"Aaaaargh!" I believe, goes the expression. I am so crap in front of crowds! We were called on to stand up in front of the roughly 80-person lecture class and pitch the scripts we are currently working on, in one logline. And, well... I kinda shit the bed on this one. (Hey, Greeks! Know that expression? Add it to your English vocabulary right now).
Φανταστείτε το: δεν έχω συνειδητοποιήσει ότι θα σηκωθούμε να μιλήσουμε μπροστά σε όλους. Φεύγωντας βιαστικά από το σπίτι, έχω βάλει κάτι που θα φόραγα για ΜαηΜπάρ. Κραυγαλέο, να το πω; Το θέμα είναι ότι λέει "καμ φακ μη", όχι "μπάη μάη σκριπτ". Ο λόγος που έφυγα βιαστικά; Ήθελα να προλάβω να φάω ένα σάντουιτς παγωτό από το Ντίντυ Ρης. Οπότε, είμαι γεμάτος βούτυρο και ζάχαρη, αγχώνομαι που θα σηκωθώ μπροστά στον καθηγητή και τους 80, όλο και περισσότερο... αλλά λέω "Έχω τουλάχιστο δυνατό κόνσεπτ". "Θα το απαγγείλω βροντοφωναχτά, θα πει 'Οκέη', θα τελειώσει εκεί το ζήτημα", λέω. ΛΕΩ.
So, called upon I was, and things went exactly like you'd think. I was the first person in the class whose concept was greeted with sheer incomprehension. If Hal didn't actually use the words "What the fuck are you talking about?" his face sure did. A leg-trembling, 5-minute interrogation session later, I was able to sit down - my seatmates taking out marshmallows on sticks to roast against my cheeks.
The contents of my brain when I was called on.
Also, the pattern of my shirt.
Το ψευτοτραγικό της υπόθεσης ήταν η αντίδραση μου. Το παίζω δασκαλάκος φοβερός και τρομερός, μαθημένος από 3 χρόνια σε εταιρεία παραγωγής (ονόματα δε λέμε, υπολήψεις δε θίγουμε - Γεια σου, Καγιαλίνα!). Έχω μάθει να κάνω εποικοδομητική κριτική με όσο το δυνατό μικρότερο πλήγμα στην ψυχική κατάσταση του συγγραφέως που κρίνεται. Έλα όμως που ακόμα δεν το 'χω να επεξεργάζομαι αντίστοιχα τα εισερχόμενα σχόλια και δη όταν γίνονται μπροστά σε πλήθος!
Naturally, it took until my blushing had cooled down -around 30 to 45 minutes depending on room temperature- for my thoughts to do the same. Of course I wasn't the first to get a strong negative reaction. That's just how it felt, especially since I'd done a spectacular job of psyching myself out while waiting for my turn to speak. It wasn't even negative per se. I had just been called out for not representing myself to the best of my ability and rightfully so.
Ας είμαστε δίκαιοι άλλωστε. Που δεν ξέρασα το παγωτό, για παράδειγμα, ήταν μια νίκη.
There followed the bout of obligatory, in-class "Feck, I don't think I can do this". We then went on to see the openings of Little Miss Sunshine, Fargo, Casino Royale (2006) and The Squid and The Whale. These were meant to prep us for the awesome assignment of the coming Monday and fully brought me back to my senses.
Μην αγχωθέι κανείς! Δε με χάνει το Χόλυγουντ.
If the list of Things I Have Done That Still Make Me Cringe had a scale to go with it, then the above events would rank about a three. The following float at around four. It was our first writing assignment and I thought I was being daring in choosing to write this story. But after completing it, I realised, the cringe factor is not in the present.
Ουουου. Τι λέει ο τυυυύποοοοοος.
What called to me was the, then unprecedented, intense feeling of shame. It reverberates to now from the past but, really, I'm over this. Much unlike I'm over That First Script. The eyerolls every time I think about writing it are epic in power and proportion. Every single time, I cringe retroactively with 5 years' worth of shame. But this one... this one has me feeling kinda proud!
Η υπόσχεση του να βρεθεί μια καλύτερη ισορροπία σε αυτό το μπλογκ προφανώς δεν έχει πραγματωθεί ακόμα αλλά ισχύει. Άσχετο μεν αλλά είπα να το υπενθυμίσω. Προς το παρόν έχετε να αντιμετωπίσετε την ανισορροπία ενόπιων σας. Τα συλλυπητήριά μου.
The only thing I'm changing from what I submitted to the course are other people's names. They might not be as pleased as I, with the particular story. So, while I go figure out how to reshape and salvage the broken pieces of my script's crushed hull, give this little tale a gander. And, hopefully, enjoy:
Φανταστείτε το: δεν έχω συνειδητοποιήσει ότι θα σηκωθούμε να μιλήσουμε μπροστά σε όλους. Φεύγωντας βιαστικά από το σπίτι, έχω βάλει κάτι που θα φόραγα για ΜαηΜπάρ. Κραυγαλέο, να το πω; Το θέμα είναι ότι λέει "καμ φακ μη", όχι "μπάη μάη σκριπτ". Ο λόγος που έφυγα βιαστικά; Ήθελα να προλάβω να φάω ένα σάντουιτς παγωτό από το Ντίντυ Ρης. Οπότε, είμαι γεμάτος βούτυρο και ζάχαρη, αγχώνομαι που θα σηκωθώ μπροστά στον καθηγητή και τους 80, όλο και περισσότερο... αλλά λέω "Έχω τουλάχιστο δυνατό κόνσεπτ". "Θα το απαγγείλω βροντοφωναχτά, θα πει 'Οκέη', θα τελειώσει εκεί το ζήτημα", λέω. ΛΕΩ.
So, called upon I was, and things went exactly like you'd think. I was the first person in the class whose concept was greeted with sheer incomprehension. If Hal didn't actually use the words "What the fuck are you talking about?" his face sure did. A leg-trembling, 5-minute interrogation session later, I was able to sit down - my seatmates taking out marshmallows on sticks to roast against my cheeks.
The contents of my brain when I was called on.
Also, the pattern of my shirt.
Το ψευτοτραγικό της υπόθεσης ήταν η αντίδραση μου. Το παίζω δασκαλάκος φοβερός και τρομερός, μαθημένος από 3 χρόνια σε εταιρεία παραγωγής (ονόματα δε λέμε, υπολήψεις δε θίγουμε - Γεια σου, Καγιαλίνα!). Έχω μάθει να κάνω εποικοδομητική κριτική με όσο το δυνατό μικρότερο πλήγμα στην ψυχική κατάσταση του συγγραφέως που κρίνεται. Έλα όμως που ακόμα δεν το 'χω να επεξεργάζομαι αντίστοιχα τα εισερχόμενα σχόλια και δη όταν γίνονται μπροστά σε πλήθος!
Naturally, it took until my blushing had cooled down -around 30 to 45 minutes depending on room temperature- for my thoughts to do the same. Of course I wasn't the first to get a strong negative reaction. That's just how it felt, especially since I'd done a spectacular job of psyching myself out while waiting for my turn to speak. It wasn't even negative per se. I had just been called out for not representing myself to the best of my ability and rightfully so.
Ας είμαστε δίκαιοι άλλωστε. Που δεν ξέρασα το παγωτό, για παράδειγμα, ήταν μια νίκη.
There followed the bout of obligatory, in-class "Feck, I don't think I can do this". We then went on to see the openings of Little Miss Sunshine, Fargo, Casino Royale (2006) and The Squid and The Whale. These were meant to prep us for the awesome assignment of the coming Monday and fully brought me back to my senses.
Μην αγχωθέι κανείς! Δε με χάνει το Χόλυγουντ.
If the list of Things I Have Done That Still Make Me Cringe had a scale to go with it, then the above events would rank about a three. The following float at around four. It was our first writing assignment and I thought I was being daring in choosing to write this story. But after completing it, I realised, the cringe factor is not in the present.
Ουουου. Τι λέει ο τυυυύποοοοοος.
What called to me was the, then unprecedented, intense feeling of shame. It reverberates to now from the past but, really, I'm over this. Much unlike I'm over That First Script. The eyerolls every time I think about writing it are epic in power and proportion. Every single time, I cringe retroactively with 5 years' worth of shame. But this one... this one has me feeling kinda proud!
Η υπόσχεση του να βρεθεί μια καλύτερη ισορροπία σε αυτό το μπλογκ προφανώς δεν έχει πραγματωθεί ακόμα αλλά ισχύει. Άσχετο μεν αλλά είπα να το υπενθυμίσω. Προς το παρόν έχετε να αντιμετωπίσετε την ανισορροπία ενόπιων σας. Τα συλλυπητήριά μου.
The only thing I'm changing from what I submitted to the course are other people's names. They might not be as pleased as I, with the particular story. So, while I go figure out how to reshape and salvage the broken pieces of my script's crushed hull, give this little tale a gander. And, hopefully, enjoy:
In sixth grade, my best friend was Tom Haverford. He had a house in Ekali (a very lavish suburb of Athens) and an identical twin (with only a mole's difference)! Tom and I were on the basketball team together. He had gone steady with Leslie and I followed suit with her best friend.
When I stayed over at his, we would go to a far away kiosk, using the excuse of walking the Haverfords' dogs. There, I would distract the owner by buying gum or Kinder chocolate. Meanwhile, Tom stole porno magazines from off the stands, behind the kiosk guy's back.
He would stash the magazines under his shirt, held steady by his boxers and, acting cool, we would walk back to the house in a secret rush of excitement. The dogs were none the wiser.
A large coat closet housed our hidden hours. We would go there with the magazines and leaf through them and laugh. We laughed more than you'd think, while looking at naked women and touching our weiners (each his own) inside our sweatpants. We also made prank calls.
But there were some things that Tom wouldn't understand. Like how I felt uncomfortable pulling the pranks, or how I might like to steal a different kind of porno. In fact, I had taken a shine to a magazine I saw at the kiosk closest to my house: Pinocchia.
Pinocchia was a puppet. A life-size woman puppet that came alive when her creator/father fucked her. She sat poised on the comic's cover, kneeling on top of a work bench, her back straight. She was surrounded by toy trains, tools and tiny soldiers that peered at her nakedness; her full breasts, a shade lighter than the rest of her. And, when she'd tell a lie, those breasts would become bigger!
I was determined to have her. I vacillated for a long time, I was scared. I must have walked by that kiosk, back and forth, a hundred times. Looking back on it, that's probably what tipped the guy off. Because, of course, when I did dare to nick Pinocchia and stuff her in my pants, I felt a burly arm grab mine. Shouting came at me like a gust of moist hot air, dishwasher-like, and that was it.
The next thing I remember, I was in my mother's bed, crying. I have a recollection of running away from the kiosk in tears, but how I got away I have no clue. My mother found me there. She coaxed me into telling her what had happened, and I, embellishing how awful and violent the kiosk guy had been, eventually did tell her the whole story. I'm sure at the time I believed it.
She listened to me bawl and sob and stutter and when I was done with my piece, my mother asked: “Agapi mou, why didn't you just buy it?” I broke into a new round of histrionics. The reasons were plentiful: What would the kiosk guy think if I bought porn from him? And Pinocchia?! He was so close to home! “DREPOMOUNA”.
In Greek, there's only one word that stands for both “embarrassed” and “ashamed”. I was embarrassed for being caught, I was ashamed beyond belief that I wanted Pinocchia: drepomouna. My mother left the room without another word. I sat sprawled on the bed, dripping snot – perturbed but waiting. Ten minutes later mum was back, and in her hands, she had Pinocchia.
I went on to become more daring in my stealing ways, but also more strategic. I scoped places out, I calculated customer traffic. I had a special, discreet backpack in which I could slip things, at the right moments. And then I'd go ahead and a buy a pop or ice cream from the very same kiosk.
I never bought straight porn. I only ever stole it. Which I kept doing when I went on to naked men (rationalising back then that I was just excited at the idea of the sexual act, no matter that there were no such depictions in these magazines). But at some point, I did dare to buy gay. Eyes downcast, trembling from head to tippy-toe, making sure only the back cover of the magazine was visible to kiosk guys. But I did buy it.
The guilt didn't go away. But the magazines did. Every now and then, I would go into a shame spiral and throw them out the bathroom window. They'd land somewhere in our apartment building's boiler room with a wet “floop” sound. And though I did try to find out where they ended up, I didn't manage to, and never saw any of the departed porn ever again. Not even the VHS tapes.
Still, I think Pinocchia must have made an impact. I feel a pang when I think she managed to become a real girl, only to be thrown out a window on one of my, many, manic bouts of guilt...
When I told my mother about me, it came spontaneously, while I was breaking down about something else entirely. Mothers know - you know they know. And the time before I had it said, when I had waited and waited, I knew even then -she has made sure I knew- that it was not for her. It wasn't mum who wasn't ready.
Want a Pinocchia of your own?
When I stayed over at his, we would go to a far away kiosk, using the excuse of walking the Haverfords' dogs. There, I would distract the owner by buying gum or Kinder chocolate. Meanwhile, Tom stole porno magazines from off the stands, behind the kiosk guy's back.
He would stash the magazines under his shirt, held steady by his boxers and, acting cool, we would walk back to the house in a secret rush of excitement. The dogs were none the wiser.
A large coat closet housed our hidden hours. We would go there with the magazines and leaf through them and laugh. We laughed more than you'd think, while looking at naked women and touching our weiners (each his own) inside our sweatpants. We also made prank calls.
But there were some things that Tom wouldn't understand. Like how I felt uncomfortable pulling the pranks, or how I might like to steal a different kind of porno. In fact, I had taken a shine to a magazine I saw at the kiosk closest to my house: Pinocchia.
Pinocchia was a puppet. A life-size woman puppet that came alive when her creator/father fucked her. She sat poised on the comic's cover, kneeling on top of a work bench, her back straight. She was surrounded by toy trains, tools and tiny soldiers that peered at her nakedness; her full breasts, a shade lighter than the rest of her. And, when she'd tell a lie, those breasts would become bigger!
I was determined to have her. I vacillated for a long time, I was scared. I must have walked by that kiosk, back and forth, a hundred times. Looking back on it, that's probably what tipped the guy off. Because, of course, when I did dare to nick Pinocchia and stuff her in my pants, I felt a burly arm grab mine. Shouting came at me like a gust of moist hot air, dishwasher-like, and that was it.
The next thing I remember, I was in my mother's bed, crying. I have a recollection of running away from the kiosk in tears, but how I got away I have no clue. My mother found me there. She coaxed me into telling her what had happened, and I, embellishing how awful and violent the kiosk guy had been, eventually did tell her the whole story. I'm sure at the time I believed it.
She listened to me bawl and sob and stutter and when I was done with my piece, my mother asked: “Agapi mou, why didn't you just buy it?” I broke into a new round of histrionics. The reasons were plentiful: What would the kiosk guy think if I bought porn from him? And Pinocchia?! He was so close to home! “DREPOMOUNA”.
In Greek, there's only one word that stands for both “embarrassed” and “ashamed”. I was embarrassed for being caught, I was ashamed beyond belief that I wanted Pinocchia: drepomouna. My mother left the room without another word. I sat sprawled on the bed, dripping snot – perturbed but waiting. Ten minutes later mum was back, and in her hands, she had Pinocchia.
I went on to become more daring in my stealing ways, but also more strategic. I scoped places out, I calculated customer traffic. I had a special, discreet backpack in which I could slip things, at the right moments. And then I'd go ahead and a buy a pop or ice cream from the very same kiosk.
I never bought straight porn. I only ever stole it. Which I kept doing when I went on to naked men (rationalising back then that I was just excited at the idea of the sexual act, no matter that there were no such depictions in these magazines). But at some point, I did dare to buy gay. Eyes downcast, trembling from head to tippy-toe, making sure only the back cover of the magazine was visible to kiosk guys. But I did buy it.
The guilt didn't go away. But the magazines did. Every now and then, I would go into a shame spiral and throw them out the bathroom window. They'd land somewhere in our apartment building's boiler room with a wet “floop” sound. And though I did try to find out where they ended up, I didn't manage to, and never saw any of the departed porn ever again. Not even the VHS tapes.
Still, I think Pinocchia must have made an impact. I feel a pang when I think she managed to become a real girl, only to be thrown out a window on one of my, many, manic bouts of guilt...
When I told my mother about me, it came spontaneously, while I was breaking down about something else entirely. Mothers know - you know they know. And the time before I had it said, when I had waited and waited, I knew even then -she has made sure I knew- that it was not for her. It wasn't mum who wasn't ready.
Want a Pinocchia of your own?
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