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.
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
Police videotape of the pub brawl between Ted and Fred
I know what you’re thinking: that Mitzi, you just never know what she’ll get up to next. Now she’s dating Bugs Bunny!
Okay, I admit he’d be one hell of an improvement over any of the male members of the human species I’ve known and loved. But before you go getting all excited and churning up the rumour mill, let’s put a bit of perspective on the situation.
On second thought, why bother? Who needs perspective and logic and all those other things that take the life out of life (and the love out of love)?
I have a confession to make: as a kid I used to adore those wonderful old classic Looney Tunes cartoons. Elmer, Bugs, Porky, Daffy (are you thaying I have a thpeech impediment???)… I wanted to live in those cartoons. In fact, I still do! And judging by the above photo, you’re no doubt assuming I got my wish.
Me and Bugs, walking off into the sunset together. Oh, and Teddy, of course! I won’t go anywhere without my beloved little bear by my side. You’d have to pass muster with him before you get anywhere near me!
Therefore I can only blame Twitter for landing me in the furry arms of a lascivious rabbit the other evening. Yes, I said lascivious! Bad enough he shed all over my black top. People were plucking his fur out of my hair all night long. It was as if I’d suddenly gone white, like what you hear happens when someone’s experienced a traumatic shock. Hmm… perhaps that wasn’t too far off the mark.
You see, I’d innocently headed out to London’s famous Carnaby Street for an evening of networking with other like-minded Tweeters, only to end up fending off the amorous attentions of a Tweeting bunny. All I can say is, he might have been hearing “Some Enchanted Evening” playing in his big white floppy ears, but I sure as hell wasn’t. The truth is, I never really fancied hairy guys, especially sweaty ones. As for a sweaty hairy rabbit…
…It just wasn’t going to happen. Besides which, he was too tall!
I guess this is what I get for being a social media maven. I’m terrified to think what might happen if I ever went to a Facebook event. Aside from being the officially recognised Queen of Facebook (and Robert Scoble thought he was popular? – no one even knew who he was till I friended him on Facebook!), I have enough trouble with Mark Zuckerberg as it is. The Silicon Valley boss man of Facebook simply refuses to let go. There’s something terribly heartrending about seeing a man cry – especially when you’re the cause of it. I tried to let him down gently, I really did. I mean, could I help it if Teddy didn’t take to him?
As for my floppy-earred suitor, I have serious doubts about it going anywhere. He just came on too strong for my liking.
I’m sure Bugs Bunny would not have behaved in such an ungentlemanly fashion.
Yours truly (that’s me!) recently took some time out to chat with journalist Michael Casey at a local Essex watering hole about my new entrepreneurial Internet television venture Mitzi TV – its origins, its direction, and its future, as well as the business of books, blogging, and social media.
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!)
What’s a girl to do when her own bear upstages her?
A bear who hogs the limelight – it’s a problem I’ve had a number of times. Bad enough he blew me out of the water on Mitzi TV, not to mention pretty much knocked me off the page in the Sunday Telegraph a few years back. And it’s getting worse. Who do you think received an invitation last week to do a photo shoot in London? No, not me, but – you guessed it! Teddy. Like, what’s up with that?
I tell you, it never ends. He even steals my friends on Facebook.
Of course I had to agree to this caper, since I knew I’d never hear the end of it. So I packed a few changes of outfits for him (at his insistence) and what does he do? – sticks to his favourite red jumper and jeans. Here I’d been schlepping this stuff all over the place, only to end up not even needing it! Okay, I didn’t want to make a fuss; I admit the colour contrast between the red of his jumper and the black of my little vest top worked out quite well from an artistic perspective. Hey, I’ll give credit where credit is due – Teddy certainly has an eye for what works from a design perspective.
Which brings me to the London Underground. (How’s that for a nifty segueway?) I realise I haven’t had a good rant about the public transportation system in Blighty for awhile, and I didn’t wish to neglect this fertile subject. There’s nothing like a summery Saturday afternoon in Londoninium: the sun’s shining, there’s a nice breeze, people are happy (or at least their usual dour expressions are brightened by the sun, giving the appearance of “happy”). You figure hey, it was a productive day, we had some great photos shot, and we can get home early enough to chill out and fix a salad for dinner; there’s even time to stop off in Brick Lane for some Bengali sweets, since it’s practically around the corner from Whitechapel Road. What can possibly go wrong?
Dare you ask?
Thinking I’d save myself the hassle of passing through Liverpool Street station with its teeming mass of manic commuters who take delight in mowing you down at warp speed, I opted for the District line to Mile End, where I’d change to the Central Line to Stratford. I’d done it on the way in – easy peasy! It made perfect sense to do the same thing on the way out. Well, there’s no fool like a fool who travels on the London Underground. An ominous feeling began to take hold of me as our train sat for nearly ten minutes at Whitechapel station, with swearing and shouting Chelsea supporters (I presume they won) in the next car. Finally an announcement came on saying that we were waiting in order to “even out the gaps between services.” (At least there weren’t any leaves on the line or – considering it was the Underground – dead rats.)
At long last we lurched back into service. I rose from my seat in readiness to propel myself and my important passenger out the door at Mile End. Alas, that ominous feeling returned in full force when we sped past what appeared to be a station platform packed with commuters, our train barrelling deeper and deeper into the darkness beneath East London. The electronic signboard inside our car claimed the next station was Mile End. Well, if that were the case, Mile End should have been renamed Ten Mile End. And then we arrived.
Did I want to go to Bow? No, I didn’t want to go to Bow. Did Teddy want to go to Bow? Not that I was aware of. Fine, whatever. I figured the driver was probably some descendant of Jack the Ripper and was tormenting us by skipping stops. Being resourceful, I climbed the stairs and made my way round to the other side so I could catch another train heading back in the direction from whence I came. Made sense, right? Well, it did until I finally managed to decipher a garbled announcement informing us that Mile End station was closed due to a “passenger incident.” Now this could be anything: a suicide, an attempted suicide, some nutter pushing someone in front of a tube train…
Well, if someone wasn’t dead, I sure as hell felt inclined to help them on their way.
An official (loose usage of the term) from London Underground told me I could walk to the Docklands Light Railway. “Two minutes!” he claimed. If so, it was the longest two minutes I’ve ever experienced – and I’m a fast walker, especially when I have the safety of my bear to consider. Bow isn’t exactly … errr… Holland Park. It’s amazing how many friends you can make in London when you’ve been done over by public transport. I found a kind young gentleman who escorted me to the DLR, and he too, was wondering why two minutes seemed to be lasting a lifetime. As we waited on the platform, we marvelled at the fact that the DLR method of timekeeping jibes with any form of timekeeping known to man (or woman). The electronic signboard claimed seven minutes to the next train, but by everyone’s watch, it was more like fifteen. Funny, that.
To pass the time of day, my new friend entertained me with a tale of how he’d been late for work because a pregnant woman decided to suddenly give birth on the underground train he was riding in. His boss wasn’t having it, however. It was only when an article finally appeared in a newspaper featuring a beaming London Underground worker holding a baby that he got back into his boss’s good graces. Soon others chimed in with their tales of woe…
… until the DLR train arrived to ruin our fun.
Ted and I got home safely, albeit hungrily. It was 9:30 pm before I sat down to eat my salad. (I’d been reckoning on no later than 8 pm.) To be honest, I was so exhausted I barely managed it. Oh, well, who needs all those faddish diets with weird berries when you have the London Underground? The problem is, I’m not even on a diet!
Right, I know exactly what you’re thinking: drugs, booze, wild parties, The Old Bill, riot gear… Bet you can hear the sirens wailing already as a police van carts me off into the sooty London night. Booked, fingerprinted, tossed in the nick. Oh, the shame of it!
Well, think again.
How about a Turkish kebab with a bunch of tech geeks? Scary stuff, huh? And it gets better. How about a Turkish kebab with a bunch of tech geeks in a Turkish restaurant located across the road from a mosque? You guessed it, Habib – no booze! But what the hey, the meat was Halal and there was little chance of catching swine flu from anything on the menu!
You might well ask how our charming group of geek-kebabites hooked up in the first place. It was random destiny, my dears – “random” being the operative word here. It could be that we were all foreigners to some extent, therefore not confined to the Britishness of needing to have downed pints at the local with someone for a zillion years before venturing out for a curry together. See, I belong to a ton of groups – Facebook groups, Meetup groups – you name it, I belong to it. Ergo this whole mad kebab caper kicked off with a mass email via one of my Meetup groups inquiring if anyone was going to the TechCrunch party in London. I replied that I was, and that kicked off still more mass emails with others RSVP-ing that they were going too.
Anyway, I forgot all about it till the night of the party, when one of the mass messagers recognised me and came over to introduce himself and his mate. Riveting stuff so far, eh? Well, give me a chance! Three nights later I was at some geek networking event in Brick Lane and there they were again, along with some other guy who recognised me from the party – and soon we were all hanging out with our drinks and chatting about cloud computing (yes, I’m serious.). Then yet another character from this geek play entered our arena, and the next thing I knew we were chasing down the street after the elected Pied Piper of our party as he endeavoured via the GPS on his phone to lead us to an Indian kebab house that was so good everyone back in Delhi was raving about it.
As we ventured further and further away from the relative safety of Brick Lane and I became hungrier and hungrier, I began to wonder if the place truly existed. Had I stumbled upon (no pun intended) the geek version of the Manson Family? Was I going to be murdered and dismembered in a Muslim neighbourhood near Aldgate? If so, I could only hope it would be done under strict Halal guidelines. Suddenly I recalled a conversation I’d had earlier that evening with someone who stated that these people (as in tech geeks) shouldn’t be let out on their own. Indeed, the words rang ominously in my ears…
When at last we reached the holy grail, I breathed a sigh of relief. Aside from the fact that I would live to see another day (not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse), it had already gone past 10pm; I’d have eaten pretty much anything by then. Alas, the divine scent of our Mecca was so packed with people waiting for tables that we were told it would be at leastan hour’s wait. I stared desperately at the sweets counter, having an hour earlier embarked upon a mad dash to my favourite (past tense) Bengali sweet shop on Brick Lane, only to find the shutters closed. I was NOT happy. It was clear we would have to take our patronage elsewhere.
And that’s how we ended up at the Turkish kebab place across the road from the mosque.
Was it worth it? Yes. However, I think the excitement of being in the company of so many geeks proved too overwhelming for me (I don’t get out much), because I got a bit carried away when, halfway through my ground lamb kebab, I took a bite of an innocuous-looking object on my plate, which turned out to be a chili. The nice young gentleman seated beside me appeared to be on the verge of ringing the fire brigade, but I persevered and downed a hearty gulp of my yogurt drink, attempting to put out the flames. I tell you, I never realised those Turks could be so sneaky!
We’re now planning to make this a regular gig. Furthermore, we might even allow newcomers to join our ranks, providing they can prove their worthiness. It’s been suggested that an initiation ceremony involving the chili should be used to separate the men from the boys. Hmm…. I wonder what Amnesty International would have to say about that?
If you’re a regular Facebook user (yup, I’m on about those guys again!), no doubt you’ve come across the endless barrage of quizzes aimed at pumping up your ego and making you appear to be a far better and far more superior human being than you actually are. Frankly, I’ve had about enough of these nauseating boosts for the ego. Just think, if we had this many wonderful, giving, loving, saintly, selfless people living in this world, it would truly be paradise – and we wouldn’t be in the big fat mess we’re in.
But we all know that we don’t, and it isn’t.
Let’s get real. The developers of these ego-stroking quizzes need to start making these apps more representative of modern-day society, rather than this barf-bag orgy of vomit we’ve been seeing all over the place. I say develop quizzes for REAL people, the people we meet every day, the people we work with, the people we drive on the freeways and motorways with, the people we ride on the subways and buses with, the people we live with or live next door to, the people we give our hearts to and take to our beds to love with.
I’m sure you’re going to accuse me of being a pessimist. Well, I prefer to say I’m a realist. I mean, there’s only so many times you can get kicked in the crotch before you finally wake up and smell the latte.
So here are some examples of the kinds of quizzes I believe more accurately portray the world in which we live (and they’re automatically copyrighted by having been published here, so developers – keep your geeky little hands off!):
♦ Which Kind of Nasty Sociopathic Neighbour Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Jealous Vicious Trouble-Making Best Friend Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Scumbag Cheating Husband/Wife/Boyfriend/Girlfriend Are You?
♦ Which Kind of I-Make-Everybody-Sick Soccer Mom Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Meddling Parent/Inlaw/Relative Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Skanky Trailer-Park Trash Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Lager-Lout Football Hooligan Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Sticky-Fingered Shoplifter Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Deadbeat Insurance Defrauder Are You?
♦ Which Kind of I’m-Too-Lazy-To-Get-Off-My-Fat-Ass Welfare Cheat Are You?
We can also extend this to those employed in specific professions:
♦ Which Kind of Shyster Pad-My-Clients’-Bills Lawyer Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Incompetent Never-Once-Cracked-Open-Gray’s-Anatomy Surgeon Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Crooked Raiding-The-Public-Coffers Politician Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Scamming Madoff-Loving Investment Consultant Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Embezzling Empty-My-Clients’-Pockets Accountant Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Thieving Overpaid/Over-Bonused Banker Are You?
And lastly, for those who hail from, shall we say, the more fringe elements of society:
♦ Which Kind of Fanatical Political Terrorist Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Psychopathic Serial Killer Are You?
♦ Which Kind of Dimwitted Facebook Application Developer Are You?
(Oops………………….)
Oh, for the good old days when I actually had someone say that to me! Now I’m rarely to be found on Skype. Out of curiosity, however, I ventured on fairly recently, logging on as “Away” just to see who was around. Well, let’s say that I got a lot more than I bargained for.
No sooner did I become visible than my laptop began to ring with that distinctive weirdy spacey Skypey ring – and it’s some strange name not even on my contact list, some guy from Slovakia. Well, I don’t know anyone from Slovakia, or at least not anyone who’s on my Skype. Figuring it to be a “wrong number,” I didn’t answer. The ringing stopped, only to start right up again. I ignored it, though I admit I wondered how this Slav could be getting it wrong twice in a row. The ringing ceased, then again it started back up. Three times unlucky? No way. Clearly someone really wanted to speak to me. Curiosity got the better of me, so I decided to plug in my headset and answer… because whoever this Slavic geezer was, he was not going away any time soon.
What next transpired had to be one of the most surreal conversations I’ve ever engaged in – and that includes all the surreal interplanetary ones I had with my former Skype partner. Since I was already logged into Facebook, I decided to update my status message to reflect my current activities, posting comments beneath my update to record for posterity all that was taking place.
Here follows the full Facebook commentary with both my comments and those of my friends (whose names have been changed to protect the innocent):
Mitzi Szeretowho in hell is stefan from slovakia and why is he phoning on my skype? who IS this guy?
18 March at 22:47
Mitzi Szereto at 22:49 on 18 March bardejov, slovakia. WTF???????
i don’t speak bloody slovak. he’s not even on my list.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:50 on 18 March i’m gonna call him now. so there.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:51 on 18 March shit he’s calling again.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:51 on 18 March i am speaking to him now
Dougie Moorehouse at 22:51 on 18 March at least he isnt a prince from nigeria:)
Mitzi Szereto at 22:52 on 18 March he is in budapest.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:52 on 18 March i don’t know this guy.
Wez Whitton at 22:53 on 18 March that’s scary… skype stalking… that’s something new.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:53 on 18 March he can hardly speak english.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:55 on 18 March he found me randomly. just called on skype and got me.
Benjie Levy at 22:56 on 18 March Chwat zchizz yuur zscname, chbabyiszsch?
Mitzi Szereto at 22:57 on 18 March he knows my name.
Wez Whitton at 22:57 on 18 March lol@ Benjie… dat’s funny shitnizsch.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:57 on 18 March this is hysterical.
Wez Whitton at 22:58 on 18 March get his number and hand it out to everyone you know with skype and have them randomly call him.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:58 on 18 March he does quality control for chickens.
Mitzi Szereto at 22:58 on 18 March this is scary.
Wez Whitton at 22:58 on 18 March lol@chicken plucker….lol
Wez Whitton at 22:59 on 18 March dat makes you grade A poultry Mitzi…lol
Mitzi Szereto at 22:59 on 18 March he also does something with jacuzzis
Mitzi Szereto at 22:59 on 18 March and meat
Wez Whitton at 23:00 on 18 March hmmm..chickens…jacuzzis…this is bordering on illegal stuff now…lol
Mitzi Szereto at 23:00 on 18 March and also fabrics.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:01 on 18 March he also tests cameras.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:01 on 18 March he is clearly a busy man.
Roberto Rachet at 23:02 on 18 March Slovakia, Budapest is bloody Hongaria not Slovakia, and anybody doing quality control for chickens I woudn’t take seriously, but then again you never know.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:03 on 18 March he has the old skype and likes it. he isn’t so crazy about new skype.
Cat Babinsky at 23:03 on 18 March Like bees to honey (LOL)!
Mitzi Szereto at 23:04 on 18 March i told him to call some chickens.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:04 on 18 March he laughs a lot.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:04 on 18 March he can’t understand me very well.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:04 on 18 March bloody foreigner
Roberto Rachet at 23:04 on 18 March where does he find time to stalk you!!!!
Mitzi Szereto at 23:05 on 18 March we got disconnected and i am leaving it that way and not going to pick up. he is ringing again. go away.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:06 on 18 March he is calling me again. he will not give up.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:07 on 18 March he cannot even speak english why is he bloody phoning me back?
Murial Fountainhead at 23:07 on 18 March what language is that?
Roberto Rachet at 23:07 on 18 March I mean chickens and cameras and jacuzzis and meat and all the rest of the C..P well at least he has shown a good taste in people to stalk
Mitzi Szereto at 23:08 on 18 March i have such a headache now.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:08 on 18 March christ now he is messaging me.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:08 on 18 March he is saying he’s sorry he knows i’m busy. lol
Mitzi Szereto at 23:09 on 18 March what is it with these slavs?
Richie Szabo at 23:09 on 18 March Roberto what da hell r u talking bout??? Budapest is capital of Hungary. Slovakia is a country which capital is Bratislava and they speak slovak. The Hungarians speak Hungarian obviously. Nd these 2 languages are completely different. Anyway, I wouldn’t take him seriously too.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:12 on 18 March it’s all weird richie. totally weird. he has a slav name, he is listed on skype as being in slovakia, and he tells me he lives in budapest and does quality control for chickens, cameras, and jacuzzis.
Jeannie Dottie at 23:13 on 18 March LOL. I needed a laugh so thanks for this – very funny (and thank Gawd I don’t have skippy-skype!) )
Dickie Corgan at 23:14 on 18 March Sounds like a spammer. Block and report him.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:15 on 18 March spamming what – that he has a million chickens that he needs to send me because he cannot leave budapest?
Mitzi Szereto at 23:16 on 18 March stefan horniak. lol! surely that name can’t be kosher. HORNIAK? give over mate.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:20 on 18 March now i got some guy stalking me from plaxo. he’s sending photos to my email. one is with his kid. you can’t be serious.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:23 on 18 March OMG it’s getting even better. just had an invite sent to my yahoo calendar from roselyn kilpalya, who is a lovely young woman who wants to be loved and she apparently saw my profile and wants a relationship with me. hang on – i’ll paste it here.
Roberto Rachet at 23:23 on 18 March of course the languages are different I know because I speak both of them an I do know geography as in where is what, but I am curious how do you know that not many here could see the difference.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:23 on 18 March Nice to meet you, My name is Roselyn,i am tall,slim,fair,and a very good looking girl that loves travelling and dancing, a student,that loves to be loved,i really want to have a good relationship with you after going through your profile i want to find my Love, I am longing to find my soul mate and true love to share all my love and happiness, joy … Read moreand desire and sometimes even sorrow and sadness. kindly permit my contacting you through this medium i am compelled to contact you via this medium for obvious reasons which you will understand when we discuss details of my proposition.Please i will like you to reply to me through my mail address so that we will know each other very well,i am looking forward to your positive confirmation to enable us have an important discussion then we will start from there which will include my introduction,i will send my pictures later. Hoping towards a wonderful lasting friendship with you Thanks and God bless you,
Mitzi Szereto at 23:24 on 18 March oh boy! could this be the mendiing of my broken heart???
Roberto Rachetat 23:31 on 18 March oooo lord just dont send any money!!!!!
See how it goes first.
Mitzi Szereto at 23:36 on 18 March money? lol – what’s that?
Mitzi Szereto at 23:38 on 18 March hey if she wants to court me she’s got to treat me like a lady. none of this mates kinda shite.
Roberto Rachet at 23:41 on 18 March Good for you, You go girl!!!!!!!
Roberto Rachet at 23:42 on 18 March And just in case she says no give her my phone number!
Carla Pretti at 23:45 on 18 March Mitzi, I find your wall terribly entertaining, I would swap it with an evening out at the cinema and definitely with some ehm… well cooked chicken ) hihihi….. LOL! El desperados are too many on earth to talk about them all, but watch your back from those scams girl because you are far above them!
Mitzi Szereto at 23:46 on 18 March tell ya what – you can have her. i know already it isn’t going to work.
Carla Pretti at 23:48 on 18 March As far as you keep it CONFIDENTIAL XXX!
Mitzi Szereto at 23:49 on 18 March carla, i only live to see the next day in order to entertain everyone on facebook. i realise i have a responsibility to my facebook friends and my own selfish needs and desires are of no consequence.
Carla Pretti at 23:52 on 18 March Sweet one, but yourself has still to come 1st 99% of the times!
Mitzi Szereto at 23:52 on 18 March roberto, here is my suitor’s email address. give it a shot.
roselynkikpalya1@yahoo.com
Carla Pretti at 23:56 on 18 March Ah, ah! Luvd it!
Mitzi Szereto at 23:57 on 18 March carla dear one, a nice thought, but not entirely realistic. anyway, enough of such talk. when are we going for rose shisha?
Carla Pretti at 23:59 on 18 March Yeah, we have to arrange. I have not forgotten…
Mitzi Szereto at 00:01 on 19 March don’t wait too long! i am planning to go to california in a few weeks and will likely be gone for at least a month. x
Carla Pretti at 00:05 on 19 March OK, will try and get in touch with the 3rd part as well.
Mitzi Szereto at 00:05 on 19 March excellent. and lebanese food on edgware road. perfection! and if the weather holds out, all the better to sit outside and smoke like a bunch of old arabs just out of mosque. love it!
Carla Pretti at 00:06 on 19 March LOL!
Mitzi Szereto at 00:10 on 19 March inshallah.
Mitzi Szereto at 00:11 on 19 March
إن شاء الله
Carla Pretti at 00:11 on 19 March
Lana Rossie at 01:14 on 19 March don’t kick the slovaks. I have very fond memories of a very fine Slovak…and DAMN, he was fine…
-fin-
I never heard from Mr. Horniak of Slovakia-via-Budapest again. Probably just as well; it would never have worked between us. Not really. I mean, a man who spends his time with chickens? I just can’t see it. I can’t help wondering though if the fact that I’ve not gone back onto Skype since that night might have anything to do with the fact that he’s dumped me…
If you’re a regular user of social networking sites such as Twitter and Facebook, does the following look familiar?
lying in pool of own vomit w/ @parishilton @britneyspears
cottaging in 4 seasons toilets w/ @georgemichael
caught massive dose of clap off @skankypantz
disembowelled outside palo alto starbux by @mansonlvr
I’m sorry, but I can’t take it anymore. No, I’m not talking about the man who done me wrong. I’m talking about this endless twittering, tweeting, and retweeting… So what was wrong with two cans and a string to communicate our news? Andy Warhol must be turning in his Campbell’s Soup can. I doubt even he could have imagined this kind of fifteen minutes of fame.
Hey, don’t get me wrong – I’m all for social networking, I think it’s great and it serves a useful purpose! I admit that I’m totally addicted to it. Just call me a social networking crackhead – if I’m near a computer I’ll be online, even if I’m at someone’s house. I’ve even done it at parties! I’ve stuck myself up on a ton of sites, and now I can update them all via a simple one-stop shop at Ping.fm. However, a lot of this social networking has gotten out of hand. Fine, keep people up to date, but don’t make us want to run out and buy and gun and go postal with it. There’s a huge difference between being informative and being excessive. And baby, the line has been crossed.
Perhaps I didn’t notice it that much before, or at least not until Facebook decided to sneak into Twitter’s back garden and grab their knickers from off the clothesline. Hello Mark? Does your “new” newsfeed not look just a wee bit familiar? Where’s that innovative Silicon Valley spirit? Or did it go careening off a cliff on a mountain bike? They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Frankly, I’m not buying it.
I admit that I try to exercise a reasonable amount of restraint when it comes to my own status updates. But how few are too few and how many are too many? That is the question, Hamlet, and it’s a bloody hard one to answer. Of course I want people to see my name, get involved in what I’m doing, follow my little exploits, be they mundane or exciting. Yet I’m also very aware of how I myself react when I see the same people continually posting, and I mean posting like a machine gun – rat-tat-tat-tat-tat – one after the other, like those butch Italian cowboys being shot down in a Spaghetti Western when you know there can’t possibly be any more bullets left in the gun. I mean, it’s not like these folk actually need to keep updating and updating. Often you’ll find the updates are nearly identical. They remind me of a student I taught in a university creative writing module who stubbornly refused to engage with the process of redrafting and thought she could get away with changing a couple of words here and there.
As for this ad nauseum updating business, I know several users who have deleted other users from their Twitter and Facebook accounts – and I’m talking very high-profile users (many even of celebrity status) whose updates were getting to the point of either being analogous to spamming or making everyone ill. Do they not realise how annoying this is? If you’re losing followers on Twitter or friends on Facebook, then maybe it’s time to acknowledge that your social networking methodology might be backfiring. Granted, you don’t have to be high-profile to spiral into overkill.
Can you imagine if we had Count Dracula constantly updating his status? (It would likely be at night, unless he was inside his coffin during the day sending tweets from his mobile phone.) It would probably go something like this:
chowing down flies w/ @renfield
taking a bloodbath w/ @dracsbride
hiking in carpathians w/ @jharker
debating wooden stakes v silver bullets w/ @vanhelsing
I’ve now reached the point where I’ll comment on people’s updates just to wind them up. In fact, I recently engaged in a bit of a Facebook fracas with a gentleman who was attending a convention (I won’t say which convention, though you might be able to guess). He kept updating his status every few seconds – yes, I am serious: SECONDS, so I thought I’d tease him about it, interjecting little jests under his various updates, hoping he might come to realise just how ridiculous this was getting. Alas, the point of my repartee was completely lost on the fellow, and finally I could take no more. I said, “hey, if you want to see some updates that are actually entertaining, take a look at my page.” And do you know what he replied? “Oh, I don’t really have time to look at other people’s updates.” Umm… excuse me? Needless to say, I clicked that little X alongside his updates, opting for one less nuisance in my busy social networking life. Hey, if I have to read your updates, it’s only fair you read mine, right?
Now before you hardcore updaters drag me off to the stake to be burned, realise that all I’m saying is this: before you update your status for the gazillionth time, ask yourself the following:
1. Do I really need to update when I just updated a minute ago?
2. Is it absolutely necessary when I’ve pretty much said the exact same shit in my previous update?
3. Will anyone be remotely pleased to see my update or will they pray that lightning strikes me dead?
I think you know the answer.
(By the way, it’s @mitziszereto in case you want to follow me on Twitter! xxx)
Author, blogger, Mitzi TV creator/presenter and the "Queen of Facebook" writes and edits the genres. Published titles include IN SLEEPING BEAUTY'S BED; GETTING EVEN: REVENGE STORIES (crime); DYING FOR IT: TALES OF SEX & DEATH (multi-genre); WICKED: SEXY TALES OF LEGENDARY LOVERS; THE NEW BLACK LACE BOOK OF WOMEN'S SEXUAL FANTASIES (non-fiction/survey); EROTIC FAIRY TALES: A ROMP THROUGH THE CLASSICS; the EROTIC TRAVEL TALES anthology series (erotica/romance); THE WORLD’S BEST SEX WRITING 2005 (non-fiction/criticism); the M. S. VALENTINE erotic novels, and several titles published exclusively with Amazon Kindle.
Find me on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, Flickr, and wherever else I might decide to turn up!
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