A close brush in the grips of facebook or would life had been different had I been named Dildo Faggins

After eight months clean, I almost succumbed to the banal existence of falsehoods and wanton-ness that is the f-book.

She who must not be named, a wench currently residing in Los Angeles (what, too nondescript?), rather cursively con(vinc)nived me to join up again after confessing to her that I felt I was somehow missing out on the development of my friends who live afar.

I cannot see photos of them. Do they still exist? How can I speak to them?

We rapidly came to a conclusion as to how I'd feel more involved in my own life.

Rash solution: I'll get f-book again.

I can't be Amanda Helen again. I need a fake name. To throw people off the scent.

I'll be a male, with the same birth date as my own, and my name will be The Hermanator.

My first capacious failure of the evening, alas, clever Zuckerberg demands a "real" first name- I am denied. (Perhaps I should have gone with the wench's suggestion of Dildo Faggins).

I am now Hermanator Hermanator. I have a degree from UCLA and my religion is bagels. My political loyalties lie with apples and oranges.

Does this in resolutely mean that in my fantasy world, in my wildest chimera that I am in fact a male whose name is a pun on a 1980/90s/00s/10s movie franchise I've never seen nor had the desire to see?

I have the same birth date (this I feel is an odd thing to fantasise about- oh! baby February or what about September- but I could have made the effort nonetheless), I am still a Jew, still went to UCLA and still like to make fruit related puns?

Surely I can treat myself better than this.

I request the friendship of a dozen or so people I actually know, no, but really know, no know.

I then realise that most of them will ascertain that Hermanator Hermanator is in fact, me.

But what about those select few?

Those hot footed judgemental f-book pros who would no doubt reject me based merely on my derisory moniker. They'd vitiate immediately before attempting to decipher who I was. To figure out the real me.

Sensical solution for a non sensical situation: Put up a real photo of myself for my profile.

I then started to get accepted.

I received the obligatory "yes", "you're back", "can this be?", "love" messages on my wall from the select few I chose. You know, the ones I really wanted to stay in touch with, the ones I don't want to lose.

They respond to me within minutes of requesting their friendship.

What delicious instant gratification.

They affirm their friendship so fleetly. As if it were there all along.

In fact they're so quick that I get the feeling I could write them an email. Or write a letter. Or heaven forbid call them.

I feel queasy and doltish.

The only solution: I delete Hermanator Hermanator.

.

Let's make sex but not have a baby.

I (un)willingly participated in a stag-do aboard a flight to Bratislava this past weekend.

RyanAir, the airline which is attempting to charter standing only flights, is, I would say, the airline for students, people who like to fly cheaply and men trying to save up money for brothels and strip clubs. Or any combination of the three.

The flight was practically empty. The separate stag-do parties littered themselves strategically throughout the baby plane. Claiming corners as their territory. Pissing on the seats.

It was me. And the drunks. A couple of kids thrown into the mixture.

Oh, wait. Hold on. I've left someone out from the equation.

Darn. This is where being able to paste a photo in the middle of my blog would be immensely fruitful. Alas blogger.com does not give me the option. Bastards.

Scroll up please, my limited readership, to the photo at the top of this posting.

That man, ladies and gentlemen was my row-mate.

I was seated in the aisle, quite comfortably anticipating an entire row to myself for an intensive nap when he insisted on modulating my temple of rest.

He sat down, not at the window, but rather on top of me; in the middle.

I kept looking from him to the window and back again but to no avail.

He seemed intent on encroaching on my life.

My life ruined, alas, I feel asleep.

I awoke, 5 minutes later to a rowdy call of AHOY!...AHOY!?

I turned around and smiled rudely.

A beaming red-faced man smiled mischievously back. A Briton attempting to communicate with me in Slovak. AHOY = HELLO. His friends cheering.

Suddenly, a squirt of cold liquid assaulted me.

Who? What? How?

It was the man. I'll call him the Stache from now on.

Stache, the man next to me, had taken to opening a packet of vodka with his teeth. He failed. His saliva and alcohol made it's way into my nasal cavity.

I stared at him, heaving.

How did he manage to keep the vodka so cold?

Stache took out another five packets of vodka and a decent sized Swiss army knife which he used to puncture the next vodka sack aggressively.

He looked a bit like the human manifestation of the devil.

Is devil capitalized?

Nevermind.

He then proceeded to pour the contents of the packets into some kind of blood red juice. Tomato you say? Aye, I cannot be sure.

Six packets. Wasted.

I was offered none. Except for the one now dripping down my throat from the back of my nose. Stache then proceeded to pluck his eyebrows.

I was debating whether or not to move when, again....

AHOY?! AHOY?! PECKNE ZENA.

I know about ten words of Slovak. Now that means HELLO HELLO BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

Wow, this guy is really intent on charming a Slovakian woman.

Probably, for sex.

I resign to not turning around.

Tap. Tap. Tap. On my shoulder.

The Stache devil is now snoring. His limitless limbs stretched over to the window, bony ass in my side.

Tap.

I turn. I say slowly and loudly I AM AMERICAN.

He smiles and shurgs. Puts down his phrase book. Gets up.

CARE TO JOIN ME THEN?

Ah the lure of RyanAir toilets.

Stache has now ordered cheese and onion pringles and a ham and cheese toastie. The sandwich rests in his lap amongst the fallen eyebrow mass.

I sleep.

Devil Stache awakens me. WOULD YOU MIND USING THE AISLE ARMREST.

Pardon?

THE AISLE ARMREST. I'M TRYING TO SLEEP.

I hatefully move my right arm off the disputed joint territory.

His bottom jutts into my side.

Did he just?

Oh yes. Yes he did.

He farted.

Given my limited options I get up, sit with the nearest stag-do grouping and play warm beer drinking games centered around who can recite pick up lines in Slovak from memory.

My favorite: Nech maju pohlavie, ale nie babatko.

Let's make sex but not have a baby.

FoodgoodinIstanbul.

Food is good in Istanbul.

At the top, that's molasses encrusted roast lamb with mustard seed mash and sauteed prunes.

In the middle that's roasted potatoes with garlic, cream and rosemary.

At the bottom, that's cherry-wood smoked lamb with walnut and tahini purees.

I have to go back.

That is all.

Umbrellas for sun.

Geez lah-iouse. That's a long line for mid-day. Is Elton John signing copies of The Lion King soundtrack in a Simba costume? Is EAT giving away free lunches? Is Jude Law having an affair in the street?

I keep walking, past the masses eye-balling me, afraid that at any moment I might vaporize and swirl into the tightly packed line, disguising myself amongst them, only to re-emerge, solid and dangerous.
And in line... to see.. oh... that dude looks like Bobby Womack.

Maybe he's performing... at... the... Apple store.

Oh balls.

Nevermind.

It's the iPhone 4/God.

Why are people lining up NOW to get it? On their lunch breaks? Late to work? Taking the day off? What is it about technology that requires people to have it first, to have it NOW.

I mean, I lined up for the Harry Potter books. I even considered attending the pajama party at Barnes and Nobles the night before the release. Popcorn. Pajamas. Sleeping in Barnes and Nobles. At 16, they considered me a slight risk, so it was a no-go. When Subway introduced a limited-time-only-special-vegetarian-sandwich I got there the opening day. Italian vegetarian. More like the vegetarian with extra olives.

I think though that my issue here is supply and demand. JK Rowling only allowed for so many Harry Potter books to be sold. Only special people got them. People with Harry Potter pajamas who ate Berty Bots Every Flavored Beans despite KNOWING that one in three was either grass or vomit flavored. Subway also, runs out of vegetables.

But Apple? Apple will always have more iPhones. And you can go on a waiting list. Or go to O2 or Orange. Or order it online. So why the cue? Why the humid sweaty human caterpillar extending back from Regent's Street?

It's for the prestige. The glamour. The over-all trend-factor.

I walked up and down the line a couple times, taunting people with my trail mix and they just looked back at me, smirking. Even when I took out my iPhone 3GS(ubordinate) they seemed to know it was merely a rouse, a downgrade. Vengefully, I "snapped" their photos. They leaned back glamorously, flipping their hair or tilting their sunglasses whilst being a residue sweat towel for the open chested hairy man behind them. (Yes. Every other person was an open shirted hairy-chested man.)

See. Look at the photo above. The one I took with my iPhone 3GS. Even look at the dude with the vaguely Hawaiian shirt, jeans and Reeboks. He looks trendy by proximity. He's an associate of cool. Of cool-dom.

And see that girl? The one with the floppy hat and jesus sandals? She's blindingly awesome. And you can't see it, but I'll fill you in. She's just walked out the Apple store and HAS IT. Yep. That's the new iPhone 4/God in her hands. Look at her. Taunting everyone with her floppy hat. Giving the crowd a glimpse as she turns her head towards the traffic and then thinks, I have God in my hand. Why even bother checking for cars?

Let's try this again. Shall we?

I hallucinated today in Balham. Wait. Hold on. Why can't I stop it? I can't bring myself to not capitalize. My ability to completely disregard proper punctuation has mysteriously left me. I hallucinated and capitalized. I also took a photo. See. There. Up at the top. I should edit the aforementioned statement.

I had reflexology today in Balham. South of South London. Reflexology is a therapeutic method of relieving pain or stress by stimulating pressure points on the feet or hands. Mine was of the feet. I "had" reflexology. Sounds like a disease or a surprise child birth.

I had a reflexology treatment done today. I laid back in a bendy yet super supportive chair, covered in blankets and prepared for an hour of reflexology also known as foot tinkering. I closed my eyes. Bliss came early. My reflexologist was working her way across the padded portion of my right big toe when I entered an unprecedented state of deep calm. There was music playing, but it fell on deaf ears.

Relative silence. Then a large charcoal shadowy elephant billowed out of my stomach. It floated above my head briefly before entering back into it's chamber. My stomach, whence it came. The reflexologist was moving along the depths of my feet, but I had no idea where, they were cavernous comfy landscapes without SatNav. This! This!... Was uncharted territory. Thank holy moly I showered this morning.

I breathed deeply. Cleared my head. As my head was clearing out popped another darker, larger elephant. It floated a few feet. Hovered. Phew. Then it came crushing down on me with all its might. It's gargantuan bottom bee-lining for my nose. My face was going to be swallowed by an elephant tuchkus. Nearly. Instead, to my disbelief, I felt nothing. It disappeared into over half my body, its over extending bits eaten up by the carpet.

I breathed deeply. Elephants sprung up like daisy's in spring time. Only to be immediately evaporated. Presumably by the sun. They were coming out of my knee caps, my pelvis, my shoulders. They varied in size and color. I was their transcendental trampoline.

Eventually a tiny one sprouted up. I squinted through my closed eyes to see it. If ever there was a time for glasses. It had an odd coloration and a different shape to the others. Purpley smoke.

My mind was racing.

An African elephant? A baby Indian elephant? A Benjamin Button elephant? Elephant Jubilee? It lingered at the ceiling.

Could it be?!?

No.

Yes.

Could...?

A SPECIES CHANGE? Is it a hippopotamus? A pygmy hippo?

I... I can't tell. Turn around elepha-amus! Move it hipp-ant! Just a little to the side. I just need to see your silhouette. Is it a hyper long rat tail or a chode tail? Chode or hyper long rat tail? Turn around. You inconsiderate turd. You elusive fatty!

And then, my hipp-ant/elepha-amus disappeared into thin air. Even before its illustrious return to the cave.

A fanciful recluse. All show no action.

It occurs to me now that elephants and hippopotamuses have many distinguishing features on their faces alone. No need for backside viewage. But at the time I needed a tail. It was tell tail really.

I relaxed again. I heard the music for the first time. Native American drumming. Track change. Now "Sixteen Candles" kissing scene music. I breathed heavily. Lamas breathing even. I don't actually know what that is but if it's suitable for popping out eight pounds of mass it's suitable for reflexology. I wait for the return of the animals.

They do not come. My mind will not clear. They have run off to re-join their diverse herd. The elephants, Indian, Benjamin Button, Jubilee and African alike and their pygmy hippopotamus friend. Yes, I'm sure it was a pygmy. Either that or an obese hedgehog. No. It was a pygmy.

And thus, the end of my reflexology session. I am left cold and alone with a glass of water to drink so that my body may maintain equilibrium. I do feel a bit more balanced though. And stress free.

In conclusion, don't be surprised if I ask you to touch my feet. It's for a good cause.

punning things into perspective.

happily, but with slight irreverence i now begin chapter three of “shame my parents”. for an annotated version of the first two chapters see below. for a more in depth case analysis call mark herman (the faj) and ask him how many single period absences i had during my senior year of high school. being a statistics man, he could also probably provide you with the z-score of my laziness and his predicted odds of how well or rather how bad i’d perform on my ap stats test. he was right. then, to get his goat, and boost my ego slightly, ask him what grades i managed to pull off despite the period absences. average grades. average indeed. this brings me to what i’d like to pontificate on after a long relaxing break from the stressful world of blogging… namely, school. (i am choosing to write this, of course, as a 100 page deadline looms over my head quite threateningly.) i would like to state for the record that i do believe that high school and that college of some sort are necessary and high beneficial. that being said, i half-assed both. i really despised high school. the people in it, the atmosphere, the way that i could watch a ridiculous film like “she’s all that” and think wow, that could totally happen at my school, the sense of community it evoked, were all things i ceased to understand the merits of, thus i failed to belong. of course that’s no excuse for not trying. not even close. however, if something fails to inspire me or i cannot see the point of exerting all my energy into said thing then i will put forth the minimal amount necessary to be an average or above average student. some may call this laziness. some may call it ungrateful. it may very well be both of those things but it is nonetheless my nature. there’s also that little thing about if you never give 100% then it never hurts when you fail. that may have been a factor.

i squeaked through high school and i skipped through university. high school was murky. university was different. university was money. money meant time. time became necessary so i went to class. i learned a lot in university. i made friends. i took interesting classes. went to interesting debates. attending meetings. took advantage of what was being given to me. i did. one thing i did not do is spend time in the library. the library was not my friend. the kind of concentration and dedication a space like that evoked, no required, scared me. i did papers in my bed staying up all night the day before they were due. when they were research papers i started two nights before they were due. i did it. i turned in the work. but, i never gave it my all. aha! wait! amendment to the former embarrassing assertion. once, once, i gave it my all. professor almog’s "philosophy of the mind" class intrigued me to no end. almog, a smelly frenchman with wacko einstein hair and entirely too short of biker shorts which always had chalk on the butt bit, inspired me to no end. the class was fascinating. so were the chalk patterns on his bottom. the material was difficult yet i knew that if i put in the effort i could understand it. did he wear hair pomade or was his hair naturally that spastic? i was intrigued. he laid out everything in front of us on the first day and said “you must understand everything fully, there are no short cuts. i dare you to get an a.” he dares me to get an a? he dares me? aha! i double dare him back. no! triple dare. i’ll get an a +++.

oh wait. i just realized why i get along with four year olds so well. great.

i studied hard. in my bed. i read my ass off. went to my ta’s office hours frequently. i spoke with almog after and during class, made sure he knew my name in a room of 300. i did it. well not an a +++. but a 98. a+. i’ll settle for that. i stalked almog, i mean ran into him, after i got my grades back. “almog! hey! loved your class. loved it. got my first a +, first a + ever.” and do you know what that french bastard said back to me?

“i know rebecca, you earned it.”

rebecca? rebecca?

ok. so. i’ve thought about this and he knew my name in class, and this was a good month and a half after class had ceased. so. rebecca is a very traditional name. a very traditional jewish name. another traditional jewish name is aaron, or abraham. those both start with a’s. amanda starts with an a. (i went by amanda in classes to as to appear professional.) so basically you take amanda. make it a masculine jewish name like aaron or abraham. then you think oh wait, she’s not a boy. wait, another jewish name…. oh yes… rebecca. rebecca must be her name. yep. that’s it. that right there is what happened in almog’s brain.

i think the point here is that he forgot my name. maybe he remembered my face and knew that i had gotten that grade, maybe he was bullshitting. but the last part, the second part, that’s true. that’s true because it’s true for everyone who took that class. if you got an a, you earned it. that’s my first a + and the only a i’d say i’d ever really truly earned. it felt good. it felt great.

so yeah. i’m supposed to be writing a 100 page screenplay and instead i’m writing this. but, i took a break from writing the 100 page screenplay to write this and i am taking that break and doing that writing, both of the blog and the screenplay, in, of all places, the library. so i could bang on about how screenwriting is my passion and life-calling (which it is). and about how i go to class and am inspired (which i am). but for those of you that know me and/or minutely understood all that babble above, all I really need to say is, i’m writing. in the library.

x

notes on a slanket

after viewing my last entry i decided that perhaps it was time for me to spend more time out in the world. my life sounds fairly morbid, what with the mosying through cemeteries and spending enough time in pubs for it to qualify as my job. being outside in london however, has just taken a turn for the worse. it's bundle up weather. my days of wearing shorts with stockings are numbered. all this californian mumbo-jumbo about oh my god it's less than 75 and the weatherman is wrong every other day is really to justify a rather hideous impulse buy that i've made as of late. i just felt both my parents cringe, anticipating what horrible product i've bought that i don't need, draining me further of my dwindling funds as i tromp through london in search of a job. well mom and dad i've bought a slanket. "what is a slanket mandy?" one might ask. well, it's a fleece blanket that is in the shape of a jacket, complete with sleeves and a hood. i've been eying these bad boys since my time in la and could no longer resist as it's basically essential to my survival. http://www.theslanket.com/. i also think the advertising is hilarious and frequent the website when in need of a good hearty chuckle. that being said, i didn't actually buy a slanket, i bought a snuggie, the slanket's cheaper, less warm (i have no proof of this) and certainly less trendy cousin. this, i think, should redeem all faith lost.. mom and dad.. common.. it's like i've bought jeans from target (pronounced with a french accent) instead of nordstroms. don't worry i know your beaming with pride at my wise economical and sensible decision. i'll high five myself in celebration.

so, i was sitting on a bench outside my flat, wearing my slanket and scribbling away furiously when i made some new friends. two boys, aged eleven and nine and called thomas and daniel approached me after playing a long game of basketball; where from what I could tell neither of them made a single shot. they were quite good at passing though. "excuse me miss, are you homeless?" asked daniel, staring at my slanket (owning a snuggie pains me so, so for all intensive purposes despite my previous admission, i do in fact own a slanket). "ooh." i smiled and tried to look as un-offended as possible. "no, this is a slanket. it cost me 40 pounds (not true). it's more of a coat then a blanket (also not true)." "i know it's a slanket," thomas affirmed as he eyed me skeptically as though he knew it was in fact a snuggie. "why you wearing it outside?" "it's cold out," i responded. "you look homeless," thomas replied (what a sweeet child). "well technically thomas i'm right out front of my flat so that makes me a.) not really that far outside and b.) not homeless." take that eleven year old! i squeezed logical reasoning and a four syllable word into one sentence. booyah! thomas eyed me skeptically. "well you're a lot smarter than the other tramps, so i guess you aren't one." hah! yes thomas, that's right, i use words like technically and look i've already made an impression on you with my short but sweet lesson on logical reasoning. i am smart; therefore not a tramp, or maybe just not your average tramp. relax, they use tramp over here to mean homeless person; it's not as bad as it sounds and no i did not have the intention of spending this much time discussing homelessness when i sat down to write this.

"do you have a x box?" thomas asked, ruthlessly forging ahead to discover if i was secretly homeless or not. "psshh yeah i've got an x box." relax mom and dad i didn't buy an x box. i lied to the child so as to appear cool, and not homeless. plus my roommate's got one. sharing is caring. "well do you have killing day?" "yeah i did but my flatmate scratched it." no excuses there, that's just a flat out lie. "but I do have guitar hero and rock band" (inherent truths, they are sitting on my living room table). daniel was impressed, "no way! cool!" thomas retorted, "mum won't let us buy those, says playing guitar is dangerous and leads to bad moral character." hmm but killing day employs a good value system? ignoring the silliness of their mum and undermining her completely i said, "well it teaches dexterity and the pacing of music, which i think is pretty important, better than killing games at least." then we got into an interesting and hard hitting discussion about if killing games were ok if you were shooting at aliens who are obviously the bad guys al-ways and for-ever.

at the end of it daniel accused me of having a funny accent. i admitted to being american. well californian actually. big difference. "wow!" said daniel, clearly blown away. thomas looked skeptical again, or maybe he just had to fart, i'm not really sure. i sensed i should be moving on from the bench as i hadn't really gotten much writing done and the left side of my bum was completely asleep. i said "bye", they said "alreet, see you later then."

alreet. see you later then. i've made new friends.

xxx