See, manly.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Man up
Following previous contemplation on whether the mlutch is a bold and beautiful move towards offering men more choice in the bag department, or if it's actually just a bit (whisper it) effeminate and sissy, I have found a solution: the mlutch should be held in the mouth. That's it, right between the gnashers. This revelation slapped me in the chops after a few vodka and lemonades on Saturday night.
See, manly.
See, manly.
Monday, 14 June 2010
Popstar 101
The big buzz over Lady Gaga's new video for Alejandro has finally began to subside but, with it clocking over 17 million views on Youtube currently, debate is sure to continue on whether the promo clip is a work of art, or just hard work.
Following the success of the Telephone video, I had a new-found respect for all things Gaga. Telephone, which I posted my thoughts on at the time, was a hit because it didn't take itself too seriously, whilst at the same time taking its role as a music video very seriously indeed. The feature was ironically iconic, and served as the perfect platform for Stefani Germanotta to display the art(ist) she had created. Even the exaggerated nine and a half minutes running time did not matter, as it simply affirmed the fact that this video was a proper pop event by a proper popstar, not a run-of-the-mill club scene like carbon videos a, b and c (or should that be J, L, S? The only thing that club is alive with is the sound of far too much autotune).
Furthermore, the decision to get Steven Klein on-board should have been a masterful move. Klein is, much like Lady Gaga, a brilliant manipulator of exhibition, and working hand-in-hand they should have produced something worty of a follow-up to the Telephone clip.
For all the desire to create something that is original, unexpected, striking, and multi-layered, Lady Gaga forgot to consult the Popstar 101 Handbook (if it doesn't exist, then it should do). And rule number one: entertain. A criteria so key and essential in this line of work that to forget it is nothing short of blasphemous. You see, I admire how the video's been shot. The art direction is certainly very good. And the choreography is arguably the best we've seen from Gaga. But from watching the video I was pretty, well... bored. And it comes as a suprise, because up until this point 'boring' was never a word that could be directed at the woman.
From watching, you get the distinct impression that there is supposedly some sort of plot beneath all the moody frames, but after numerous viewings all I am able to grasp at is a collection of random images that provide no kind of cohesive narrative and no semblance of a unified message. I would never be one to say that the visuals should explicitly match-up with the lyrics of a song, and to my mind it is always a plus for a piece of cinematography to allow multiple readings, but if the impression a viewer is left with is one of mild bemusement - that awkward burrow of the brow, coupled with a raised eyebrow - then I can't help but feel Lady Gaga has fallen short of the mark in delivering this time around. It takes over eight minutes to say very little at all.
The execution of the video is as cold and stark as the warehouse in which the performance takes place. Klein's direction just comes across as a repeat of the work he has previously done with Madonna, particularly the photoshoot that was used for her 2004 Re-Invention Tour. The imagery is less of a re-invention and more of a re-hash.
Klein has attempted to justify the scenes of religion, saying: "The religious symbolism is not meant to denote anything negative, but represents the character's battle between the dark forces of this world and the spiritual salvation of the Soul."
He continues: "Thus, at the end of the film, she chooses to be a nun, and the reason her mouth and eyes disappear is because she is withdrawing her senses from the world of evil and going inwards towards prayer and contemplation."
How well this convoluted explanation directly tackles some of the issues in the clip is difficult to say. Are the dark forces in this world the throng of naked man prancing around her? Or perhaps it's the pudding-bowl haircut that she finds herself with? But just how far Gaga et Klein can defend the religious symbolism is questionable when the video includes her dressed in a nun's attire emblazoned with an upside-down cross that points to her crotch.
For the video for Telephone, I applauded the length of it. The high production values, and the fact that it was like a short feature film, meant that it injected a new lease of life into what was becoming a sterile medium. Lady Gaga has up until this point ensured that the music video is still an important component of the 'pop package', something that record labels have been pushing to one side in more recent years, as it is unlikely the return on them actually warrants the costs spent. The opposite is true here. With no sense of direction, Alejandro does not make for compulsive viewing. Rather, it is a chore to sit through, certainly in contrast with her previous offerings.
The best thing that Gaga can possibly learn from this is that producing a perfectly complete three-and-a-half minute pop video can actually be a work of art too, and that she would not be sacrificing her artistry in doing so. Sometimes Gaga, less is more.
Following the success of the Telephone video, I had a new-found respect for all things Gaga. Telephone, which I posted my thoughts on at the time, was a hit because it didn't take itself too seriously, whilst at the same time taking its role as a music video very seriously indeed. The feature was ironically iconic, and served as the perfect platform for Stefani Germanotta to display the art(ist) she had created. Even the exaggerated nine and a half minutes running time did not matter, as it simply affirmed the fact that this video was a proper pop event by a proper popstar, not a run-of-the-mill club scene like carbon videos a, b and c (or should that be J, L, S? The only thing that club is alive with is the sound of far too much autotune).
Furthermore, the decision to get Steven Klein on-board should have been a masterful move. Klein is, much like Lady Gaga, a brilliant manipulator of exhibition, and working hand-in-hand they should have produced something worty of a follow-up to the Telephone clip.
For all the desire to create something that is original, unexpected, striking, and multi-layered, Lady Gaga forgot to consult the Popstar 101 Handbook (if it doesn't exist, then it should do). And rule number one: entertain. A criteria so key and essential in this line of work that to forget it is nothing short of blasphemous. You see, I admire how the video's been shot. The art direction is certainly very good. And the choreography is arguably the best we've seen from Gaga. But from watching the video I was pretty, well... bored. And it comes as a suprise, because up until this point 'boring' was never a word that could be directed at the woman.
From watching, you get the distinct impression that there is supposedly some sort of plot beneath all the moody frames, but after numerous viewings all I am able to grasp at is a collection of random images that provide no kind of cohesive narrative and no semblance of a unified message. I would never be one to say that the visuals should explicitly match-up with the lyrics of a song, and to my mind it is always a plus for a piece of cinematography to allow multiple readings, but if the impression a viewer is left with is one of mild bemusement - that awkward burrow of the brow, coupled with a raised eyebrow - then I can't help but feel Lady Gaga has fallen short of the mark in delivering this time around. It takes over eight minutes to say very little at all.
The execution of the video is as cold and stark as the warehouse in which the performance takes place. Klein's direction just comes across as a repeat of the work he has previously done with Madonna, particularly the photoshoot that was used for her 2004 Re-Invention Tour. The imagery is less of a re-invention and more of a re-hash.
Klein has attempted to justify the scenes of religion, saying: "The religious symbolism is not meant to denote anything negative, but represents the character's battle between the dark forces of this world and the spiritual salvation of the Soul."
He continues: "Thus, at the end of the film, she chooses to be a nun, and the reason her mouth and eyes disappear is because she is withdrawing her senses from the world of evil and going inwards towards prayer and contemplation."
How well this convoluted explanation directly tackles some of the issues in the clip is difficult to say. Are the dark forces in this world the throng of naked man prancing around her? Or perhaps it's the pudding-bowl haircut that she finds herself with? But just how far Gaga et Klein can defend the religious symbolism is questionable when the video includes her dressed in a nun's attire emblazoned with an upside-down cross that points to her crotch.
For the video for Telephone, I applauded the length of it. The high production values, and the fact that it was like a short feature film, meant that it injected a new lease of life into what was becoming a sterile medium. Lady Gaga has up until this point ensured that the music video is still an important component of the 'pop package', something that record labels have been pushing to one side in more recent years, as it is unlikely the return on them actually warrants the costs spent. The opposite is true here. With no sense of direction, Alejandro does not make for compulsive viewing. Rather, it is a chore to sit through, certainly in contrast with her previous offerings.
The best thing that Gaga can possibly learn from this is that producing a perfectly complete three-and-a-half minute pop video can actually be a work of art too, and that she would not be sacrificing her artistry in doing so. Sometimes Gaga, less is more.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Conservatives gain Stafford
The Labour stronghold of Stafford was overthrown last night (May 6) with a convincing win by Jeremy Lefroy securing victory for the Conservatives.
Labour candidate David Kidney had been in power since 1997, when he beat David Cameron.
Yet Mr Lefroy acknowledged Mr Kidney’s successful run over the past 13 years, saying in his acceptance speech: “I have got to earn the respect that David Kidney has earned.”
Mr Lefroy commended the amicable way in which all candidates had fought the election.
He said he was “very honoured” to have gained such a majority.
The Conservatives gained 22,047 votes, while Labour received 16,587.
Liberal Democrat candidate Barry Stamp received 8,211 votes, while UKIP’s Roy Goode polled 1,727. BNP candidate Thomas Hynd received 1,103 and the Green Party’s Mike Shone polled 564.
Turnout was up from 67% in 2005 to 71%, with 50,328 votes cast compared to 45,554 in 2005.
Mr Lefroy said: “The turnouts have been very good. I think people took a lot more interest, and I have noticed that a lot of young people have voted, which is good.”
He said he wanted to change the national perception of Stafford, following the recent controversy surrounding Stafford Hospital.
StaffsLive article
Saturday, 17 April 2010
What a lovely pair
We have a tit issue.
Blue tit, to be precise.
Some brand spanking new bird houses were nailed onto a couple of trees upon our arrival at the Heath back in December. Then a few days ago Poppa Pop (who travels under various guises, such as Our Heavenly Father and David - he lives on the motorway, don't-cha-know!) spotted a pair of blue tits swirling around one of them. And before he knew it, they flew straight inside! It's spring, so you know what that means... honeymoon period. Personally, I wouldn't have plumped for the crib these boobz chose.
Our feathered friends have claimed this one...
If I was a bird on the wing, I would've settled home here...
But I guess the first is less clashing with the blue tit's blue. I must be more of a robin red breast.
The only problem is, the front doors are a bit of a squeeze. Poppa Pop is now worried that the mother blue tit is incapable of getting out. We've tried creeping around the perimeter, listening out for any clues that will reassure us that everything is A-OK ("Are they breathing...?"), and taking photos from a distance to see if that will give anything away. Poppa Pop swears he can see a "shade of blue" inside here...
No, me neither. But don't ruffle your feathers dear readers, I shall keep a close eye on this pair.
Blue tit, to be precise.
Some brand spanking new bird houses were nailed onto a couple of trees upon our arrival at the Heath back in December. Then a few days ago Poppa Pop (who travels under various guises, such as Our Heavenly Father and David - he lives on the motorway, don't-cha-know!) spotted a pair of blue tits swirling around one of them. And before he knew it, they flew straight inside! It's spring, so you know what that means... honeymoon period. Personally, I wouldn't have plumped for the crib these boobz chose.
Our feathered friends have claimed this one...
If I was a bird on the wing, I would've settled home here...
But I guess the first is less clashing with the blue tit's blue. I must be more of a robin red breast.
The only problem is, the front doors are a bit of a squeeze. Poppa Pop is now worried that the mother blue tit is incapable of getting out. We've tried creeping around the perimeter, listening out for any clues that will reassure us that everything is A-OK ("Are they breathing...?"), and taking photos from a distance to see if that will give anything away. Poppa Pop swears he can see a "shade of blue" inside here...
No, me neither. But don't ruffle your feathers dear readers, I shall keep a close eye on this pair.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
The black billowing cloud
I always tend to be wary of things when they're considered popular. There's something inside me that ticks like a bomb, albeit one that is cushioned by a hundred used mattresses, or spun in bubble wrap and then discarded at the bottom of nobody's basement; but my body still tenses at that consistent, however muffled, ticking. It's as if I think no-one and no thing can be truly popular without some form of deception or cruelty or foul-play taking place. I don't judge myself to be naturally distrustful. I believe in many things, I suppose - what about you?
Upon waking to the news of the volcanic ash that's drifting ever closer, my immediate thought was of Don DeLillo's White Noise, and the airborne toxic event that he describes.
'...we saw a remarkable and startling sight. It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left, prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats, bend our heads for a clearer view, exclaim to each other in half finished phrases. It was the black billowing cloud, the airborne toxic event, lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters. They were tracking its windborne movement, keeping it in view. In every car, heads shifted, drivers blew their horns to alert others, faces appeared in side windows, expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment.
The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend, escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings. We weren't sure how to react. It was a terrible thing to see, so close, so low, packed with chlorides, benzines, phenols, hydrocarbons, or whatever the precise toxic content. But it was also spectacular, part of the grandness of a sweeping event, like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children, food, belongings, a tragic army of the dispossessed. Our fear was accompanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious. It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life, to see it as a cosmic force, so much larger than yourself, more powerful, created by elemental and willful rhythms. This was a death made in the laboratory, defined and measurable, but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way, as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado, something not subject to control. Our helplessness did not seem compatible with the idea of a man-made event.'
So, I guess I believe in fiction.
Banksy: 'They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.'
I've always been a fan of Banksy's art, and not just the curious suspicion it evokes in modern-day principles, but the means in which Banksy as an artist operates. To work with the medium of graffiti should be problematic for an artist, what with the obvious time pressures and legal issues that abound, not to mention the notion of whether it should be deemed 'art' at all by many individuals ('People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access'). I'm sure Banksy doesn't call it art. And yet it is obviously the means itself with Banksy that imbues his pieces with something more pertinent. His work is raw and angry, terse but suggestive. They stand as venomous advertisements, motifs of disillusionment and quiet violence. By scrawling it across a battered tube train on the District Line, or the empty canvas of a forgotten white-washed wall in Bristol, Banksy is asking for our distrust to the same degree as all those big-buck businesses are crying out for our hand via their next advertising campaign. His role as a graffiti artist is as much about reclaiming the streets from the rodents as it is about letting them loose from the stinking sewers. Are the rats those corporate companies and politicians that run riot, or is it the ordinary man, left squatting in his own mess? Surely it can't be a coincidence that 'rat' is an anagram of 'art'?
Tonight I will be watching the first televised political debate between the three main parties. I don't know who to vote for. I've questioned whether to vote at all. Then I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't know or understand enough, which basically translates as they haven't tried to know or understand enough. I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't believe it will make any difference, which actually means they don't want things to be any different. Everyone is claiming that this is the most exciting election in a long time because the race is so narrow but, when you think about it, it's actually the most unexciting because people just don't care who wins. The state of things hasn't quite reached the level of an 'airborne toxic event' yet, but it's certainly more than a 'feathery plume'; I'd say it's at the stage of a 'black billowing cloud', but one that is getting progressively closer and darker.
Banksy: 'Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet.'
Upon waking to the news of the volcanic ash that's drifting ever closer, my immediate thought was of Don DeLillo's White Noise, and the airborne toxic event that he describes.
'...we saw a remarkable and startling sight. It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left, prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats, bend our heads for a clearer view, exclaim to each other in half finished phrases. It was the black billowing cloud, the airborne toxic event, lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters. They were tracking its windborne movement, keeping it in view. In every car, heads shifted, drivers blew their horns to alert others, faces appeared in side windows, expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment.
The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend, escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings. We weren't sure how to react. It was a terrible thing to see, so close, so low, packed with chlorides, benzines, phenols, hydrocarbons, or whatever the precise toxic content. But it was also spectacular, part of the grandness of a sweeping event, like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children, food, belongings, a tragic army of the dispossessed. Our fear was accompanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious. It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life, to see it as a cosmic force, so much larger than yourself, more powerful, created by elemental and willful rhythms. This was a death made in the laboratory, defined and measurable, but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way, as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado, something not subject to control. Our helplessness did not seem compatible with the idea of a man-made event.'
So, I guess I believe in fiction.
Banksy: 'They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.'
I've always been a fan of Banksy's art, and not just the curious suspicion it evokes in modern-day principles, but the means in which Banksy as an artist operates. To work with the medium of graffiti should be problematic for an artist, what with the obvious time pressures and legal issues that abound, not to mention the notion of whether it should be deemed 'art' at all by many individuals ('People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access'). I'm sure Banksy doesn't call it art. And yet it is obviously the means itself with Banksy that imbues his pieces with something more pertinent. His work is raw and angry, terse but suggestive. They stand as venomous advertisements, motifs of disillusionment and quiet violence. By scrawling it across a battered tube train on the District Line, or the empty canvas of a forgotten white-washed wall in Bristol, Banksy is asking for our distrust to the same degree as all those big-buck businesses are crying out for our hand via their next advertising campaign. His role as a graffiti artist is as much about reclaiming the streets from the rodents as it is about letting them loose from the stinking sewers. Are the rats those corporate companies and politicians that run riot, or is it the ordinary man, left squatting in his own mess? Surely it can't be a coincidence that 'rat' is an anagram of 'art'?
Tonight I will be watching the first televised political debate between the three main parties. I don't know who to vote for. I've questioned whether to vote at all. Then I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't know or understand enough, which basically translates as they haven't tried to know or understand enough. I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't believe it will make any difference, which actually means they don't want things to be any different. Everyone is claiming that this is the most exciting election in a long time because the race is so narrow but, when you think about it, it's actually the most unexciting because people just don't care who wins. The state of things hasn't quite reached the level of an 'airborne toxic event' yet, but it's certainly more than a 'feathery plume'; I'd say it's at the stage of a 'black billowing cloud', but one that is getting progressively closer and darker.
Banksy: 'Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet.'
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Universally challenged
Maths was never my forte. It always seemed a barrage of abstract symbols and numbers, and the only weapon I was able to arm myself with was a protractor. Who ate all the pi's? Not me. I understand how a select few might be that way inclined; how the thought of either being wrong or right is comforting. The idea of being held lovingly in the bosom of long division or a quadratic equation as a beacon of logical astuteness, the only way that could rationally and practically explain why x plus y equals... well I don't know, I said I was never very good at this. Obviously, I aligned myself with all those artsy-fartsy subjects, i.e. the ones potential employers don't really have any interest in.
There's an article in today's Daily Mail titled 'Why so many University Challenge champions fail to win in life'. Yes, I laughed too. Two quotes that have been emboldened during the course of this piece are even better. The first states, "I spend a lot of my time having to dumb myself down". The second: 'Winners tend to graduate to mediocrity'. Frankly, there's a simple equation that doesn't add up here: that intelligence should result in success.
It seems obvious enough. But is it? One contestant, John Burke, who helped the Open University to win the show in 1999, is now working as a postman. He says: "I'm certainly capable of a lot more than delivering papers. I've got a lot of other capabilities that I'm not really fulfilling." Another is Thor Halland, a participant of the winning Birkbeck Team of 2003, who 'experimented with cocaine, heroin and LSD in an attempt to 'fix' his brain'. Apparantly a sharp intellect needs 'fixing'. To be honest, I'm still transfixed by the fact that his first name is Thor. So why should intelligence equate success? The notion of being an intellect has always bugged me. People always refer to it as an intrinsically natural state, one that you're either predisposed to at birth or you're not. The fact that we now grow up having, oh I don't know, something termed 'an education' is skimmed over. And the argument that we're all either business-minded or creatively inclined...? That we're all habitually more adept with one side of our brain than the other...? No we're not. I've always said I'm proud to be a humanities student, but that doesn't mean I'm more artlessly gifted with verbs and adjectives than algebra and sums; I just decided at some point, in the grandly pointless narrative of my life, that I preferred abc to 123.
Halland goes on to say: "People like successful people, but they don't really like intelligent people. There's a little bit of jealousy." Really? Surely there has to be a marriage of the two, success and intelligence, at some point? You have to be intelligent to be a success at the end of the day, don't you? The problem occurs when people think that being academically gifted is going to reap bountiful years of indulgent success. You need to be smart across the board, in all sorts of frustratingly generalised areas - communicatively, technically, geographically, linguistically, pragmatically, etc - if you're going to stand out from the crowd. To expect that you will get ahead due to merely knowing about astrophysics is a little, well, stupid isn't it? Even Jeremy Paxman acknowledges that the kind of person University Challenge tends to attract is a particular character: "It is disturbing how many times students will confide, "It's been my lifetime ambition to get on to University Challenge." You want to scream: For heaven's sake, it's only a bloody quiz.""
If an intellectually bright individual 'fails to win in life', then surely the blame can only really be laid at the aforementioned person? So, not that bright then?
There's an article in today's Daily Mail titled 'Why so many University Challenge champions fail to win in life'. Yes, I laughed too. Two quotes that have been emboldened during the course of this piece are even better. The first states, "I spend a lot of my time having to dumb myself down". The second: 'Winners tend to graduate to mediocrity'. Frankly, there's a simple equation that doesn't add up here: that intelligence should result in success.
It seems obvious enough. But is it? One contestant, John Burke, who helped the Open University to win the show in 1999, is now working as a postman. He says: "I'm certainly capable of a lot more than delivering papers. I've got a lot of other capabilities that I'm not really fulfilling." Another is Thor Halland, a participant of the winning Birkbeck Team of 2003, who 'experimented with cocaine, heroin and LSD in an attempt to 'fix' his brain'. Apparantly a sharp intellect needs 'fixing'. To be honest, I'm still transfixed by the fact that his first name is Thor. So why should intelligence equate success? The notion of being an intellect has always bugged me. People always refer to it as an intrinsically natural state, one that you're either predisposed to at birth or you're not. The fact that we now grow up having, oh I don't know, something termed 'an education' is skimmed over. And the argument that we're all either business-minded or creatively inclined...? That we're all habitually more adept with one side of our brain than the other...? No we're not. I've always said I'm proud to be a humanities student, but that doesn't mean I'm more artlessly gifted with verbs and adjectives than algebra and sums; I just decided at some point, in the grandly pointless narrative of my life, that I preferred abc to 123.
Halland goes on to say: "People like successful people, but they don't really like intelligent people. There's a little bit of jealousy." Really? Surely there has to be a marriage of the two, success and intelligence, at some point? You have to be intelligent to be a success at the end of the day, don't you? The problem occurs when people think that being academically gifted is going to reap bountiful years of indulgent success. You need to be smart across the board, in all sorts of frustratingly generalised areas - communicatively, technically, geographically, linguistically, pragmatically, etc - if you're going to stand out from the crowd. To expect that you will get ahead due to merely knowing about astrophysics is a little, well, stupid isn't it? Even Jeremy Paxman acknowledges that the kind of person University Challenge tends to attract is a particular character: "It is disturbing how many times students will confide, "It's been my lifetime ambition to get on to University Challenge." You want to scream: For heaven's sake, it's only a bloody quiz.""
If an intellectually bright individual 'fails to win in life', then surely the blame can only really be laid at the aforementioned person? So, not that bright then?
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Como? Não entendi direito
Sim!
a: Você fala português?
b: Eu entendo um pouco, mas não falo.
a: De onde você é?
b: Sou de Pop-sicle.
a: De Pop-sicle?
b: Sim, de Pop-sicle.
a: O que você faz?
b: Sou pop.
a: Como? Não entendi direito.
b: Sou pop.
a: Fale mais devagar.
b: Sou... pop?
a: ...
b: ...
a: Onde é o banheiro?
b: Não sei.
a: ...
b: O senhor pode me trazer mais pão? Obrigado!
Visit The Show Pony Trot to find out how it really went.
a: Você fala português?
b: Eu entendo um pouco, mas não falo.
a: De onde você é?
b: Sou de Pop-sicle.
a: De Pop-sicle?
b: Sim, de Pop-sicle.
a: O que você faz?
b: Sou pop.
a: Como? Não entendi direito.
b: Sou pop.
a: Fale mais devagar.
b: Sou... pop?
a: ...
b: ...
a: Onde é o banheiro?
b: Não sei.
a: ...
b: O senhor pode me trazer mais pão? Obrigado!
Visit The Show Pony Trot to find out how it really went.
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