Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Mitzi Szereto in Rhode Island

My bear (the famous Teddy Tedaloo) has recently decided that he wants to move to Vermont. Why Vermont? Well, we hear there are plenty of bears there and, being the single mother of a young bear, this sounds like just the place (providing we can afford American health insurance, which looks increasingly doubtful).

Indeed, I can envision us living in a cosy little upmarket log cabin-style house with high-beamed ceilings and wood-burning fireplace, located on a nice parcel of gently rolling land, and not a neighbour within sight or hearing distance. Apparently the price of real estate isn’t too bad there either and as long as I have high-speed broadband, who cares how far away things are? Now if there are any cute quirky little lads who happen to be single and within driving distance (bonus points to those who own a nice motorbike), we might be in business! (Note: I’m willing to put up with an American accent if said lads tick the right boxes. Hey, what can I say? I’ll make sacrifices for love. Besides, Ted needs a positive male role model who’ll take him to ballgames and such. Okay, nix the ballgame shtick, we can’t stand that crap.)

As for why we’d settle on New England, well, why not? It’s somewhere neither I nor Ted have ever lived. In fact, I recently returned from a visit there, though I didn’t make it over to Vermont, but spent my time in Rhode Island and Connecticut. Rhode Island is nice, but it’s in the hurricane zone. Connecticut is nice, but it’s too expensive and too full of New Yawkers. As for Massachusetts, forget it – that caw-caw accent would make me suicidal (please, no hate mail from you Bostonians, okay?). So it looks like Vermont is top of the list for now. I’m sure I can root out enough quirky content and characters to keep Mitzi TV going. And there’s bound to be a novel in it somewhere, too (perhaps even an erotic one, if things go well). If it’s anything like Rhode Island where I walked into a random Barnes & Noble and found a copy of my new book In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales, then it must be a good place.

Mitzi Szereto in Mystic, Connecticut

Would I be willing to leave behind the bright lights of Londontown for the peace and quiet of New England? You betcha! Would I be bored silly? Heck no! I tell you, it’s all happening in New England. Take Providence, for example. Providence has the best falafel I ever ate – and I don’t even like falafel! And there are adventures galore to be had at Providence Airport – or, should I say – Theodore Francis Green International Airport or whatever in heck they’re calling it this week. When it comes to ferreting out potential terrorists, they make the Heathrow security team look like a bunch of squealing girlies.

Last week I was minding my own business waiting to board my flight for Fort Lauderdale when along came this security dude armed with a really butch-looking test tube and some kind of pH stick he was waving about in a threatening manner. Oh, man, he was tuff stuff. All I know is, the bloke sitting next to me in the departure lounge must’ve been on some no-fly list, because that bottle of water he was hanging onto was confiscated and given a right going over by Mr Security Dude. Apparently, this test tube paraphernalia wasn’t intended to get people high (as we’d hoped), but was there to test if any suspicious vapours were emanating from our bottled beverages. It appeared that my fellow passenger Mr Vapour Man had set off some alarm bells, because that pH stick became intimately acquainted with the contents of his plastic water bottle. Talk about rude!

The point is, excitement can be found most anywhere. Or maybe not…

Right, well, I guess I need to start contacting some real estate companies in Vermont (and setting that plan in motion to rob a bank to fund this venture). As for the other part of my master plan, interested parties – that means you cute quirky little single lads in New England (or elsewhere, if you can convince me that you’re what I want/need/desire) – may apply for the position of being Teddy’s positive male role model by sending a CV to me care of my website. Photos and gainful employment required.

Mitzi Szereto on a frozen Watchaug Pond, Rhode Island

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Well, yet another Christmas has passed and if you’re anything like me, it tends to bounce right off, leaving not so much as a dent. However, even us expat Scrooges can’t avoid some of that “Christmas cheer”. I’m speaking, of course, of the one kind of Christmas cheer that can turn even the most mild-mannered librarian into a berserk axe-wielding psychopath ready to slay anyone who so much as looks in their direction.

No, I’m not talking about that great British tradition Sir Cliff Richard and his oh-so-happy bowel-loosening Christmas tunes. I’m referring to yet another great British tradition: the vomit-inducing endless playing and replaying of the 1970’s Slade hit single “Merry Xmas Everybody“, featuring the vocals of one Noddy Holder, whose voice could strip paint from metal, not to mention turn human eardrums into tinsel. Oh yeah, it doesn’t get any worse than this. No matter where you go or what you do, you can’t avoid it. In the words of my hair stylist, “It’ll get you sooner or later.”

Ominous, eh?

Indeed. And no one seems to be immune to this menace either. You can tell that things have really deteriorated to Night of the Living Dead sheer terror stage when you observe Muslims, Jews, Hindus and Sikhs all tapping their toes to this musical malady that is being blasted from the sound system in every shop, petrol station, hair salon, kebab house, and newsagents throughout the United Kingdom from November till New Years. Where’s George A. Romero when you need him? Come to think of it, where’s Dirty Harry? (Do you feel lucky, punk?)

The strange thing is, everyone seems to hate this bloody song, so why does it keep getting so much airplay? I guess it’s like traditional Christmas pudding – everyone hates that too, but just try finding one family Christmas dinner in Britain where it isn’t being served. It’s analogous to fruitcake in America, which works brilliantly as a door-stopper or laxative, but bears little resemblance to a proper dessert. I doubt even death-row inmates are forced to endure such punishments.

As for Noddy Holder, he has a lot to answer for. Though I suppose if I were back in the USA, I’d be driven to wall-biting insanity by Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas“, which offers up its own special brand of nausea, albeit with a more American flavour. Oh man, some people just won’t die, no matter how much you might want them to. I suspect it will be the same with Noddy Holder.

Which leads me to the whole point of this blog post. There’s only one cure for this malady which strikes Great Britain every year at Christmastime and sends millions of its inhabitants gagging and heaving to the nearest gutter or toilet – and that’s to rid this island nation of the great menace itself. And yes, folks, it can be done!

We have to take matters into our own hands. After all, do you see Amnesty International coming to our rescue? Hell no. We’re on our own. So that means we need to take drastic action against this musical pestilence lest it rears its ugly head again next Christmas (and you just know it will!). So what I’m proposing is this: the Death to Noddy Holder Fan Club.

I urge you to take up arms now and enlist. Who knows? If we band together in battle, we might be lucky enough to spend Christmas 2010 with one less agony to endure. So let’s see some of that fighting spirit that made Britain great. It worked during World War II – it can work again!

The full unadulterated evil of this menace can be found here. Watch and listen if you dare! http://www.youtube.com

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A few months back I said I’d never go to a live gig again…

That is, until I received a text message at 1am the other morning asking what I was doing the next evening. See? There’s a reason why I stay up late every night – things happen late. I get important emails from other time zones late at night. And I get important text messages!

Depeche Mode ticket

So thanks to my somewhat bizarre sleeping habits, I finally got to see one of the music world’s greatest bands, Depeche Mode – a band whose talented front-man Dave Gahan is in possession of the sexiest voice on the planet (and don’t even try to argue this point with me, because you won’t win!).

Dave Gahan is also hot, no doubt about it. I’ll say this much – when he stripped down to his delightfully low-slung black trousers, he looked mighty fine, mighty fine, indeed. In fact, he looked so damned fine I could even overlook all those tattoos (not being into tatts myself).

Unfortunately, what I could not overlook was the sea of heads belonging to the other concert goers. For I’d found myself in the standing section of London’s O2 Arena – the section known less officially as “that giant pit wot’s in the middle”. Despite being relatively near to the stage, I struggled like hell to see the performers, spending half the time yelling “Where’s Dave???” into my mate’s ear. Aside from waving arms and cameras stuck up in the air, I had to contend with the taller members of our species who, despite having the advantage of height, still insist on getting up close and personal and thereby, blocking the view from the rest of us shorties.

Where are all these tall guys coming from? I thought England was a race of vertically challenged people. It’s beginning to look as if they’re breeding basketball players in this country. I was getting so annoyed with these Jolly Green Giants that I  considered starting up the Depeche Mode Coalition Against Tall People. My gig-going cohort Clive, who’s a proper little English lad, not one of this new-fangled breed, said he always tells people that if they ever need to find him at a gig, to look for the tallest person there – and he’ll be stuck behind them. So let’s just say that neither of us was doing much “ho-ho-ho-ing” that evening. Indeed, I began to get quite menacing any time some tall guys got within a few feet of me, telling them that they couldn’t stand in front of me because they were too tall.

It worked. Even the guy with the huge metal stud piercing his chin backed off. Guess I can be pretty scary when I want to.

There’s one problem with gigs and drinking beer at gigs (and I was sipping VERY slowly, mind!). I knew I’d never make it through the concert without having to spend a penny. But when I overheard the guys next to me saying security weren’t allowing people back into our area if they left, I panicked. Our little section was being patrolled by a very nice member of O2 security staff, who informed me that there was a password to get back in. I thought for sure she was taking the mick. Password? I felt like I was in that speakeasy scene from the Marx Brothers‘ film “Horse Feathers“, only rather than saying “swordfish” to get in, I had to give the name of our security guard.

I kinda think she’d taken a wee bit of a shine to me too, because when I’d returned from the loo and couldn’t find my mate, she suddenly appeared like my fairy godmother, taking me by the arm and leading me straight to him. Now that’s what I call service! In fact, I was quite impressed by security and crowd control in general at the O2 (at least the exorbitant ticket prices pay for something!). They were damned serious about maintaining order – quite a contrast from the Forum in London, where I went to see Staind and Seether and nearly got decapitated by crowd surfers who, according to a big sign in the lobby, will be ejected from the venue, but in reality were instead recycled back into the crowd to create more mayhem.

I can’t help wondering if my old Facebook buddy, the Dave Gahan “impersonator” electrician from Kent who’d conned me into believing he really was Dave Gahan, might’ve been at the Depeche gig as well. Not that I would’ve recognised him. I mean, he was supposed to be Dave Gahan, and as far as I could tell from the rare glimpses I had between people’s heads, there was only one Dave Gahan – and he was that sexy geezah up on the stage.

I hope the next time the real Dave Gahan decides to visit his old mates in his former stomping ground of Basildon, he’ll stop by mine for a cuppa. And if he’s real nice to me, I might even let him have some cookies.

Reach out and touch faith!

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Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo at London bears and friends soiree

Don’t worry, you’ve not accidentally stumbled into the Queen Vic to get a right old bollocking off Peggy Mitchell.

On the contrary, we’re talking strictly upmarket here. Indeed, the society event of the season has just passed. I’m speaking, of course, about the “Kristmist pinteded and fooded meetup for bearz and frendz”. Only a select few were invited to this exclusive London soiree arranged by Teddy Tedaloo, my bear and the talented Production Assistant Extraordinaire at Mitzi TV.

The event was organised via Facebook and attended by such London luminaries as Fred (a rambunctious chimp who can’t hold his liquor) and his human; Winston (a well-behaved dog) and his parents; Diane (who for some inexplicable reason had forgotten to bring Angus the penguin); and a mutual friend Geoff, who’s the only person in town I can get into a lively London-bashing conversation with.

Teddy Tedaloo with Winston and Fred

Everyone met up on a rainy Saturday afternoon at a cosy pub tucked away off a main road in Maida Vale near Little Venice – a wise locational decision on Ted’s part, considering the Christmas shopping mayhem in Central London, along with what was threatened to be the biggest climate control protest to ever hit the city (whether it was or not, I’ve no idea). Being holiday time, Ted lucked in with two really posh bars of chocolate, which I’m hoping he’ll share with me. Mind you, so far he’s not made any move in that direction, though I live in hope.

Teddy Tedaloo and all his mates

It was decided that we needed a group photo to commemorate the occasion. Well, count on a man to sort things out. Geoff found the drunkest person in the pub to take it. After I explained to our photographer several times that he needed to push the little button on top of the camera halfway down to focus, then press firmly to capture the image, I began to suss that this geezah was no Ansel Adams. He eventually sat in a chair and proceeded to balance the camera on his nose, leaning so far back that I was certain he’d topple over and crack his skull (which might’ve been an improvement). Had he broken my camera I’d have decked him big time. Mind you, I should’ve decked that rough-looking barmaid who directed some rather rude species-ist comments our way. Good thing it isn’t customary to tip in pubs, or the beyatch would be down the soup kitchen. Having said that, she probably wouldn’t be unemployed for long. Peggy Mitchell would probably hire her, since the woman has just the right amount of “dead common” to qualify for a downmarket East End boozer!

Unfortunately, a brawl broke out between Ted and Fred, no doubt resulting from too much Cornish ale and some testosterone-infused cross-species rivalry. I tell you, you ain’t seen nuffink till you’ve seen a bear and a chimp go at it in bare-knuckle fighting. (Like, who needs “Fight Club“?) Ted was throwing jabs and hooks that would’ve made Muhammad Ali sit up and take notice! To be honest, I knew Fred would be trouble the moment I saw that chavvy bit of bling he was wearing round his neck. One of our party (whom I won’t mention out of concern for his/her personal safety) suggested that he might’ve been trying to get a bit funny with Ted; apparently the chimp isn’t averse to a bit of action, the likes of which I dare not mention in mixed company! Winston sat quietly at the sidelines, remaining well out of the mayhem and observing the fracas with cool canine amusement.

Teddy Tedaloo and Fred pass out from too much exertion and ale

Thankfully by the end of the evening, everyone was friends again, though that gobby barmaid better not get near any of us in this lifetime, I’ll say that much.

Will we do it again? You betcha! In fact, we’ve already got RSVPs for the next “pinteded and fooded meetup”, which will take place sometime early next year! Though it’s unlikely we’ll be returning to the same pub. For one thing, that barmaid really got up our noses.

For another, we’ve been barred!

Teddy Tedaloo and his mates sober up for the journey home

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Shanklin, Isle of Wight

Now I ask you, what better weekend to head to an island off the southern coast of England than a weekend predicted to be filled with gale-force winds and slashing rain?

Being Britain, you can never count on the weather or, for that matter, the weather report. However, this time the Met Office didn’t lie. It was everything they’d predicted and more. Good thing I was headed to the Isle of Wight to teach a writing course, not rooftop yoga! Despite the ominous warnings, the crowded ferry ride from Portsmouth Harbour to Ryde wasn’t nearly as exciting as I’d hoped. In fact, it was highly uneventful. We didn’t sink.

Rude local drink

I’m pleased to say that this year the island was really geared up for my arrival. They’d even brewed up a batch of some special stuff in honour of Literotica, my erotic writing workshop at the Old Grange. Hell, I was lucky to get the last bottle – apparently they were flying off the shelf at the local shop (which isn’t just for local people!).

Yeah, I know: everyone thinks I schlep down to the Isle of Wight every autumn just to teach my Literotica workshop. The truth is, I actually go there because I adore the local pub in Shanklin’s old village. Oh sure, I do find some time to teach, but I live for Saturday night when I’m done for the day and can go chill out with a pint of real ale and listen to some live acoustic music.

This year I was disappointed to learn that my usual pint of Village Idiot would not be happening; apparently the brewery had gone bust. So I opted for a very agreeable Caledonian ale, which had somehow made its way from Scotland all the way down to the Isle of Wight. Those Scots are robust folk, I’ll grant you that. Must be all that haggis.

It seemed the pub was expecting me. Heck, I should’ve brought along copies of my new book “In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales” and had a book signing! My usual table situated right next to the musicians was empty and virtually had my name on it, so I settled in for the evening, getting up close and personal to the lead singer/guitarist, whose repertoire this year was far better than in previous years. He also looked far better too. Not quite sure why that was, but hey, who am I to complain? The sight of his nicely bulging… umm… tricep as he strummed his gee-tar was a right treat after the rather mediocre pub meal I hadn’t particularly enjoyed. Unfortunately Vampira, his apparent girlfriend, was hovering around like the proverbial vampire bat, putting a damper on everyone’s evening!

Despite the musicians finishing up an hour earlier than scheduled, we were in it for the duration, and yet more Caledonian ale kept appearing in front of me courtesy of one of the workshop participants, a lively Irish lass who clearly didn’t want me to leave. And the sudden downpour outside wasn’t exactly encouraging me either. However, with the music over and Teddy waiting impatiently in our giant bed back in our room, I was getting edgy. So too, were the pub staff, as tables were suddenly being polished right in front of our noses, chairs set upside-down on table tops, and lights switched off.

Like can we take a hint or what?

Teddy Tedaloo decides to go boating

And so passes yet another Literotica erotic writing workshop on the Isle of Wight. I wonder: will my regular table be waiting for me next year at the village pub? Will the same musicians be there entertaining the punters? Will I get guff off the bear for returning to our room so late?

Guess I’ll have to wait till autumn 2010 to find out.

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Mitzi Szereto with Teddy Tedaloo enjoying a post-Mitzi TV pint in Kensington.

When you have your own Web TV channel, everyone wants to get into the act. Suddenly the entire world is getting in touch with a “brilliant” idea for a segment (which generally involves sticking their mug in front of the camera!). Now I’m very good at saying no, especially when said idea hasn’t the slightest connection to what Mitzi TV is about (or, for the matter, is even passingly “brilliant”). But there are times when an idea, not to mention the personality behind it, can be awfully persuasive.

Therefore how could I possibly refuse when the famous Teddy Tedaloo, Production Assistant Extraordinaire at Mitzi TV, suggested we cover a teddy bear festival?

The result is the new Mitzi TV video “Bear Necessities”!

The Mitzi TV crew head into the wilds of central London to seek out some furry characters at the Hugglets Teddy Bear Festival (http://www.hugglets.co.uk).

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It had to happen sometime: the Mitzi TV madness has not only reached across the pond via the internet, but is reaching across the pond via broadcast television. The new Mitzi TV video “Bear Necessities” will be broadcast for the very first time in the USA on television, airing on KAXT (which serves Silicon Valley/Santa Clara County and most of the San Francisco Bay Area), SureWest (which serves the Sacramento region), and NPG Cable (which serves Saint Joseph, MO).

Note that broadcasts are ongoing. Hope you’ll tune in and tell them you want to see more Mitzi TV!

TV Provider: KAXT-1.8
City: SUNNYVALE, MOUNT HAMILTON, ALVISO, SANTA CLARA, CAMPBELL, CUPERTINO, SARATOGA, MILPITAS, LOS GATOS, SAN JOSE
State: CA

TV Provider: NPG Cable
City: SAINT JOSEPH
State: MO

TV Provider: SureWest
City: LOOMIS, CARMICHAEL, CITRUS HEIGHTS, ANTELOPE, GRANITE BAY, SACRAMENTO, ROSEVILLE, MCCLELLAN, LINCOLN, ELK GROVE, ROCKLIN
State: CA

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Mitzi Szereto slums it on a BMW motorbike

Okay, anyone who’s seen the latest Mitzi TV video “Born To Be Wild” can probably figure out that I’m a bit partial to motorbikes. In fact, some of the happiest times I’ve ever had were riding pillion when I lived in LA. Those were the days, flying along Pacific Coast Highway on the smog-tinged ocean breeze! (I’ll omit details of how I once drove into a wall in Beverly Hills while actually driving one of the things. Well, at least it wasn’t a wall in Compton!)

I guess it was inevitable that this subjugated desire of mine should once again rear its ugly head. Being the resourceful lass that I am, I put the word out that I wanted a ride.

An invite was soon forthcoming.

However, things never quite go according to plan – at least not where I’m concerned. What started off as an autumn Saturday afternoon motorcycle ride into the English countryside ended up landing me in the midst of what appeared to be a camp of survivalists in rural Essex.

Tank Girl

Now Essex is known for many things; survivalists aren’t usually the first thing that comes to mind. Chavs, footballers, footballers’ wives, bleached blonde hair and fake orange tan (see footballers’ wives), Essex girls, white stilettos (see Essex girls), West Ham supporters, holidays in “Ibeefa” (see Essex girls), the highest rate of marriages in the UK (and the highest rate of divorces), and a sledgehammer accent (innit?) that can strip the paint off metal – these are the things that have put Essex on the map!

Oh, yeah, and Jamie Oliver. Now he’s the kind of Essex boy you’d want to bring home to mama. In fact, he’s probably the only Essex boy you’d want to bring home to mama, unless you fancy your mama being besieged by copious uses of the “C” word, which is bandied about by these finely reared Essex lads as often and easily as one might ask for a cup of tea.

Anyway, I was dead excited about my scheduled ride into the country on the back of a BMW motorbike wiv my new m8 “Mister G” – gun runner, rapper, and drug cartel kingpin from the West Country. But as the day drew near, I began to suffer a twinge of anxiety. Bad enough I’d just read a news article about a motorcyclist in Scotland who ended up in hospital after colliding with a sheep. Apparently the guy sustained a lot of injuries, however, that didn’t stop him from being billed by the local council for damage when his motorbike caught fire and melted a portion of the road’s surface.

The sheep died.

Then I kept getting SPAM emails from some insurance company in the UK that specialises in road accident coverage. Was somebody trying to tell me something?

We weren’t even ten minutes into our ride when we passed through a village with a preponderance of funeral directors, not to mention a cemetery located conveniently close by. Another sign? Was I teasing the Grim Reaper by daring to do something I might actually enjoy? I realised later that the village had a very large population of elderly folk. Hey, you’d think they’d figure out not to move there, what with the high mortality rate. Sort of like that TV show “Midsomer Murders“. Why do people live there when the murder rate is something like 85%? I mean, how dumb can you get?

I decided to get a photo of me slumming it on a BMW motorbike, so we pulled off the road into an area that looked for all intents and purposes like a family campground. However, rather than pup tents and screaming tykes, it looked like we’d landed in the midst of a military coup. Tanks, weaponry, army boys with rifles – with the only tents in sight army-issue with camouflage netting. I kept expecting Charlton Heston to appear holding up a rifle that could kill a charging buffalo as he muttered something about “from my cold dead hands”.

Oh, yeah, he is dead. Guess that gun thing didn’t work out too well for him after all.

As for the survivalists, something wasn’t adding up. First of all, the men I saw didn’t look as though they were cast members from the film “Deliverance“. Second, I didn’t hear any banjos. In fact, the one major thing that gave a hint that something wasn’t quite kosher was an old phonograph playing The Andrew Sisters. Turns out it was just a harmless gathering of retro-military aficionados camping out for the weekend.

I’m now looking to recruit someone with a Harley so I can have another pillion ride. Though after this visit to the Twilight Zone, maybe it might be wiser to hit Kent?

On second thought, maybe not. It’s south of the river. And as any proper Londoner will tell you, you just don’t go south of the river!

From my cold dead hands...

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Well, I suppose it was inevitable: I’d have to screw up somewhere. And what better place to do so than right in front of a video camera for the entire world to see? Okay, I could have kept it hidden, saved my professional pride. But that would be cheating.

And you don’t want me to cheat, do you?

Because sometimes even Mitzi doesn't get it right!

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