Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

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!

Teddy Tedaloo reads "In Sleeping Beauty's Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales"

No, I’m not talking about what you think (or hope) I’m talking about. Nor am I talking about Depeche Mode‘s Dave Gahan. As you may already know, I’ve blogged about Dave before – he was one of my very first Facebook friends! (Alas, our relationship has since gone pear-shaped, and we’re no longer speaking.)

No, I’m talking about Teddy Tedaloo, who’s one of my most devoted fans. Well, he’d better be, since I pay the rent. Though I really wish he’d stop singing that damned Pet Shop Boys song all the time; it’s beginning to get up my nose. I love you, you pay my rent, indeed! Mind you, when it comes to fans, he has plenty himself, if his Facebook group is anything to go by… and my long-distance phone bill. When my shipment of author copies for In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales arrived the other morning courtesy of my publisher Cleis Press in San Francisco, who do you think couldn’t wait to tear open the box?

You guessed it.

I didn’t even get a chance to make a cup of tea before Ted was already in the kitchen rustling about in the knife drawer to find something to slice open the box with. The next thing I know he’s happily ensconced on the fluffy white coverlet on our sofa with his little black nose buried in the book. How he managed to fetch his reading glasses from the upstairs bedroom without my seeing him is anyone’s guess. I suppose that’s one of the advantages of being diminutive in stature.

“Now Mitzi, are you using your blog to plug your new book release?” I hear you asking. Why, of course I am! After all, it’s my blog and I can do what I want with it. Having said that, don’t I provide you with hours and  hours of free entertainment? After all I’ve done for you – sacrificed for you, is it so much to expect a little consideration and support? (Insert Jewish mother guilt-inspiring voice here.) Haven’t I given you the best years of my life? (Insert nagging-wife voice here.) If my book is good enough for my bear, then it’s good enough for you! And take my word for it when I say that Ted’s not easily impressed. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more difficult critic to get past.

So if you want to make me happy (and you do want to make me happy, don’t you?), then click on one of the very handy Amazon carousels located right here on my website (you can select from three different countries – oy, how easy can it be?) and pre-order your copy of In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed now!

Do it because you love me.

And if you don’t, so lie.

(BTW, if you happen to be a book reviewer, drop me a note and I’ll put in a review copy request for you. But you gotta promise to be nice!)

Mitzi Szereto at Mitzi TV "Knees Up Mother Brown" video shoot

Mitzi TV go for a right old knees-up at a proper authentic English “local”, The Duke of Kendal pub in Central London, where all forms of madness ensue. From colourful characters to rude Cockney songs and operatic arias, this is English eccentricity at its very finest!

Visit the official Mitzi TV website at: http://mitziszereto.com/tv

It all started with Dave Gahan.

“What, your erotic writing?” I hear you ask. Good guess – for let’s face it, the man’s voice defines “erotic.” Alas, I’m afraid my reply will be far less sexual than the image of me lying naked on my bed in a room lit with candles, listening to Dave singing “Everything Counts” as I tap breathlessly away on my laptop. You see, way back in the old days (roughly a year ago) when I first started getting into this full-time job known as Facebooking, one of my very first Facebook friends was – (drum roll) – Dave Gahan! (And yes, I mean Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode fame.) Some of you may already know about my prolific use of the social networking site Facebook. In fact, I’ve even been mentioned in the Guardian for my Facebooking proficiency. Therefore it seemed like a good idea to become “friends” with Dave Gahan on the off chance that he might actually be Dave Gahan.

Now I’m not so naive as to believe whatever proverbial hogwash someone tells me. Of course I had my reservations as to whether the individual to whom I was engaged in Facebook messaging was, in reality, the man in possession of the most erotic voice ever to ooze from a microphone. To be honest, I was quite coy and dismissive about the whole thing, volleying humourous little barbs into his court as to the nature of his true identity. As time went on, however, he said enough things to make me believe he might be genuine. Perhaps it was a vagueness not to speak all that much about himself (which would have been a dead giveaway that Dave Gahan wasn’t really Dave Gahan – as in trying too hard). Perhaps it was the self-effacing quality he had when he offered me the occasional personal tidbit about his failed marriages and his former drug addiction. But I think it was that sense of insecurity he displayed when making reference to his new solo album that finally clinched it for me. Many artists are insecure about their work, especially those who possess the greatest talent. Ergo I was hooked.

Our Facebook exchanges continued along at a pleasant and steady pace. “Dave” demonstrated a wisdom about life from one who hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it, and we got on quite well, though I still teased him now and again about his identity. He wasn’t at all bothered with trying to convince me – which only served to convince me even more that my Facebook friend was Dave Gahan. Then one day I received an add request on Yahoo Messenger from a man I’d never heard of. Curious, I accepted, my intention being to delete him the moment I found out who he was and what he wanted. He immediately sent me an instant message, saying that he couldn’t go on like this anymore and he had to come clean. It was my Facebook friend – and he was NOT Dave Gahan, but a 37-year-old divorced electrician from Kent. My Dave Gahan bubble had burst.

Could this mean that no one on Facebook is who he or she claims to be? Okay, so call me a skeptic, but I’m beginning to wonder if maybe my new Facebook friend Jimi Hendrix might, in fact, be dead after all. And as for all those pokes I keep getting from Jim Morrison…