It's a cold and rainy Monday in Olde London Town, but I'm the man who loves Mondays and I'm feeling kinda bouncy this morning, so look out!
Time for the regular wrestle with Fracas Monday Melee.
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something - about humanity - you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating humanity's inability to provide the perfect latte and the perfect croissant in the same shop at the same time.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
I know it's like shooting fish in a barrel, but this one goes out to our old favourite, George Dubya for his increasingly insane attempt to stick the next administration with an illegal and un-winnable war with Iran.
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
Amazon's lamentable inability to track down a copy of Kanda Bongo Man's "Amour Fou" on CD after six months of trying. Looks like I'm going to have to digitise my old vinyl copy. Oh, the ignominy …
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
This morning, I raise my Cuba Solidarity Campaign coffee mug to the first person who left the seeds of the coffee tree too close to the fire and thought "Mmm! That smells good! I think I'll crush 'em up with this rock then put 'em in some hot water".
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I'm feeling particularly perky this morning.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
Something very private and very rude.
Showing posts with label Assignments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Assignments. Show all posts
Monday, February 12, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Dear Prudence's Lyrical Challenge
Excellent post over at the Lakes today.
Dear Prudence challenges us:
"Here is the assignment, list five lyrics that stick out in your mind and their significance to you. It can be as zany, quirky or catchy to having had an influence or impact on some aspect of your life."
This is a real toughie, as my list of favourite lyrics runs to several hundred pages. Just about all of Dylan, Joni, John Hiatt, The Handsome Family, Zappa, Tom Waits … well, everyone on my profile page …
1: I'll start with Joni.
As I can't really write out ALL the lyrics to her "Blue" and "Hejira" albums, I'll stick to a couple of snippets from "Hejira" itself:
"There's comfort in melancholy
When there's no need to explain
It's just as natural as the weather
In this moody sky today …
… I Know - No-one's gonna show me everything
We all come and go unknown
Each so deep and superficial
between the forceps and the stone.
Well I looked at the granite markers
Those tributes to finality - to eternity
And then I looked at myself here
Chicken-scratching for my immortality."
Story of my life. Nuff said.
2: A complete change of mood.
The incomparable Bongwater, with Ann Magnusson going off on one as she does. This is the start of "Chicken Pussy", from the album "The Power Of Pussy".
"I'm in a one-room apartment located in the basement under the Polish National Church.
It used to be a club.
And then, a mental health outpatient clinic.
Now I call it home.
There's a king-size mattress in the middle of the room where me and the big fat lead singer from Canned Heat finish up an afternoon of incredibly hot sex.
Boy … Does he have a big one!
Joining us for late afternoon tea and a four-way is my old next-door neighbour Jimbo and his wife, who is a chicken.
As I'm the only woman there with hands, I soon find myself fully occupied.
I can't help but wonder how Jimbo and his wife had their baby, who had been sleeping next to us but had since fallen onto the floor.
She must be able to change forms back and forth … and what about chicken pussy?
Is it enticing?
I mean, what's the story?"
Just go buy it. There's no significance to my life there except that it makes me laugh.
3: Dylan …
Holy crap! Where do I start?
Okay. Sadboy Dive has every album, bootleg and demo known to Dylankind (at least up to Street Legal … after that he just wasn't Dylan anymore). But choosing a favourite? Bugger all round that.
Let's just settle on the first verse of "Highway 61 Revisited".
"God says to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on!"
God say, "No." … Abe say, "What?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but …
The next time you see me comin', you better run!"
Well Abe says, "Where d'you want this killin' done?"
God says, "Out on Highway 61."
Heh-heh … Reminds me of all the arguments and abuse me and God hurled at one another before we stalked off in opposite directions.
4: Hokay. Time for a Paul Simon one.
The first verse of "Jonah", from "One Trick Pony".
"Half an hour to change my strings and tune up.
Sizing the room up.
Checking the bar.
Local girls, unspoken conversations.
Misinformation …
Plays guitar."
It doesn't matter if I'm playing to twenty-five thousand people or twenty-five. It's like that every single time.
5: God! This is SO FRUSTRATING, Prudence!
Only FIVE? I want to list ten thousand!
I wanted so much to put Tom Waits' "Burma Shave" here, but it just got pipped at the post by a couple of snippets from REM's "Nightswimming", off "Automatic For The People".
"The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,
Turned around backwards so the windshield shows.
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse.
Still, it's so much clearer …
You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You, I thought you knew me,
this one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder."
It went curly at the edges. Then it faded. But it was there for a long, long time.
So there you go.
Five from Dive.
Thank you, Prudence for a doozy of a challenge.
The rest of you (other than Sassy, who's already done it), go to it.
Dear Prudence challenges us:
"Here is the assignment, list five lyrics that stick out in your mind and their significance to you. It can be as zany, quirky or catchy to having had an influence or impact on some aspect of your life."
This is a real toughie, as my list of favourite lyrics runs to several hundred pages. Just about all of Dylan, Joni, John Hiatt, The Handsome Family, Zappa, Tom Waits … well, everyone on my profile page …
1: I'll start with Joni.
As I can't really write out ALL the lyrics to her "Blue" and "Hejira" albums, I'll stick to a couple of snippets from "Hejira" itself:
"There's comfort in melancholy
When there's no need to explain
It's just as natural as the weather
In this moody sky today …
… I Know - No-one's gonna show me everything
We all come and go unknown
Each so deep and superficial
between the forceps and the stone.
Well I looked at the granite markers
Those tributes to finality - to eternity
And then I looked at myself here
Chicken-scratching for my immortality."
Story of my life. Nuff said.
2: A complete change of mood.
The incomparable Bongwater, with Ann Magnusson going off on one as she does. This is the start of "Chicken Pussy", from the album "The Power Of Pussy".
"I'm in a one-room apartment located in the basement under the Polish National Church.
It used to be a club.
And then, a mental health outpatient clinic.
Now I call it home.
There's a king-size mattress in the middle of the room where me and the big fat lead singer from Canned Heat finish up an afternoon of incredibly hot sex.
Boy … Does he have a big one!
Joining us for late afternoon tea and a four-way is my old next-door neighbour Jimbo and his wife, who is a chicken.
As I'm the only woman there with hands, I soon find myself fully occupied.
I can't help but wonder how Jimbo and his wife had their baby, who had been sleeping next to us but had since fallen onto the floor.
She must be able to change forms back and forth … and what about chicken pussy?
Is it enticing?
I mean, what's the story?"
Just go buy it. There's no significance to my life there except that it makes me laugh.
3: Dylan …
Holy crap! Where do I start?
Okay. Sadboy Dive has every album, bootleg and demo known to Dylankind (at least up to Street Legal … after that he just wasn't Dylan anymore). But choosing a favourite? Bugger all round that.
Let's just settle on the first verse of "Highway 61 Revisited".
"God says to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on!"
God say, "No." … Abe say, "What?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but …
The next time you see me comin', you better run!"
Well Abe says, "Where d'you want this killin' done?"
God says, "Out on Highway 61."
Heh-heh … Reminds me of all the arguments and abuse me and God hurled at one another before we stalked off in opposite directions.
4: Hokay. Time for a Paul Simon one.
The first verse of "Jonah", from "One Trick Pony".
"Half an hour to change my strings and tune up.
Sizing the room up.
Checking the bar.
Local girls, unspoken conversations.
Misinformation …
Plays guitar."
It doesn't matter if I'm playing to twenty-five thousand people or twenty-five. It's like that every single time.
5: God! This is SO FRUSTRATING, Prudence!
Only FIVE? I want to list ten thousand!
I wanted so much to put Tom Waits' "Burma Shave" here, but it just got pipped at the post by a couple of snippets from REM's "Nightswimming", off "Automatic For The People".
"The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,
Turned around backwards so the windshield shows.
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse.
Still, it's so much clearer …
You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You, I thought you knew me,
this one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder."
It went curly at the edges. Then it faded. But it was there for a long, long time.
So there you go.
Five from Dive.
Thank you, Prudence for a doozy of a challenge.
The rest of you (other than Sassy, who's already done it), go to it.
Monday, February 05, 2007
It's The Monday Melee Again
It's monday, so it must be:
- Over-running engineering works fucking up the trains.
- An office full of grumpy bastards.
- The Fracas Monday Melee. Yaaay!
Last Monday I dealt with such boring subjects as politics, religion and death.
This week:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating myself.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
Insurance companies.
Q - What's the difference between an insurance company and the Mafia?
A - If you pay money to the Mafia, they'll protect you.
… Oh, and they dress better, too …
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The stupid trapped nerve in my shoulder. It keeps waking me up in the middle of the night. Bastard!
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
This week, I give credit to Japanese womanhood, for being so cute it hurts.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I've stopped wearing Hawaiian shirts.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
All the chocolate in the world.
Tune in next Monday for another installment of carefully targeted hatred and bile.
- Over-running engineering works fucking up the trains.
- An office full of grumpy bastards.
- The Fracas Monday Melee. Yaaay!
Last Monday I dealt with such boring subjects as politics, religion and death.
This week:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating myself.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
Insurance companies.
Q - What's the difference between an insurance company and the Mafia?
A - If you pay money to the Mafia, they'll protect you.
… Oh, and they dress better, too …
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The stupid trapped nerve in my shoulder. It keeps waking me up in the middle of the night. Bastard!
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
This week, I give credit to Japanese womanhood, for being so cute it hurts.
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I've stopped wearing Hawaiian shirts.
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
All the chocolate in the world.
Tune in next Monday for another installment of carefully targeted hatred and bile.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Kate's Monday Melee On A Tuesday
Okay, so strictly it's "Kate's mate Fracas' Monday Melee on a Tuesday", but I got it from Kate's site so she gets the title.
It's a compact and bijou little assignment-ette, so there's no excuses for not doing it.
Here we go then:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating the attitude of the staff in Norwich's guitar shops, but that's too petty so I'll say religion.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
America's "involvement" in the Middle East (in fact their entire foreign policy since the war with Mexico in 1846).
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The fact that I have not had sexual congress since mammoths roamed the earth.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
My boss, CJ, for telling me I can do a trial period working three days a week from home (though the caveat was added that it wouldn't be until IT have sorted out my broadband and given me an even yummier Mac to play with, so don't wait up).
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I am a fucking good guitar player (big-headed, too).
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
A nice painless death … and a croissant, please.
So there you go; Kate's Monday Melee on a Tuesday.
Go for it!
It's a compact and bijou little assignment-ette, so there's no excuses for not doing it.
Here we go then:
1: The Misanthropic.
(Name something you absolutely hate).
This week I have been mostly hating the attitude of the staff in Norwich's guitar shops, but that's too petty so I'll say religion.
2: The Meretricious:
(Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus).
America's "involvement" in the Middle East (in fact their entire foreign policy since the war with Mexico in 1846).
3: The Malcontent:
(Name something you're unhappy with).
The fact that I have not had sexual congress since mammoths roamed the earth.
4: The Meritorious.
(Give someone credit for something and name it if you can).
My boss, CJ, for telling me I can do a trial period working three days a week from home (though the caveat was added that it wouldn't be until IT have sorted out my broadband and given me an even yummier Mac to play with, so don't wait up).
5: The Mirror.
(See something good about yourself and name it).
I am a fucking good guitar player (big-headed, too).
6: The Make-Believe:
(Name something you wish for).
A nice painless death … and a croissant, please.
So there you go; Kate's Monday Melee on a Tuesday.
Go for it!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
We Have a Winner
… And it's MB, from sunny Adelaide.
Congratulations, MB. Your prize is to be able to wear a smug grin all day.
Sassy almost got there (two guesses is kinda cheating), but the rest of you were way off. Shame on you.
Okerly Dokerly.
Let's go through the answers. Swap papers and mark the person's sitting next to you so there's no more cheating.
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
Damned right! For a toddler, it's a logical leap: I like cheese, therefore my toy cars will like it, too.
So I stuffed their little engine compartments full of stinky yellow goodness to make them go faster … or so I've been told.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
I kinda hoped this would throw you, but it didn't (other than Sassy).
Hey, I'm from Norfolk farming stock. It's easy (though sadly, not rude).
Just wet your hand and stick it in a sack of milk powder, then jam it into a cow's mouth.
Said cow will follow you ANYWHERE, and the rest of the herd will tag along to see what the fuss is about. Be warned, though: your hand will receive a serious and yucky slobbering (she won't bite you).
The hard part, once you've got 'em where you want 'em to go, is getting your hand back.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
Meet Stouffer, my blue rubber cat (below, in Dive's rather familiar dining room).
click the pic for a bigger scary blue rubber cat
He's a hand puppet from Harry Hill's stage show and is great for frightening children.
For a bet with Mikey, I once travelled all the way to work wearing him. Right across London in the rush hour and everyone ignored me except one woman on the tube who cracked up when Stouffer gave her the eye.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
Bingo!
I was dicking around with one in a music shop yesterday morning and ALMOST bought it. It's so cool! Bright pink, with a big Hello Kitty right across it, and pink fret markers. I just want to take it on stage and freak the band out.
So, as I was too damned sensible to buy it, this one's the false answer.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
For starters there's a Che mug on the table by Stouffer.
I've got lots of socialist mugs and other crockery knick-knacks. Why Robyn should think there's no such thing as Marxist crockery is something only an American could answer.
I've got Marx and Lenin and Trotsky of course, through China, Nicaragua, Cuba, European Marxists, South and Central American, like Paulo Friere and good old Augusto Sandinho (mad as a chocolate hat and a useless revolutionary, but he kicked Yankee butt, so he gets my vote … The Sandanistas are named after him and Woody Allen used him as an inspiration for "Bananas", as the ultimate crap revolutionary). Shedloads of Cuban stuff; the list goes on …
WHY I should accumulate all this crap is anybody's guess.
So. Congratulations once again to MB.
Bonzer, cobber!
Congratulations, MB. Your prize is to be able to wear a smug grin all day.
Sassy almost got there (two guesses is kinda cheating), but the rest of you were way off. Shame on you.
Okerly Dokerly.
Let's go through the answers. Swap papers and mark the person's sitting next to you so there's no more cheating.
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
Damned right! For a toddler, it's a logical leap: I like cheese, therefore my toy cars will like it, too.
So I stuffed their little engine compartments full of stinky yellow goodness to make them go faster … or so I've been told.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
I kinda hoped this would throw you, but it didn't (other than Sassy).
Hey, I'm from Norfolk farming stock. It's easy (though sadly, not rude).
Just wet your hand and stick it in a sack of milk powder, then jam it into a cow's mouth.
Said cow will follow you ANYWHERE, and the rest of the herd will tag along to see what the fuss is about. Be warned, though: your hand will receive a serious and yucky slobbering (she won't bite you).
The hard part, once you've got 'em where you want 'em to go, is getting your hand back.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
Meet Stouffer, my blue rubber cat (below, in Dive's rather familiar dining room).
click the pic for a bigger scary blue rubber catHe's a hand puppet from Harry Hill's stage show and is great for frightening children.
For a bet with Mikey, I once travelled all the way to work wearing him. Right across London in the rush hour and everyone ignored me except one woman on the tube who cracked up when Stouffer gave her the eye.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
Bingo!
I was dicking around with one in a music shop yesterday morning and ALMOST bought it. It's so cool! Bright pink, with a big Hello Kitty right across it, and pink fret markers. I just want to take it on stage and freak the band out.
So, as I was too damned sensible to buy it, this one's the false answer.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
For starters there's a Che mug on the table by Stouffer.
I've got lots of socialist mugs and other crockery knick-knacks. Why Robyn should think there's no such thing as Marxist crockery is something only an American could answer.
I've got Marx and Lenin and Trotsky of course, through China, Nicaragua, Cuba, European Marxists, South and Central American, like Paulo Friere and good old Augusto Sandinho (mad as a chocolate hat and a useless revolutionary, but he kicked Yankee butt, so he gets my vote … The Sandanistas are named after him and Woody Allen used him as an inspiration for "Bananas", as the ultimate crap revolutionary). Shedloads of Cuban stuff; the list goes on …
WHY I should accumulate all this crap is anybody's guess.
So. Congratulations once again to MB.
Bonzer, cobber!
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Tagged By A Guitar-Playing Dyke
Dammit!
I knew one of the Aussies would wreak revenge for my Australia Day comment on Old Knudsen's site.
Thank you, Vic. I am duly tagged.
It's the classic meme of:
"Five Things You Don't Know About Me (Only Four Of Which are True) … and Which One's Not True?"
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
So: which of the above is NOT true?
And I know that memes are corny, so I'll save Robyn and Sassy the embarrassment (actually, I think Vic has tagged Sassy already), and I shall tag those two overexcitable children, Lynn and Ame. Go for it, girls.
I knew one of the Aussies would wreak revenge for my Australia Day comment on Old Knudsen's site.
Thank you, Vic. I am duly tagged.
It's the classic meme of:
"Five Things You Don't Know About Me (Only Four Of Which are True) … and Which One's Not True?"
1. When I was little, I used to feed cheese to my toy cars.
2. I know how to get cattle to follow me anywhere.
3. My dining room is guarded by a blue rubber cat.
4. In my guitar collection is a limited edition "Hello Kitty" Fender Stratocaster.
5. I own a collection of Marxist crockery.
So: which of the above is NOT true?
And I know that memes are corny, so I'll save Robyn and Sassy the embarrassment (actually, I think Vic has tagged Sassy already), and I shall tag those two overexcitable children, Lynn and Ame. Go for it, girls.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Boring Photo Assignment
I'm not going to send you into paroxysms of twitching by subjecting you to yet another installment of Dive's Saturday breakfast non-date, so I thought I'd set you a photo assignment instead.
A really boring one …
I'm about to start work on a biryani, and for reasons beyond what rational thought can possibly be bothered to bugger around with, I took a photograph of my spice rack.
Yup. That's the infamous cast iron pestle and mortar I use for my hot, dry-fried curry spices.
The spice rack itself was originally a nineteenth century paper and ink stand from somewhere up around what's now the Pakistan/Afghan border (where Osama's hanging out).
Why I use it as a spice rack, somebody must know, but it's certainly not me …
And yes I know the one on the left is empty; I'm all out of saffron.
So, if any of you can be bothered, let's have photos of your own spice racks.
Extra points for
(a) home made or unusual ones; and
(b) not using bloody supermarket spices.
Go to it.
A really boring one …
I'm about to start work on a biryani, and for reasons beyond what rational thought can possibly be bothered to bugger around with, I took a photograph of my spice rack.
Yup. That's the infamous cast iron pestle and mortar I use for my hot, dry-fried curry spices.
The spice rack itself was originally a nineteenth century paper and ink stand from somewhere up around what's now the Pakistan/Afghan border (where Osama's hanging out).
Why I use it as a spice rack, somebody must know, but it's certainly not me …
And yes I know the one on the left is empty; I'm all out of saffron.
So, if any of you can be bothered, let's have photos of your own spice racks.
Extra points for
(a) home made or unusual ones; and
(b) not using bloody supermarket spices.
Go to it.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Tacky Kitsch Trash
A couple more things for Ame to think about:
For shows and gigs and stuff, take a look on Visit London's "What's On" page. You can search for stuff coming up over the next thirty days, so give it a week and check it out.
Book online in advance.
And Sassy rightly suggests eating Indian (which is actually Britain's native cuisine these days).
Should you, however, feel slightly more adventurous, try this site. It lists London's more strange restaurants where you can chow down on scorpions and other weird shit.
Or you could of course do a home from home and stick to Starbucks and Mc.D, but where's the fun in that?
And use GoogleMap to plan walks (parks and riverside).
The best bits of London are all in the old parts (City and Westminster), but that's still a huge area, so group your West End activites and your River activites and the rest so you split it up into days.
Oh, if you do the appallingly touristy thing and visit Harrods (ugh), be sure to photograph the world's tackiest statue, while making obscene gestures in front of it.
The disgusting Mohammed Fayed (Harrods' owner) erected a pukably kitsch statue of Diana and his son Dodi yanking on a seagull's penis (that's the ugly fucker standing beside it).
It's called "Innocent Victims", because he's convinced that the Royal Family and the Secret Service murdered them. He's kind of in denial about sending his own drunk chauffeur to drive them into a concrete pillar at speed.
Hey! Here's a quick assignment:
If anybody knows of anything on the entire planet more tasteless and kitsch and shamelessly tacky than this vom-fest, please post it.
For shows and gigs and stuff, take a look on Visit London's "What's On" page. You can search for stuff coming up over the next thirty days, so give it a week and check it out.
Book online in advance.
And Sassy rightly suggests eating Indian (which is actually Britain's native cuisine these days).
Should you, however, feel slightly more adventurous, try this site. It lists London's more strange restaurants where you can chow down on scorpions and other weird shit.
Or you could of course do a home from home and stick to Starbucks and Mc.D, but where's the fun in that?
And use GoogleMap to plan walks (parks and riverside).
The best bits of London are all in the old parts (City and Westminster), but that's still a huge area, so group your West End activites and your River activites and the rest so you split it up into days.
Oh, if you do the appallingly touristy thing and visit Harrods (ugh), be sure to photograph the world's tackiest statue, while making obscene gestures in front of it.
The disgusting Mohammed Fayed (Harrods' owner) erected a pukably kitsch statue of Diana and his son Dodi yanking on a seagull's penis (that's the ugly fucker standing beside it).
It's called "Innocent Victims", because he's convinced that the Royal Family and the Secret Service murdered them. He's kind of in denial about sending his own drunk chauffeur to drive them into a concrete pillar at speed.Hey! Here's a quick assignment:
If anybody knows of anything on the entire planet more tasteless and kitsch and shamelessly tacky than this vom-fest, please post it.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Hunky Dory Day
So I fancied a nice long soak in the bath in the middle of the day.
What of it?
One of the few advantages of living alone is that I can do what the fuck I want, when I feel like it. The same goes for eating and drinking.
Actually, now that I come to think of it, it IS rather nice that there's nobody trying to call me up or wondering where I am or what I'm doing all the time;
nobody filling every square inch of the bathroom with crap and making my bath stink of rotting fruit and washing powder (yes, Ame, I dated a Lush addict);
nobody saying "You've got thousands of books, what do you want another one for?";
nobody throwing a strop and scoring fucking points;
nobody saying "You're not thinking of wearing that, are you?";
nobody to moan that it's black and white or it's got subtitles;
nobody shouting, swearing, abusing and slapping me around every fourth week while expecting me to be angelic and supportive about it, yet never once apologising … ever;
nobody to stop me drinking scotch in bed;
nobody to scream at me for ironing her silk blouse on cotton setting;
nobody to stop me following that police car round and round Norwich with a fucking great spliff on the go;
nobody putting their COLD feet on my nice warm tummy in the middle of the night;
Hmm … perhaps this dating business is all just a cunning and fiendish trap set by weemen to get me to cook and clean and iron for them … Damn my stupid penis for getting turned on by nice perky little boobs …
Anyway, back to my lovely hot, slightly overfilled bath … Brew up some yummy Cuban coffee and relax … Mmmmmm …
Today is a Hunky Dory day (thanks, Rich), so Hunky Dory goes on repeat play in the studio, whilst just down the landing I settle in to my wonderfully unperfumed bathwater and get to work on becoming seriously wrinkly.
Before I get in, I check my bum cheeks for the telltale signs of alien abduction and anal probing after reading Ame's mysterious description of her own experience (check Saturday's comments).
The upshot of all this crap is that I get to thinking about bathtub music, so when I get out, I click on the "play count" in iTunes and am genuinely shocked at what it says about my age.
Crikey!
Most of the top few hundred tracks (we're talking over 90Gig of music collected over forty-eight years) are stuck firmly in the seventies … The SEVENTIES! The decade taste forgot! The decade that saw the death of the mini skirt and the rise of flares. Fucking hell!
This is alarming. If you wander on over to my profile, you'll see the kind of music I actually profess to liking. And that's not it.
The seventies! Shame on me. Although I suppose it was my teenage years, so it must have been pretty formative (newer readers: check back on old Dive's musical history) …
Having said that; Bowie, Steely Dan, Joni Mitchell all loom large, together with Dylan and the Beatles leaking over from the sixties; then there's Jeff Beck's Blow By Blow album (the only record of guitar music ever made that is actually listenable), Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On", Elton, Zep, Beefheart, Neil Young, Zappa, a fair bit of (ahem) prog, some punk of course …
Actually, I'm not so ashamed now I look at it. That's some damned fine music.
Let's have a belated hoorah for the seventies!
The puzzling thing is that ever since it first came out in 1979, one song has been stuck in my head.
It's like it's been hard-wired into my brain.
I mean we've all got songs running through our heads pretty much all of the time, right? Yet whenever I'm too busy or distracted I find my brain reverts to default and there's ALWAYS the same fucking song there.
And it's Joni Mitchell's "Sweet Sucker Dance" off her Mingus album.
WHY?
It's not as if I have any particular attachment to the song; it's not even close to being one of Joni's best. But there it is … all the time … stuck in my head.
And it's not exactly something I can sing along to, or even dance to …
Somehow it just got hard-wired in there. My brain's default song … Weird …
So. This calls for a mini-assignment:
Question 1:
Does your iTunes "Play Count" say anything surprising or embarrassing about you?
And please be honest.
Question 2:
Do you have a song that's "hard-wired" into your brain? Again, be honest rather than trying to be cool …
And Question 3:
Given the small list of examples above, am I really sure that I want a girlfriend?
What of it?
One of the few advantages of living alone is that I can do what the fuck I want, when I feel like it. The same goes for eating and drinking.
Actually, now that I come to think of it, it IS rather nice that there's nobody trying to call me up or wondering where I am or what I'm doing all the time;
nobody filling every square inch of the bathroom with crap and making my bath stink of rotting fruit and washing powder (yes, Ame, I dated a Lush addict);
nobody saying "You've got thousands of books, what do you want another one for?";
nobody throwing a strop and scoring fucking points;
nobody saying "You're not thinking of wearing that, are you?";
nobody to moan that it's black and white or it's got subtitles;
nobody shouting, swearing, abusing and slapping me around every fourth week while expecting me to be angelic and supportive about it, yet never once apologising … ever;
nobody to stop me drinking scotch in bed;
nobody to scream at me for ironing her silk blouse on cotton setting;
nobody to stop me following that police car round and round Norwich with a fucking great spliff on the go;
nobody putting their COLD feet on my nice warm tummy in the middle of the night;
Hmm … perhaps this dating business is all just a cunning and fiendish trap set by weemen to get me to cook and clean and iron for them … Damn my stupid penis for getting turned on by nice perky little boobs …
Anyway, back to my lovely hot, slightly overfilled bath … Brew up some yummy Cuban coffee and relax … Mmmmmm …
Today is a Hunky Dory day (thanks, Rich), so Hunky Dory goes on repeat play in the studio, whilst just down the landing I settle in to my wonderfully unperfumed bathwater and get to work on becoming seriously wrinkly.
Before I get in, I check my bum cheeks for the telltale signs of alien abduction and anal probing after reading Ame's mysterious description of her own experience (check Saturday's comments).
The upshot of all this crap is that I get to thinking about bathtub music, so when I get out, I click on the "play count" in iTunes and am genuinely shocked at what it says about my age.
Crikey!
Most of the top few hundred tracks (we're talking over 90Gig of music collected over forty-eight years) are stuck firmly in the seventies … The SEVENTIES! The decade taste forgot! The decade that saw the death of the mini skirt and the rise of flares. Fucking hell!
This is alarming. If you wander on over to my profile, you'll see the kind of music I actually profess to liking. And that's not it.
The seventies! Shame on me. Although I suppose it was my teenage years, so it must have been pretty formative (newer readers: check back on old Dive's musical history) …
Having said that; Bowie, Steely Dan, Joni Mitchell all loom large, together with Dylan and the Beatles leaking over from the sixties; then there's Jeff Beck's Blow By Blow album (the only record of guitar music ever made that is actually listenable), Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On", Elton, Zep, Beefheart, Neil Young, Zappa, a fair bit of (ahem) prog, some punk of course …
Actually, I'm not so ashamed now I look at it. That's some damned fine music.
Let's have a belated hoorah for the seventies!
The puzzling thing is that ever since it first came out in 1979, one song has been stuck in my head.
It's like it's been hard-wired into my brain.
I mean we've all got songs running through our heads pretty much all of the time, right? Yet whenever I'm too busy or distracted I find my brain reverts to default and there's ALWAYS the same fucking song there.
And it's Joni Mitchell's "Sweet Sucker Dance" off her Mingus album.
WHY?
It's not as if I have any particular attachment to the song; it's not even close to being one of Joni's best. But there it is … all the time … stuck in my head.
And it's not exactly something I can sing along to, or even dance to …
Somehow it just got hard-wired in there. My brain's default song … Weird …
So. This calls for a mini-assignment:
Question 1:
Does your iTunes "Play Count" say anything surprising or embarrassing about you?
And please be honest.
Question 2:
Do you have a song that's "hard-wired" into your brain? Again, be honest rather than trying to be cool …
And Question 3:
Given the small list of examples above, am I really sure that I want a girlfriend?
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Steam Trains
Too busy to do a proper post today.
Into the city for breakfast and shopping, hanging about like a bloody middle-aged Jay to Dean's Silent Bob in Dean and Lisa's comic shop, over to Mikey's to do something secret for Bethany's Christmas (shhh!), the long drag over to Phil's to set up his new amp and play guitar and drums for a bit, back home for housework, housework and more housework, dinner and some housework …
So, apropos of bugger all and because I haven't got the time to write anything worth reading, here's a picture from the stack of old stuff I've been scanning in for mum (hint for a happy life: never tell elderly relatives you've got a scanner).
This is the lane out the back of our old house when I was a kid; Providence Place, it was called. It doubled as a footy pitch, much to the sweary and hitty annoyance of the good neighbouring folk (rugby was a "posh" boys' sport … you had to have grass to play it).
This is our gang, the Bash Street Kids.
At the back (they're girls, so they're not properly in the gang) are Janet and Wilma; sitting in our race cart is little brother Phil, Malcom and Neville; standing behind is Norman and that's old Dive standing on the cart in my sexy stripey shirt.
At the top of the lane was the chip shop and the Sunday School (see posts passim); and at the bottom of the lane, through a gap in the fence were the railway sidings where we still had old steam trains as "push and pull" shunting engines.
The long grass in the railway sidings is where we hunted for grasshoppers and slow worms (a kind of snake thing) and I indulged in the wonderful pastime of upside-down train watching.
That's where you let the engine go by, then run up close and lay down with your head between the sleepers, as close to the track as you dare, and watch the train go by, upside-down against the sky.
Hey, it was trippy and it was free. We didn't have bloody video games back then, just our pram cart and the trains.
Anyway, as I've nothing to write, I'll do a Robyn and set an assignment: Let's have some pics and stories from when you were little. No hurry, just do one when you feel like it so we can piece together our pasts and discover how we ended up like this.
Off you go then …
Into the city for breakfast and shopping, hanging about like a bloody middle-aged Jay to Dean's Silent Bob in Dean and Lisa's comic shop, over to Mikey's to do something secret for Bethany's Christmas (shhh!), the long drag over to Phil's to set up his new amp and play guitar and drums for a bit, back home for housework, housework and more housework, dinner and some housework …
So, apropos of bugger all and because I haven't got the time to write anything worth reading, here's a picture from the stack of old stuff I've been scanning in for mum (hint for a happy life: never tell elderly relatives you've got a scanner).
This is the lane out the back of our old house when I was a kid; Providence Place, it was called. It doubled as a footy pitch, much to the sweary and hitty annoyance of the good neighbouring folk (rugby was a "posh" boys' sport … you had to have grass to play it).This is our gang, the Bash Street Kids.
At the back (they're girls, so they're not properly in the gang) are Janet and Wilma; sitting in our race cart is little brother Phil, Malcom and Neville; standing behind is Norman and that's old Dive standing on the cart in my sexy stripey shirt.
At the top of the lane was the chip shop and the Sunday School (see posts passim); and at the bottom of the lane, through a gap in the fence were the railway sidings where we still had old steam trains as "push and pull" shunting engines.
The long grass in the railway sidings is where we hunted for grasshoppers and slow worms (a kind of snake thing) and I indulged in the wonderful pastime of upside-down train watching.
That's where you let the engine go by, then run up close and lay down with your head between the sleepers, as close to the track as you dare, and watch the train go by, upside-down against the sky.
Hey, it was trippy and it was free. We didn't have bloody video games back then, just our pram cart and the trains.
Anyway, as I've nothing to write, I'll do a Robyn and set an assignment: Let's have some pics and stories from when you were little. No hurry, just do one when you feel like it so we can piece together our pasts and discover how we ended up like this.
Off you go then …
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