Talent and Toilets

'Whoaaaa... I wish I could sing like that!..'
'Why can't I dance like that?'
'He painted a a gorgeous painting and I can't even draw a straight line with a ruler!..'

We admire them. We want to be like them sometimes. Well I don't know about you, but I always wished I had some kind of talent. It would have been nice to be supergood at something, so you can show off in front of your peers. It's nice when other people are impressed by your skills. Then you can put a huge grin on your face and feel good about yourself and fall asleep happy well-tucked in by your ego.

It would be nice perhaps to be famous because you have some sort of talent. You would be on TV all the time, wearing Gucci, Armani, Ravioli or Gnocci, with your snow white bleached teeth and hair to match. You could marry and divorse every month or even week. You could do drugs and then go to rehab where you would smoke a cigarette at the shrink's office and complain how profoundly unhappy you are because you have all that money and life is still just as meaningless as it was before they invented self-flushing toilets.

But I digress.

A question. What is worse?: having no talent or having a talent and letting it drop right into the self-flushing toilent?

Option B I say. There's a song. 'Same Script, Different Cast' by W. Houston and D. Cox. Quick summary: the dude leaves Whitney for Deborah, and Whitney tries to convince Deb that he will dump her too. Two ladies who have the voice power that could fly a rocket to Saturn and back to London get together and decide to humiliate themselves by performing a song that is a parody on a parody of itself. Never mind who wrote that song. I don't think it was them. I really hope it wasn't them. I really hope that the only reason they agreed to do this is that they had a poker debt, and this dreadful accident of a song was the only solution available at the time.

[DC] 'It's your fault you didn't love him enooouuugh.'
[WH:]'That's the problem.I loved him too much.And when you looove him. He becomes unattracted to yooouuu.'

Fair enough. Some people are like that I reckon. They pull away when others show them love and care. Sad business. But why would you be so blunt about that? The title is metaphorical, yet the lyrics sound like a conversation between two housewifes in a kitchen over a pot of chicken soup somewhere in a village in Eastern Europe.

[DC:] 'Don't say no more. La La La La La La La La La'
[WH:] 'Uncover your ears, girl.'
[DC:] 'I'm not listening. La La La La La La La La La'

So subtle. So delicate. So spiritual. Now I know who wrote that song! It's Cartman from South Park!

Perhaps I'm just bitter because I can't sing as well as Whitney or Deborah. Perhaps I had a bad day at work. Perhaps I chipped my toenail on a staircase. I am however glad I don't have a talent to waste. You earn respect when you use your talent well. You lose that respect and even more, so your respect account says 'minus', when you apply your talent where it doesn't belong.

Nevertheless, this song is special to me. It makes me smile on rainy day, when I sit on the bus and daydream about Barcelona and lamb curry.

PS: If you enjoy well-written songs as much as I do click on the link below and let yourself be mesmerized by the power of art:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVh0_DQtwyU

Containers, Toothpaste and Other Side Effects of Socialcoholizing

No no no you say. Not gonna drink much tonight. You keep thinking about it while you are at work. Not gonna go out afterwards either. Just gonna go home, drink some tea and go to bed sober.
If you have these kinds of thoughts already at 12 o’clock at noon, the evening you are about to have will definitely be memorable, where the memory won’t fail at least. This I learned much too late to my own misfortune.
So you get there calm, slightly tired, with a somewhat melancholic expression on your face. You put yourself nicely on a chair, make sure your top isn’t folded and join the most casual conversation, exchanging courtesies and such.
If you don’t have a drinking problem obviously you won’t refuse a drink. How kind of them to offer. It sure is tasty. What’s in it? Rum you say? Good.
If you don’t have a drinking problem, you won’t refuse a second drink either. You are already warm from the first one. Don’t need that blanket anymore, thanks for borrowing! The conversations take a different turn you notice. Thank goodness it wasn’t me who vomited in the purse on a buss!
All of a sudden an hour has flown by and you are so warm you actually feel like taking something off. You laugh perhaps too much, perhaps too loud, perhaps even if you didn’t get the joke. Is there any more rum left?
Before you know it, you find yourself screaming in someone’s face something about Christmas and spontaneity. You are more than surprised when the third person is trying to pull you away. Apparently it looked like we were having an argument. Well I don’t agree! And I would certainly like to finish that productive discussion. You try to liberate yourself from that third person who also seems to be sitting on you. And then you can see nothing but ceiling and realize you are actually being sat on. Your spine hurts because you are lying on a half-empty wine bottle. Tempranillo, I think.
Even though it must be minus 30 outside, nothing seems more attractive than urinating behind a huge container while waiting for that cab to come and take you to a place where other idiots like you, who also thought tonight ‘Ah why the hell not!’, are moving in the opposite direction of music. You can really feel the power of gravity tonight. I think I have beer on my butt.
Time to say bye bye, or at least try to pronounce something that remotely sounds like that. And figure out where the buss leaves from. Tough one. And then a miracle happens. You get there! By yourself! On foot! On time! So I do come with autopilot after all!
The ride home has little to offer. You are mostly relieved to see that a fellow passenger looks more chewed up that you. So maybe the others didn’t see how drunk I was? Two words: wishful thinking.
When the morning comes and hits you in the head with a bulldozer, the remnants of toothpaste in your hair do not provoke a surprise in you.