and named it Bohemian Rhapsody; the rural poster song of Rock Opera Extravaganza!

Also, is it possibly time to rethink the whole concept of a biopic all together? I understand the appeal, and it is sometimes done beautifully. It seems the fewer details we have about a figure’s personality the more interesting the portrayal. Maybe it is the fact that we have heard so much about Bowie and Mercury and John’s personal lives, we have so many examples of their manner on film and while all artists are of valour, there is something special about what musicians mean to us, I find. We therefore, as an audience, have a very consolidated idea of who they were and, dare I say, a more three-dimensional one than that included in these biopics. Is there really much interest in a chronological account of all the facts we already know about these people, with the simple addition of beautiful actors and good lighting? Maybe it is; if amateur porn has taught us anything is that beautiful actors and good lighting are important.

I was so annoyed with Bohemian Rhapsody and it even won four Academy Awards. I am worried I will need a tranquilizer to watch this movie; they haven’t even been allowed to include any of Bowie’s music. This is certainly a twist from mainstream practices of music biopics; have the main character mime his way through his career. Maybe not the twist I was referring to, but a twist nonetheless. The Bowie family is not happy with it (which I guess explains the lack of Bowie’s music), the fans aren’t happy with the trailer, and as executives are more susceptible to Twitter criticism as of late, for better (see Sonic the Hedgehog) or worse (see my post about Justice League), maybe we can hope for the Labyrinth inspired movie about Ziggy we deserve. At least there is an excellent ‘Stardust’ movie we can depend on from Matthew Vaughn that treated Neil Gaiman’s novel with respect. And an array of beautiful movies with the actual David Bowie. And… Zoolander. Nobody’s film career is perfect.

Stumbled onto homeopathy

 

In case people get worried, I would like to state I am in full support of western medicine. Sure, I have taken the odd Echinacea and tried eating an apple a day rather than taking vitamin supplements, but I am no hippie; I have been vaccinated is what I am trying to say. Nonetheless, for the last two years I have been struggling with eczema, which is painful, annoying and very much not flattering. And while cortisone does wonders for a couple of days, it does nothing in the long run. So after having visited a couple of dermatologists, I gave in to my mother’s wish to try homeopathy. It has been an odd experience. What is most odd, though, is that it fucking works.

I was very, very reluctant to do this. My mother, the true culprit behind this experiment, had even come with me to the appointment to make sure I actually go through with it; that’s how reluctant I was. I, eventually, found out the homeopath had indeed studied medicine and lots of my acquaintances with skin conditions had turned to homeopathy, so I gave in. My one-on-one with the homeopath felt like an uncomfortable interview with a therapist; uncomfortable being the key word here. My visit was nothing similar to a visit to any doctor I had ever been to. Of course, I was initially asked about mine and my family’s medical history, about my skin condition, when it started and other normal questions of the sort. I am convinced these introductory questions were nothing short of a diversion; this was all to make me think this homeopathy thing was going to go smoothly!  The rest of the questions, though, were very peculiar. I was first asked to describe myself, which may sound simple, but really isn’t. I mean ‘I’m relatively nice, maybe a bit introverted’ is basically what I said. And what’s worse, she was clearly not satisfied with my response, so much so that at the very end of our meeting she called my mother in her office to describe me instead! My mother concurred and assured her that I was a good student. I think that’s when the homeopath felt utterly defeated and realised she wasn’t going to get a very saucy description out of either of us.

Back to the one-on-one part of my visit. I was next asked what sort of foods I probably wouldn’t eat. Again, this may sound simple, but I was clearly not getting it right! I said I would have a hard time eating deer or reindeer, which is very hypocritical because I eat beef just fine. She looked at me with despair and explained she was looking for more taste-based aversions rather than ethical ones. I then proudly proclaimed Brussel sprouts, because they are disgusting; this hardly needs further explanation, I thought. Once again, she did not seem very fond of my answer and explained that she was looking for more general categories of food. But who has a problem with whole categories of food, if not for ethical reasons? Like, who hates all vegetables? Surely you like beetroot, or tomatoes, or cucumbers, or avocados, or even celery, if you have malfunctioning taste buds.

She then started asking me about my relationships and feelings, which is the worst thing anyone can do to me, unless we know each other for a good while. Sometimes even I find it curious that I chose to study psychology. These emotional questions were somewhat expected; I had also concluded that this skin situation was anxiety related, considering it showed up during an extensively anxious time in my life. I had calmed down since, but the eczema decided to stick around; seems I was a good host. However, the epitome of uncomfortableness came when she asked me about sex. Sorry, not exactly sex, per se. Even more inappropriate and uncomfortable than that! I will try to describe my ordeal in a chronological manner. For that purpose I will need to initially give you the first half of her question, literally break a word in half, I will then need to describe my state of mind  when I assumed I had correctly predicted where this was going, and finally provide you with the rest of the actual question. Now that I have sucked all the interest out of the cringiest bit of my visit, I will proceed.

‘So when did you first have sex-‘.

Okay. I am a repressed and introverted person and having a random stranger asking me about the first time I had sex literally made my skin crawl. But this was a doctor, of a sort, and sometimes questions like these could be included in a medical history questionnaire. I personally don’t see why, but that much I could accept. So, I summoned all the nonchalance I could find, I briefly double checked with myself that I got the age right and was finally ready to respond. But obviously that wasn’t the question.

‘-ual desire?’

What?! Dumbfounded is how I would describe me. And now it is my turn to ask; who would know the answer to this question? Is it even normal to be able to pinpoint the exact time in your life? I am not even sure I properly understand this question; it is not quantifiable. And if there is one way I would describe myself in addition to ‘nice’ and ‘a bit introverted’, is that I like things to be quantifiable. And then anxiety kicked in. What if I had misunderstood and chose an age that was either too early or too late? I would be wrongfully labelled a weirdo. Or what if I had understood correctly, which I hadn’t because to this day I am not sure what she meant, but still the age I said was either too early or too late? I would be rightfully labelled a weirdo, but it being rightful does not make it any more pleasant. I momentarily decided my best bet was to say ‘never’ and deal with those consequences instead. I think I gave her an answer, but my brain has made sure that answer is no longer accessible to myself or others. I have a very efficient brain as far as repression is concerned. Or don’t want to disclose this information on this blog. Believe whichever you must.

After I had failed to convince her I could either describe myself or foods I hate, she gave me a prescription. This felt normal; this felt familiar. I was in shallow waters once more. Then I realised, as I should have done earlier, that this prescription did not correspond to any medically approved substances, but rather to something that the pharmacist would put together on the spot. So I was asked to trust two strangers and ingest pills, without the safety net of a big corporation that I could later sue if I grow an extra pair of ears. I was feeling very uneasy as it was, but then the doctor said that if they had to mail me another dose while I was abroad, they should conceal them in a pack of biscuits or something, in case customs inspect the package. And may I remind you, it is my mother who is trying to get me to do all this!

These concerns are of course the exaggerations of a hypochondriac; the main principle of homeopathy is giving the patient a very weak percentage of active substances that will most likely do nothing. If it does do something, though, it initially amplifies the issue before it eventually subsides. Something both the homeopath and my mother failed to mention! I spent a month freaking out and flirting with lathering cortisone all over my arms. I was also asked to stop drinking coffee, even decaf. I could have something like a cup per week. And might I add, coffee was not one of the foods I mentioned as taste-aversive. This was very unfair, I thought, but I was cleared to drink as much Gin as I wanted, so I decided to compromise, quit coffee and become an alcoholic instead.

And then, against all odds, the eczema did actually disappear. Like clockwork too. I was told I would have a spurt of eczema for about month (which I did) and then it would retreat; all of my eczema was essentially gone by day 38! I don’t know how and I don’t know why. I was so ready to discredit all of this ‘pseudoscience’ and I still am; the moment I get the opportunity I will readily do so. And thankfully, I have since developed a different sort of dermatitis on my hands that homeopathics have not yet tackled. However, I haven’t acted yet, as there is a slight chance these might be more related to the 137 times I wash and disinfect my hands per day. Slight.

I want this remedy to end; I miss my daily decaf coffee. Laugh all you want but the 3% caffeine in decaf coffee works just fine for me. I also miss being able to praise western medicine and western medicine only, without secretly and shamefully using homeopathy to be able to wear short-sleeves without looking like Ser Jorah Mormont. But for the time being, I have come across really nice caffeine-free tea varieties that I might bore you with in a subsequent blog post where I haven’t come across anything of proper interest. Or otherwise dig up other year old experiences that would have best remained personal and confidential.

Stumbled onto QAnon… extensively

 

Is anyone else getting most of their entertainment from the US presidential race? I mean, Larry David couldn’t write absurd situations like this if he tried. This will not be much about politics, as I doubt I have the knowledge to disentangle and analyse the current climate. I mean I don’t understand how people are still considering voting for Trump, unless they are worried about the furniture of their children. But I am entertained. My morning routine is basically hate-watching Trump videos and hate-reading tweets and then resorting to my happy place; Colbert’s monologue and Myers’ Closer Look. Despite another Late Night hiatus this week (are these getting more frequent, or is it just me?), last night consisted of another presidential debate and another refusal from Trump to denounce an extremist organisation that supports him. This time round it was QAnon. I sort of had heard of QAnon this year, once about Chrissy Tiegen being part of a child sex-ring and once claiming the same for Tom Hanks. Now, I get that most Trump supporters dislike Tiegen, a vocal judge of the current administration, but did QAnon really think they could turn people, even Trump supporters, against Tom Hanks? He must be the most beloved man on earth. And there is, like, 40 years of evidence that this he is rightfully so.

Let me quickly go through what QAnon is. It is a conspiracy theory that originated from 4chan (the internet’s toilet) in 2017 claiming that Hollywood elites and other rich individuals are part of a Satanist paedophilic cabal running a global child sex-trafficking ring and controlling the whole world. This is brilliant as it is; you don’t need much more imagination for a successful conspiracy. If you want to say the left is evil, make sure they are all the evils; they worship Satan, they are paedophiles and human traffickers, and they probably put pineapple on pizza for all we know. This particular conspiracy theory, however, decided to take things one step further and knight Trump as the earth’s saviour from sin and wrongdoing. Trump. The ‘spank-me-with-a-picture-of-my-face’ president. See, according to QAnon, Trump is planning ‘The Storm’, a day of reckoning, a day where thousands of this cabal will be arrested and sent to Guantanamo Bay. Trump will bring piece, salvation and utopia, you know, as he has done thus far. The ‘individual’ known as Q has since asked his followers to take a ‘digital soldier oath’ on Twitter. After all, all meaningful fights for humanity were materialised through hashtags and proud digital soldiers. My question is this; what are these digital soldiers’ roles in the upcoming apocalypse? Will they form a protective shield against Satan when he defends his disciples? Will they carry Trump on their backs all the way to Hollywood to bring about his mission? Will they be manning the hashtags on Twitter?

This all seemed like the perfect joke, no additions necessary. I mean, all anyone can do is laugh, but interestingly enough these core claims are not the funniest of the lot. Let me go through a few of my favourite peripheral claims.

First of all, the predecessor of this conspiracy theory is called ‘Pizzagate’. Such a waste of a good name. This is again about Democrats’ satanic sex rings and child trafficking, but this time operating from a Pizza restaurant, Comet Ping Pong. This is the best paragraph I have ever written on this blog; it is a paragraph about a conspiracy theory containing the words ‘Pizzagate’ and ‘Comet Ping Pong’. However, it is not necessarily funny when you consider the death threats this particular restaurant has faced, along with nearby restaurants such as Besta Pizza and other non-restaurant businesses. But it is funny to imagine a stereotypical cook with a thick Italian accent expecting a list of pizza toppings; ‘No, we are all out of the Diabolo pizza, pepperoni only’.

Next, you would have thought the Russian investigation would have discouraged the proud American far right from crowning Trump as their saviour, but alas, QAnon presented a solution! The Russian collusion was a response to a coup. Obama, Clinton and Soros were apparently organising a coup against Trump, but they didn’t expect his tactical response. A counter coup; a pretend collusion with Russia to probe the Mueller investigation, who only pretend-investigated the president but was actually investigating the Democrats. I love the details; not only did he have Mueller investigate the Democrats undercover, but Trump had to go through with the actual collaboration with Putin. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t leave anything to chance. The Russia conspiracy had to look real to put Democrats off the scent as they do have demonically efficient noses. 

The Covid pandemic has also preoccupied QAnon members. They encourage the consumption of an industrial bleach (known as Miracle Mineral Solution) as a "miracle cure" for the disease. In case anyone was wondering where the President of the United States gets his ideas from.

Another much entertaining claim is that a man from Pittsburgh named Vencent Fusca, is actually John F Kennedy, who faked his own assassination 57 years ago, in disguise. And lest we forget any claim in this theory has to include Trump the saviour; therefore, this Kennedy-Fuska hybrid would have been Trump’s running mate in 2020. This is hilarious just because it is so unnecessary. Why did they bring a dead Kennedy into their manifesto? Aside from the fact that Kennedy’s brain was scattered all over Jackie’s beautiful pink suit so he would have had to really commit to his own assassination, why would he run with Trump? Wasn’t he a Democrat? And what would his contribution be if he is pretending to be Fusca anyway? What does this have to do with the child sex ring? I have so many questions, maybe I will get some answers on the next season of the Crown.

One of the more recent theories put forward by QAnon has re-shed the spotlight on the Hollywood elites. And if you haven’t heard of adrenochrome harvesting, boy, are you missing out. Adrenochrome harvesting is the extraction of adrenaline from children’s blood to produce the psychoactive drug, adrenochrome. This is clearly plagiarised from across the pond; America might be insane but Queen Elizabeth consumed the blood of new-borns to stay young long before Trump was president.

Speaking of ‘across the pond’ there is a fun little claim about Angela Merkel being Hitler’s granddaughter. When I first read this I wasn’t sure whether QAnon meant it as an insult or a compliment, or whether they watched a little bit too much of ‘Dynasty’ and assumed all the German people they know of must be related. QAnon has also found its crowd in Germany, a group called Reichsbürger. They believe that ‘modern Germany is not a sovereign republic, but rather a corporation created by Allied nations after World War II’. And as if there weren’t enough Trump supporters in the States, this group has placed their trust on Trump to lead an army and restore the Reich. Just thought I would include this last little claim in case people doubted Trump’s rhetoric appeals to Neo-Nazis.

These are insane allegation in and of themselves. Regardless, as you might have guessed, a lot of these have already been debunked by, you know, events or lack thereof. You would then expect that people would abandon this idiotic theory and preferably start therapy. However, QAnon has taken pre-emptive measures. Q has instructed their followers that incorrect claims or predictions are deliberate to confuse the non-believers. They have also rebranded their posts to be more vague and cryptic so followers can interpret them as they wish. A bit like a Rothko painting. More cryptic and vague is an understatement; a lot of the posts are random letters which are meant to be codes. However, information security researchers have concluded that it is most likely random typing by ‘someone who might play an instrument and uses a QWERTY keyboard’. I didn’t know it was that easy to start a cult, let me give it a try.

oNknsoge

These codes are presented in so called Qdrops (cool name, let’s give credit where credit’s due) and are meant to be related to Trump’s speeches and tweets. It is a bit like a game with riddles which, ironically, has drawn in a bunch of idiots that probably couldn’t solve the riddle of which Batman villain Edward Nigma is. 

I fear my language might be misunderstood. I use the word ‘funny’ a lot, as if it isn’t scary that serious people have to waste time to discourage people from drinking bleach. Ridiculous is maybe a better word. I think I am simply having a hard time believing all this is actually taken seriously by any sentient being. I, for one, have been laughing all morning, something I am not necessarily proud of, but I am excusing myself. It might be a sign that I am a psychopath, but at least I am not deciphering Trump tweets trying to locate paedophiles across the globe.

This conspiracy has had frightening consequences though. Between attempted and actual murder, child abductions, breaking into a military ships, breaking into the Canadian Pirme Minister’s property and reckless car chases with unconsensual spouses and children, this was probably my favourite headline:

‘12 August 2020: A Texaswoman is arrested after allegedly chasing and crashing into a car, then telling police she thought she was chasing a paedophile’.

In hindsight, that is probably as good excuse as any that a drunken driver can come up with on the spot. 

The president of bad toupees has refused to denounce this group, or refute their claims. Instead he has said ‘I don't know much about the movement, other than I understand they like me very much, which I appreciate’ and has described the members as ‘people who love our country’. He has also been directly asked about his part in ‘The Storm’ and whether he ‘is secretly saving the world from this satanic cult of paedophiles and cannibals’. He responded that he is unaware of the claims but ‘is that supposed to be a bad thing or a good thing?’. I think I liked it better when he tweeted Covfefe. But wait! Could this have been one of Q’s codes?

Conspiracies work because humans cannot accept the inevitable randomness they encounter, or because they have a need to connect everything, or they are bombarded with absurd information and have a high tolerance for bullshit. It probably also makes them feel connected, part of a movement; it makes them feel special. And that is the scariest bit, because needing to feel special is a very common human sentiment that some people take advantage of. Q members are obviously a small minority and not all QAnon members support or are aware of all of its claims, which I cannot decide whether it gives me hope or despair. Thankfully, some people snap out of it when faced with good arguments or when asked to financially contribute to the cause (you don’t get to be a cult if you don’t monetise people’s beliefs). After having read all this and reproduced it as I didn’t have any better ideas for this week’s post, I feel drained of any few IQ points I had waking up this morning. But again, at least I am not deciphering Trump tweets trying to locate paedophiles across the globe. See? It multitasks as an alternative to both psychopathy and idiocy.

Stumbled onto Lindy Hop

 

It might not seem like it, considering all my posts are about the things one does when sitting down like watching series, movies, reality shows and Twitter, but I was very much into dancing in my youth. I was part of my school’s dance team; we went to international gymnastics festivals, and even competed a couple of times. I didn’t say we won. But then I moved to England and I guess it was too cold to get out of a seated position. That is my excuse anyway. Dancing was over. I tried a couple of classes here and there but nothing stuck. I got a bit interested in finger tutting, as it could indeed be danced in a seated position, but no one was convinced this was an adequate form of exercise. Including myself. Do look up finger tutting; it is what they did in Dr Strange for spells and it is very impressive when done well. When not done well, it looks like one is trying to relieve finger cramps. One sometimes is.

Now that I have fulfilled my customary long, loosely related intro, I can discuss the Lindy Hop class itself. I have a friend who has been praising it for years and admittedly it really sounds like it brightens up her day. And you can clearly understand why; it looks like such a cheery, rhythmic dance. For years she has been urging me to try it and of course I chose the Covid era to actually go to a class. Covid means no Lindy Hop parties, which are apparently the easiest and most fun way to practice. Covid also means a single partner for the whole year, therefore less socialising. So, bad and good things alike. I chose to go with a friend of mine, where I would lead and she would follow. I wore my most gentleman-like ripped jeans for the class, sat with all the boys who were learning how to lead and moved my hips as if I was dancing Salsa. I have done a few Latin classes here and there, but I never thought they had been so influential. I guess it will take a while to get into that groovy body posture our instructors seemed to employ with such ease.

The class setup was relatively straightforward. We did a warm up, we learnt a few basic steps, learnt a bit about the history of the dance, and learnt that the term ‘Swing’ is not just Lindy Hop, but an umbrella term for a bunch of different dances plus the practice of exchanging romantic partners for a night. Hence my consistent use of the term ‘Lindy Hop’ instead of ‘Swing’. Imagine my statements about parties being good for practice and having a single partner for a year if I used the term ‘Swing’ throughout the last paragraph.

These primary lessons were all quite expected; it was a dance class so we danced and it was an introductory class so we were introduced to its history. Not everything was expected though. For example, I didn’t expect to sing. Or scatt, as we were told to call the jibber jabber that we sang. Now, I might have misled some of you to think that we karaoke-d to Ella Fitzgerald, but in reality we just put some syllables in place to understand the rhythm of the dance. But doesn’t that sound much less impressive? After our basic steps, we were paired up with our partners so that we could repeatedly crash onto each other instead of managing the steps. Apparently this is a common teaching practice; it teaches us to wear withstanding shoes when dancing with another novice like ourselves.

As you might have realised in the last couple of posts, I have decided to make the most of my time in Greece. A bit of Improv, a bit of Lindy Hop, still a lot of series watching and a brand new addition of working out to Chloe Ting. This will be an action packed year that will hopefully inspire a few more posts and distract me from the pandemic that, for the time being, has me doing gargles every night since I heard that they use Listerine in between shoots for Riverdale. And anyone who knows me knows; I will do whatever Camila Mendes does, except run an illegal speakeasy with my dad’s drug money.

Stumbled onto an Improv class

 

I have now been back in Greece for six months. I haven’t stayed here this long in eight years. I will not lie, not everything has been easy to adjust to; the lack of Five Guys, the presence of my mother. But as these six months don’t look like they are the end of it, I have decided to make most of my stay. So I asked myself; what is it that I can do here that I couldn’t do in the UK? Eat tasty, fresh food? Sure. Get a tan and some well-deserved vitamin D? Of course. Get yelled at by a driver who wanted to break the law but I was in the way? Most certainly. But the biggest difference between the UK and Greece is the prices of, well, everything. See, I have wanted to try Improv for a few years (took me a while, but I got to the point), but most classes worth doing in London are over a hundred pounds a month. The reason I wanted to try Improv, apart from the obvious reason of laughter, is that it is so out of character for me, so out of my comfort zone. Therefore, I thought, what better way to try something so risky for me than the cheaper way?

Also, I wanted to start doing things and sort of set out a schedule for my time here. But that wouldn’t make much of an intro. So, anyway, I tried Improv. And loved it.

Obviously, it has only been one class so this isn’t meant to compel anyone to try it, although I have tried to convince a bunch of friends. This is more of an account of a complete novice to this world of fun and silliness. I should mention at this point that prior to going to class, I looked up the company and saw that they would also do corporate seminars and that completely baffled me. Until I realised how important the aspect of collaboration and adjustability was to the practice of Improv. We did a bunch of exercises that were completely devoid of ego. You were there for your partner’s idea and ready to build on their every suggestion. It was liberating. And fucking difficult. And ultimately funny. That was another aspect of Improv that was highlighted time and time again; it ends up being funny, but that should not be the driving force. Which was even more liberating, because there is nothing less funny than the pressure to be funny. I have spent a lifetime ensuring no one expects that of me.

The pandemic, of course, affected our time in Improv as everyone had to wear a mask. This effect was twofold; first of all, you only made out about half of what others said. So for example, in one game, where we each had to say a single word to make up a story, said story was particularly incomprehensible as ‘boy’ sounded like ‘bird’ and many a boy ended up flying and laying eggs. The second effect was that a lot of facial expressions were not available to whoever was putting themselves on the line. You miss out on the reassuring smiles, but possibly also on smirks of disgust. Problem is I am prone to assume that the latter would be a constant mode whenever I am concerned. Oh well, small price to pay. Just like the price for the classes in comparison to London, did I mention? I wouldn’t change a thing though, if the Covid safety measures were not in place, I would most likely still be in my room in the attic ‘Yes and’-ing my large stuffed Baymax. The bastard has much better ideas than me.

It really was a great experience. I am sure it will continue to be. I am also sure it will continue to be extremely hard for an introvert like me, especially considering a lot of the games require you to step up, take initiatives and sit in the middle of the room. I should stop writing; I am making myself panicky and might never go back. But I do have a viva coming up, so this type of exposure might be just what I need. There is a game where you can only answer questions with questions that I imagine will come particularly handy when they quiz me about my thesis.

Stumbled onto a Deposit Dispute

 

I have lived in the UK for seven and a half years. One of those was in student accommodation and since then I have lived in three different houses. My first house was in Guildford, it was small, old, but sweet and cosy nonetheless. Our landlord loved that property; it was his family home and he very much appreciated how we took care of the place. He was also not very fond of housing agencies and we quickly agreed to communicate amongst ourselves for any issues around the house; we even discussed terms of contract renewal independently. This experience spoiled me for any future experience with UK housing.

My next house was in London through a small agency, with offices right underneath our house. We had some dispute over the deposit, but most of their claims for damages to the property were well-founded; overpriced, but at the very least, present. Other than a childish dispute about the recycling space we shared, we did not leave the tenancy with numerous complaints about the agency. Our last house, however, proved a horrible experience that has caused to me to wonder if me and my immediate friends are the only people in England that are so frustrated by the tenancy agreements, the complete lack of support by the housing agencies and the complete imbalance of tenant and landlord responsibilities.

I understand that if you are renting in the UK, you are very likely a student and I do realise that landlords’ feel uneasy about students occupying the property as they are more likely to do damage. That along with, surely, unfortunate events has caused housing contracts to be very, very protective towards the landlord. However, in 2020, I cannot but stress that some of these terms are unreasonable. I have seen terms such as ‘If, during your tenancy, an infestation occurs that is due to the pre-existing condition of the property, the tenant is liable’. I completely condone protecting the landlord; I am not suggesting the landlord should be treated as a piggy bank, or that tenants shouldn’t be respectful towards the property. But having recently dealt with a stingy and unreasonable landlord, we tenants need some protection also.

This last property was very old and not in good shape. The location was excellent, though, and there was a homey feel, for lack of a better word, that we gravitated towards in comparison to all the other properties we had seen. There was a lot of aesthetic damage, the bathroom ceiling was mouldy and the paint had cracked, some endings on the kitchen counter were broken and all the windows were greasy. We came to an agreement with the landlord that he would lower the price and we wouldn’t ask for the apartment to be repainted. The one thing that we initially clashed over was a crack on the living room ceiling that looked more serious than old paint. We had to insert a clause in our contract that we would not be liable for rent or a tenancy agreement until an engineer had ensured us in a written form that the ceiling was safe. Luckily, the landlord eventually agreed. You might be wondering why I am even mentioning this, if, after all, it was resolved. Because I cannot believe this was an issue to begin with. I am from Greece, an earthquake prone country, so I understand that my worry was probably greater than that of a British tenant, but the fact that I had to ask and insert as a special clause in my contract that the landlord had to ensure the ceiling wouldn’t fall onto my head is insane. Either that, or I am.

This might have been a good indication that this was not going to be an easy relationship. We moved in about a month and a half later and found the house in a state. It was far from professionally clean; it was filthy. Dirty carpets, stained mattresses, broken appliances, no working lightbulbs, the whole nine yards. It was nothing like the house we saw at the viewing. It was also filled with old, rusty items that we had no reason to keep in the property. We spent three days tirelessly cleaning the property. Thankfully, we immediately emailed the agency to let them know that we are in no way obliged to professionally clean the property when we leave, considering the state we received it in. They assured us that we were indeed not expected to professionally clean the property. We also decided that after the landlord’s approval for each and every item, we would give these away to a charity and get the landlord some tax credit. Then, we found out the radiators didn’t work. Yes, we did bleed them. No, that made no difference. Then, we moved around some furniture only to find a pest infestation underneath anything wooden. For my own bedroom, there was a nice bed, a broken chest of drawers and a broken closet, where the back panel was coming right off, all wooden.

The landlord was again very reluctant to spend money to check our radiators, we were of course given no help with the infestation and the agency would only verbally agree with us that these are real issues, but explain that the landlord was not willing to do anything about it. Then came the mistake on my part; not being demanding enough. I knew I needed to ask for a new chest of drawers, as the current one would not open or close, but figured I could make do with the cupboard if i use some duct tape to stabilise the back panel. Let me jump forward to when we were asked to pay 300 pounds for its replacement! More on that later.

During any tenancy, people from British Gas need to inspect the property for gas leaks etc. Twice in our tenancy they found that the boiler was not positioned correctly and was likely to leak gas and, interestingly enough, explode! Apparently it was not well sealed outside the property and an air shaft would have made our end of tenancy a lot more imminent and dramatic. Of course the landlord refused to pay for any private contractor and we had to shut down the warm water and heat supply for about two weeks each time. It might not sound like much, but bear in mind this was England; the weather was mainly cold.

Towards the end of our tenancy there was a drainage blockage in the kitchen sink, where we called a private contractor after the landlord initially refused to pay as this was most likely our doing. We thought that was reasonable and did book a plumber ourselves. Only to find out it wasn’t our doing and the plumber had to actually come back and replace the ancient valves underneath our sink and charge us over a hundred pounds for it. He did however leave a report stating that this was due to faulty valves and needs to be covered by the landlord. I will let you guess whether he did indeed cover the cost or not.

I have written so much mostly because thinking about our tenancy made my blood boil and resulted in me rage-typing, but also to paint a picture. In my view we did nothing wrong; we were always on time with payments, we had the customary direct debit set up, we never caused any trouble to the building and left the property in a cleaner state than we received it; as even stated in the check-out report. In return, we had a landlord who systematically ignored obvious issues with the property, which made our living situation very difficult, and an agency that would simply convey the messages: ‘It is an old property’, ‘I understand but he doesn’t’ etc.

Let’s get to the cherry on top of this cake. The deposit dispute. After all of these experiences and after leaving the property clean and well sustained over the years, the landlord requested holding two thirds of our deposit. The demands included professional cleaning of the carpets, replacement of a stained mattress, replacement of a broken closet and numerous missing items. We could hardly believe it; there was an email clearly stating that we were not required to professionally clean the property, there were pictures of the stained mattress in the inventory as well as a description of the broken closet and an email regarding a lot of these missing items to be given to charity. A lot of the other missing items, though, were surely in the property. During our dispute we saw the breakdown of this last holding and realised that these missing items rounded up to a price of 700 pounds, which did not correspond to any thought out calculations. Not to mention that one of those missing items was a lightbulb. Which, considering that we walked into a property with no working lightbulbs means they owed us about 14 lightbulbs instead, as far as I am concerned. Other missing items included a bed stand that was simply in a different room but visible in the check-out report, the closet doors (as a separate charge to the closet that would supposedly need 300 pounds for replacement) and a plastic (broken) bin which was, regardless, in the property.

We began emailing the agency explaining exactly how unreasonable these claims were and I, in all my English-learnt politeness, urged them to remove the duct tape and return the closet to its original broken glory if they wanted. They didn’t find that amusing, nor recognise our well-placed frustration. Nor, by the way, inform us that we had a limited amount of time to go forward with a formal dispute. When we did go forward with a formal dispute, the agency provided written support for the landlord, ignoring all our previous evidence to the contrary; emails, photos, inventory and check-out report segments. We couldn’t believe that with what we considered hard evidence, we were still asked to leave more than half of our deposit behind. Luckily, whoever made a choice on our dispute took our side. We were charged 50 pounds for damages to the walls that the landlord could have claimed but didn’t, 50 pounds for the closet, I am assuming to deal with the duct tape that kept pests out of my closet, and half of the amount for the missing items as they weren’t visible in the checkout pictures. From what I understand, this is the ‘Tenants are right, but let’s find some middle ground’ approach.

Our outcome was not bad, we loved that property because of all our memories there, but this sort of treatment cannot be standard. I understand that coming from Greece, I am used to the exact opposite behaviour. In Greece, if you renew your contract the landlord will lower rather than raise the rent, because he saves money on advertising and dealing with agents. Apparently, that is unheard of in England. Secondly, if a tenant fails to pay rent, he cannot legally be kicked out of the property; a lot of Greek landlords are actually having tons of trouble because of how unprotected they are. I am not suggesting that the English renting market is turned upside down, but there cannot be that much of a gap between landlord and tenant rights. For the time being, we will relish on the little damages the check-out report didn’t pick up on that hopefully future tenants will, and ask the landlord to pay for. It’s small bits of justice that get you through your tenancy.

Stumbled onto the Justice League. The real Justice League

 

It might seem curious to some that I am writing a post on the Justice League movie three years after its release. Then again, it might have seemed curious then that I didn’t address this abomination of a movie. Doomsday indeed. The reason I am now getting back on the subject is none other than the notorious Snyder cut, whose trailer was leaked some ten days ago; a superhero movie for grownups, as Snyder himself regards any movie that features the song Hallelujah at any absolutely random moment. This made me go back and watch the theatrical cut of Justice League, the first ensemble movie of the DCEU and compare it to the first ensemble movie of the MCU, Avengers (2012). There is no need to say which one was best; only why.

In case some of you don’t know, I will briefly explain this whole Snyder cut situation. Zack Snyder is a CGI, slow mo enthusiast that takes himself too seriously and thinks that this in itself makes his movies serious, dark and gritty. He prior gave DC two movies; Man of Steel, which was alright at best, and Batman v Superman, which was salvaged by Ben Affleck’s beautiful torso (and an excellent portrayal of Bruce Wayne, fight me). Batman v Superman was meant to give DC a much needed edge against Marvel; they featured the two most famous, loved superheroes of all time and had them fight each other for a good couple of minutes. This was meant to be the best superhero movie of its time. It wasn’t even close. Zack Snyder had filmed most of Justice League when tragedy hit and his daughter passed away. DC then thought their best option was to bring in the man who made the marvel (pun intended) that was Avengers, Joss Whedon, to finish up the movie. This move was clearly an attempt to move away from the up to then failed DCEU direction and towards what superhero movies should be; not taking themselves that seriously. The result was the equivalent of two jigsaw puzzles trying to produce a picture of a burn victim. This in turn caused an uproar on Twitter asking for the original three and a half hour long, serious, slow mo Snyder cut, because this is what would salvage DC; the rejected version of the movie.

I began rewatching Justice League making notes of why it was so ridiculous. I ended up having to record myself because I couldn’t type that fast. The movie makes its intent to be dark and gritty obvious right from the start, with a montage of the darkness and grittiness that followed Superman’s death. Half way through the dark and gritty montage though, they run out of ideas and just start showing less and less relevant sad things. My favourite one was a homeless man holding up a sign saying ‘I tried’. Unless he tried to fight Doomsday along with Superman, Batman and Wonderwoman, this is Snyder at his most desperate. I won’t go through every single one of my comments, because I don’t think my fingers have it in them to type that much, but lest assured character development was not part of this movie. Character was even retracted. Wonder Woman was built up as a considerate, pure, determined superhero in her stand-alone movie, but Justice League decided to go for the old fashioned, sexist lady hero that smirks a lot and flirts with tough, loner bat guy. Aquaman was a video game character trapped in a movie, whose sole purpose was to yell exclamations and one liners, when the movie seemed too silent. Flash was one nervous tick away from becoming Jesse Eisenberg’s Lex Luthor and Cyborg was non-existent. Lastly, the villain might as well have been called ‘villain’. He is not even worth the diss.

At this moment I would like to discuss Joss Whedon’s unfortunate input and then go on to type why it is absolutely insane to credit him with his ridiculous outcome. So, the one liners I am guessing were his idea. As well as Bruce Wayne’s sudden wave of Tony Starkedness. As well as the fact the boss fight of this movie ended with the word ‘Booyah’. And he did cut one hour from the film which fans think holds the key to all that made no sense in the movie. But I will honestly defend Joss Whedon to the core. Assume CAPS LOCK for the rest of this paragraph. If anyone claims DC brought him in saying ‘follow the movie’s original tone’ they must be on Snyder’s payroll. They brought in Joss Whedon with instructions to do exactly what he did to salvage the movie. Why else? They got the guy that made Avengers, to make their movie more like Avengers. And I honestly believe he had nothing to work with. Bear in mind, most of the movie was already shot. I don’t think there were any developed characters available, especially not the ones we met for the very first time; Flash, Aquaman and Cyborg. Avengers worked because there were clear cut characters from both the previous movies and the current movie. And cheesy one liners were a much welcome addition.

‘What about the plot of the movie?’, I hear you say. There must have been a plot; how else did they fill two and a half hours and will fill three and a half hours in the Snyder cut? There was a stupid plot alright. There is an evil guy with boxes. They decide to put together a team and resurrect Superman. Resurrecting Superman does not make any sense, nor their plan of action to bring about the resurrection. Then they all turn on Batman because Wonder Woman started insulting him and he responded accordingly, but I guess his response was not gentleman-like. Then Superman emerges as a murder zombie. He blames Bruce Wayne for his death, which in itself does not make that much sense considering they ended up being on the same team against Doomsday, then Bruce brings out Lois Lane and Superman decides he ‘owes him one’, him being the guy he initially blamed for his death. IT’S FUCKING ‘MARTHA’ ALL OVER AGAIN! Then there are these boxes of doom, which are saved and lost off screen with no explanation. One box is used by our heroes to resurrect Superman and the very next moment is in the hands of Steppenwolf (otherwise known as ‘villain’). These boxes are also unexplained, but in a movie with no characters, I didn’t expect much more luck for the boxes. And last but not least, I will describe the resolution of the conflict with our friend Steppenwolf. First of all they break the box. That’s it. And then we are left with the villain whose plan has gone array. See this is where Snyder wanted to bring a bit of an Aesopian life lesson into the mix, considering this is a serious movie. Steppenwolf had these flies doing his dirty fighting. The way these flies operate is they sense fear and attack. So Superman blows a bit of snow unto Steppenwolf and Steppnwolf gets scared. And then his own agents turn against him and consume him. And this works, I assume, because the moment Steppenwolf gets a hint of fear, everyone else is overcome by a feeling of utter calmness and he is left the sole target of the attack. And this teaches us that you should not rely on others’ fear, but your own strength to succeed or something very dark and gritty like that.

It is not just a bad movie. It is an unfortunate movie considering it had to, at the very least, rival its equivalent. Avengers was incredible; MCU has since released Infinity War, Endgame, Guardians, Black Panther, The Winter Soldier, Thor Ragnarok and this movie from ten years ago still holds its ground (I rewatched that too). Justice League brought in two characters with independent movies and four that were never properly introduced for an ensemble; Avengers, on the other hand, even chose a villain we already knew. In fact, there was not a single Avenger that had not been adequately portrayed in a previous MCU movie, maybe Hawkeye. Agent Fury recruits the Avengers after thorough tracking and good indication of their abilities. Each member of the team is given motivation to join, that motivation being curiosity (Iron Man), blackmail of some sort (Hulk), family ties (Thor), revenge (Black Widow/ Hawkeye) or need for a war and action (Captain America). And while this would suffice, the heroes are then given more motivation; it gets more personal, they stumble onto this collaboration and build up to being a team. Batman gets a USB stick and just recruits whoever. There is no motivation for the others to join, they have no team building moments prior to them being ‘the Justice League’. Most importantly, there is a diminished sense of danger. Unfortunately our immature audience brains ask that we are shown the extent of the threat, allegedly destroying earth. If this is world threatening, where is this threatened world? All I remember is a small family in Russia who is left unscathed. Also, where were the Amazonians and Atlantians in that final battle? Let’s say the humans are not made aware of this imminent threat outside Russia, but these civilisations were previously attacked and beaten. Did they all die? Did they blindly trust the newly formed Justice League and feel they would not bring much to the fight?

Sixteen hundred words of bitterness and I am far from done. I look forward to the Snyder cut, I honestly look forward to the disappointment I await for all those who hate on Whedon and think Snyder is DC’s lord and saviour. I’ll say it, Snyder’s directing is ugly, superficial and incredibly old fashioned. I hope, for his sake, that he has done some secret reshoots and has updated his vision of the superhero genre. I am coming in as a Whedon fan girl, I will admit, but someone needs to be. I find it incredibly fucked up that a studio like Warner Bros brought in Joss Whedon to fix what they considered broken and then nothing short of threw him under the bus by releasing an alternative cut, seemingly turning their back on a movie they approved and made money off. It is a disgrace that is not acknowledged enough. I am a Whedon fan girl because everything else he’s made in this genre is fun and consistent. Snyder made Batman v Superman. Whedon was a game changer; he lay the foundations for Endgame, a movie event we will not have again for some time. And here I am eighteen hundred words later, with my blood boiling because Snyder thinks grownups don’t deserve enjoyable movies and Leonard Cohen suffices to turn his slow motion snores into critically acclaimed pieces of film.

Stumbled onto Ramy Season 2

The pandemic has got me reaching out to old series I know and love. Not like I need an excuse; I rewatch series as if I’ll be graded on them afterwards. This time round it was Frasier. There are so many new series I have promised myself I would watch, but baby I hear the blues a-calling day and night instead. Thankfully, there was one new release that I knew would temporarily break me out of this obsession and that was the second season of Ramy. I loved the first season of this coming-of-age story of a young, religious Muslim struggling to balance his romantic desires with his ethics; an unlikely viewing choice for a chronic atheist. But there is something very intimate about Youssef’s tale that I cannot get enough of. I just love a protagonist that is so beautifully human. Also, very cute, but I promise it is mostly the human part that got me invested.

Last season, we followed Ramy on his individual quest for self-actualisation that resulted in (spoilers) sleeping with a married woman and making out with his cousin. Both of these, rest assured, he did not set out to do at the beginning of the season. For this second installment, Ramy realised he needed a spiritual guide to overcome his addiction to porn and, frankly, screwing up (pun not intended). Mahershala Ali was this welcome addition to the cast as the Sheikh that Ramy turns to. I don’t want to spoil the ending of season two, as I have already done for season one, but let’s just say this season’s arc is far from a smooth ride. Ramy wants to become someone but refuses to accept who he currently is. The audience realises that this loveable character can only think of himself, almost using others as props to reach his own potential. He is borderline loathsome by the end of this season. There is, therefore, plenty of drama in this fundamentally comedic show, and have I mentioned how much I love this current direction in TV comedies? Dramas always failed to hold my attention, what with their longer runtimes and songs by ‘The Fray’, so this integration of complex characters in punchline-filled half hour segments is ideal for me.

Speaking of complex characters, this show is filled with them. Last season spent two episodes retracting focus from Ramy and instead giving a closer look to Ramy’s mother and sister; two episodes that come right after a cliff hanger in Ramy’s own plotline. But they are such strong episodes that almost have you forget that Ramy broke his Ramadan resolution by committing adultery. However, I am aware that there was criticism that female characters on the show were only dealt with in terms of sex, a criticism I don’t share myself because I think that sex is a general preoccupation throughout the show for male characters also. It seems the show’s creators were also aware of this criticism though, and we got to see Ramy’s mother and sister dealing with other aspects of their lives this time round. These were again some of my favourite episodes, especially since I thought the whole notion of the ‘Evil Eye’ was strictly a Greek thing.

Speaking of episodes focused on supporting characters, I think everyone will be talking about Uncle Naseem. Naseem was almost a caricature of the racist, obnoxious uncle that offered a limited sitcom feel to the otherwise balanced first season. With no more than a brief likable moment, in defence of a stranger quarrelling with her boyfriend, Nasseem was very easy to hate and disregard. So naturally, this season had to give us a heart breaking look into his life. He is still the racist, obnoxious uncle that we met in season one, but we learn of his struggles. He got upgraded from a caricature to a person.

You know how I said there would be no spoilers for season two? Well, I lied. I will, however, confine them all on this sinlge, easily skippable paragraph. I need to mention these spoilers so I can do what I do best; complain. The beginning of the season had me set up for disappointment. Ramy was too much of a centre piece for others and the show starting feeling unreal. He was the one causing big problems and resolving crises. A protagonist is fine to be the centre of his own tale, but once he’s the one driving large scale developments, this feels unjustified. The tone of the season is quickly found though; I fell back in love with the series by episode five. There is one bone I have to pick with this season, which funnily enough is the aforementioned criticism others had for season one. I swear I am not doing this for the sake of controversy. I was a little dissatisfied with how some of the female characters were dealt with, namely Ramy’s cousin and his fiancé/wife, depending on which episode you are watching. Zainab, Ramy’s future wife, is an undeveloped character and the romance spurring between them does not feel real, as a result. His cousin, on the other hand, shows up after a transatlantic flight, seemingly undecided about whether to break up Ramy’s wedding. As if a flight from Egypt to New Jersey would be a spur-of-the-moment decision; tickets were not booked in advance, they did not go to the airport three hours in advance and so on. It might just be me but I don’t think 2020 series can get away with characters maybe breaking up a wedding in another country. That is only accepted as a plausible plotline up to 1998 and only because Rachel did it and she gets a pass.

The beginning of this season is a bit slow, but you leave the second season with that same feeling of empathy that you did in season one. I think there is great benefit in telling honest and real stories and moving away from the classic sitcom setting of five to six loveable (mostly white) goofs meeting in a bar, café or apartment. I am very excited for season three and confident it will break me out of the next rewatch in line; my money is on Scrubs or Community. But word to the wise, have a strong drink handy for episode seven; it is a great episode, but the drink will help. 

Stumbled onto a domestic zoo (cont.): Blog in the time of Corona

                            

        

Last week I spent a good thousand words on three cats that have been serving as my housemates at my brother’s house. Beautiful, loving cats that I am unfortunately allergic to. These cats have been very entertaining, especially during Zoom meetings; I am starting to think these cats are interested in starting an academic career and are literally networking with my supervisors. But the cats are mere extras to this beautiful animal tale. There is only one leading lady. One hairy, lazy, silly leading lady. Leyla.

Leyla. She is a superstar. The cats are cute and all, but no one can take their eyes off Leyla. She is gorgeous and pairs this beauty with the best personality you could ask for in a dog. She is sweet to a fault. My three year old nephew would annoy her, his mother would tell him off and Leyla would bark at the mother for telling off her assaulter. She is sweet, not necessarily smart. Playing hard to get is certainly not her strong suit. She loves everyone she has ever met, she will lie on the floor and demand to be petted within seconds of meeting them. She once cornered a cat-lover friend of mine by the door and blocked any exit, leaving her no choice but to pet her endlessly. Not that that is a bad thing; I would pet Leyla for the rest of my life and die a happy woman.

If you have read about Leyla in another post, you would remember that she is very popular with pedestrians and car drivers alike. Cars stop to ask what breed she is. Cars behind those cars pop their head out to get a closer look. It seems no one is in a hurry lately. A woman jumped out of a café to take a picture. And I get it, Leyla looks like a bear, it’s a win-win situation; you get an exotic picture and don’t die. She looks so much like a lovely teddy bear that a little girl once followed us for a block shouting ‘Bear! Bear!’. She and Leyla spent a good five minutes lovingly petting one another. Leyla was taller than the girl. When I finally pulled Leyla away because it was starting to rain, the little girl burst into tears. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t leave Leyla with her. I would then burst into tears. And I am harder to console. The other day I was stopped by an elderly lady who again wished to pet Leyla. She asked what her breed she was and then her name. I promptly replied and she said ‘Oh I know of Leyla, my grandson has told me about her’. It seems that Leyla is nothing short of a canine celebrity in my area, complete with paparazzi (café lady), groupies (four year old girl), a reputation (grandmother) and, thanks to my blog, tabloids dedicated to her life.

She is fantastic and sweet, as most dogs are. Seeing as dogs are also thought to be vigilant guards of the household, we have frequently wondered, what would Leyla do in case of danger? What if someone were to rob the house? Chances are she would once again roll over and ask the rubber gloved intruder to pet her. This would luckily be a good diversion; petting her is so rewarding, I don’t think there would be any time or desire left for a proper robbery. Breaking and entering and petting would be the crime. My brother suggests that Leyla would sense the danger, react and protect. I have, again, good reason to doubt this. In one of our night walks I got a nice little preview of Leyla’s vigilante’s side. There isn’t one. We were walking down the street when a tiny dog emerged and starting barking and scratching Leyla’s face. Its bark was embarrassing, Leyla could simply fart in his general direction (Monty Python-wise) and the dog would most likely fly to the opposite pavement. But Leyla just stood there, no paw, no bark, no fart for God’s sake! Just stood there being barked at and scratched by this figurine of a dog. I was embarrassed. I was pulling on her lease (the other dog walker was certainly enjoying the throw down) secretly hoping Leyla would come to her senses and dominate the encounter. It never happened. I have resorted to a different route to protect this oversized sheep from that stupid, furry gremlin. A few minutes later, a car backfired. Or fireworks went off. Or someone shot a tin can, we will never know. Leyla started running as fast as she could. Never looked back. I swear, if she could tear off her leash and leave me behind, she would have.

And with this post I pledge to cut down on rants about my mundane everyday life. But admittedly, it is mundane, but lovely. Days go by and I don’t even realise because they are full of these furry creatures that do not care about face masks, social distancing, second waves and antiseptics. Not that these aren’t fun conversation pieces, but cuddles are just so much better. This will also mark the last of my ‘Blog in the time of corona’ for the time being. It will return in the unlucky event of a  second wave, or hopefully, never.