Scenes From a Mall

I had a day off in Pittsburgh the other day. I had the usual stresses of being woken up far too early to make sure all my little children got safely into their rooms and got their breakfast. The guy on the front desk didnt have keys for two of the orchestra girls, and so flatly lied to my face saying he'd already issued them. I replied; "They're alseep on my bus, dude, I just saw them." Their room wasn't ready, wouldn't be for another 6 hours. I don't want to go on another rant, so suffice to say hotels in America are a nightmare. They have so many staff that it's impossible to ensure your request will be processed. You literally have to call them every day for a week before you arrive. And they still fuck it up. This was no exception, but THIS IS NOT A RANT. So I'll stop now. Wankers.

There. I usually feel really bad about ruining everyone's day off because of aforementioned shambolic hotel system, so I often sneak out and spend the day on my own, taking in the sights and getting photographs. At some point in the evening the Wolfman takes over and I somehow manage to pull. God Bless America. And girls who drink way too much Guinness.

This day off was different. I agreed to go to the mall with Lars, one of the chefs. Yes, I've been critical of malls in the past. Repeatedly. But this is no ordinary mall.

For those who don't know (I didn't) this is the mall where George A Romero filmed Dawn of the Dead. In 1978, possibly while I was being born, they were making this seminal movie in the middle of the night. The store-owners would just hand over the keys to Romero and some guy named Taso and let them do what they wanted, provided they paid for any damages. Which, considering the mess they made, accounted for most of the $1.5 million budget.

I'm not a huge horror fan. At 13 I stayed at a friend's and watched Nightmare on Elm St 3 and it shit me up big-style. I actually started saying prayers again for a few months until it became a chore and I decided to take my chances. After that I was afraid to watch horrors at all for for years. The next one I watched was Scream, and I remember being terrified at the beginning, just from knowing it was also made by Wes Craven.

Zombie movies freaked me out as a kid- all the groaning and dead eyes (a bit like that Bowie bird from Brighton Beach, eh Davey? hoho) so If I hadnt been a fan of Spaced, I doubt I would have ever even watched Shaun of the Dead. But a zombie movie isnt really a horror is it? More of a gruesome action movie.

Hmm, I'm rambling, so I'll wrap up. Comedy cured me of my fear of horror films. A horror film cured me of my fear of malls... If this cycle continues, what can the mall cure me of I wonder? I was trying to look like a lothario-zombie here. instead I look like Ed Norton in The Score. OK, bye-bye.

Wake up, Brain. Final warning...

I'm struggling to come up with anything to put in this space at the moment. I started something, looked for pictures, everything (not unlike Davey, but I figured rather than leave him a comment I could post it here- the photo above is from an abandoned piece I had started about the decline of Ashcroft). But looking back at it, it's just a futile rant. Something I'm trying to move away from as a waste of energy and an unattractive trait. Emphasis on the latter, obviously, as I'm a total narcissist.

I've been trying to rationalise this brainfreeze. I've noticed in the past couple of years a distinct lack of joy in doing anything. I lost interest in my job, then all jobs. I even lost interest in meaningless night-time encounters and, most alarmingly, drinking and recreational drugs. They did make work marginally more interesting for a while, though. Quite a while, in fact.

I'm not depressed, just a bit... muted. Unless I'm really drunk - like, Davey drunk - you can't tell I'm over the edge, even if I feel twatted. And I looked a bit stoned for about seven years, so I suppose it's hard to tell what's going on behind the veneer. I'm not drunk, high, happy, sad. I'm just Dan. The bitter cynic who never has a bad word for anyone. Im not looking for sympathy; I think everyone feels like this. Which is probably the worst thing about it.

Plus of course, I'm pretty new to my job, and the only Englishman here. The French-Canadians have their 'tabernac' and the Dutch have, er, moaning about everything. That would be a sweeping generalisation, but I mean the Dutch crew not the entire race. They have a 'been there, done that, where's the shopping mall?' approach to being on tour and having everything paid for. At least for the Canadians, it's mostly new. They walk around, do the tourist thing. Drink, have fun, don't worry about buying a round of drinks...

The crew like me, I'm pretty sure, but they know nothing about me. I'm not big on anecdotes and I have to avoid the politics of work. The moment I take a side, I'll find myself alone; ratted out and deserted. And all the time, my English phone is less and less active, if increasingly expensive. My old friends are edging away from me. I don't know them anymore. And my new friends are dicks.

Still, i keep telling myself it's a means to an end. If anyone can point me towards the finish line, I'll be on my way.

I don't like to end on a down-note, so here's some of my trademark self-deprecating wit, stolen from someone else.