Could do with a coffee

Re-worked soundtracks!

2009-08-24T21:26:00.006-04:00

My post below has got my brain ticking, for why settle for the original when you can strip all the mystery away and instead produce an instantly out-of-date soundtrack designed to be bought, forgotten and finally sold on e-bay.

Let's start with the Modern Greats

How much more FUN would JAWS be if the fat toothy shark was summed up by the trilling melodies of Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn'?

It brings a new level of truth to the line, 'there's nothing where he used to lie...'

Picture it with me for just one moment. Fun, yes, but more accurate also. Disregarding John Williams' iconic piano warning altogether (unless Moby could hash it into a remix?)

Song Lyrics as great human truths? (Discuss)

2009-08-23T23:03:00.009-04:00

During my student days I once drew an interesting comparison between Madame Bovary and the subject of 'Disillusion', Badly Drawn Boy's first hit in the UK. My point, although deliciously simple at the time and now rather laboured, referenced his innate understanding of the doomed wench's emotional state, despite the considerable void between the two of gender, age and actual existence.

Now, never one to avoid the utterly crass, I thought it might be fun to imagine a soundtrack for a modern take on this classic, ideally set in the Valley. Of particular interest to me is the opportunity to be very literal.

For example, our chesty young lovely shilly shallying through the provincial malls after her romp with Rodolphe, wouldn't this scene be embellished if Ne-yo's 'Sexy Love' accompanied her? Straight to the point. Why waste key minutes in exposition when we have the music to labour it?

Gone West

2009-08-20T14:22:00.004-04:00

This is an experimental post, as I sit in Pacific Grove, CA, watching locals go about their business.
Of course, confronted with the fading colours of the sea and shore, the almost agressive beauty of this area, I am inspired to think freely and deeply. Life on the West coast is markedly different, behold my findings!

1) Nights are deliciously chilly, meaning my beloved layers are for once a necessity and not an affectation.

2) Monterey is the pits

3) I cannot pull off directional nail polish. Current shade of aqua green is faintly ridiculous. I look like some 90s Tank Girl wannabe.

Chanel: Autumn/Winter 2009

2009-08-12T09:03:00.004-04:00

Naturally, as it's 90 degrees outside I'm fixated on the imminent arrival of Autumn and all that comes with it: temperate climate, layers, colours, boots and coats. Perhaps a pleasing hat for good measure. The magazines are obviously a few steps ahead of me and the next batch of adverts for this coming season are upon us. It's hardly novel but I love the atmosphere created by these grainy black and white shots from Chanel. Yes the girls romping through the fields look a bit like witches coming to get you, yes they are probably trying to suck out your soul however, they are at least attempting all of this in style. Who would begrudge them when they have ruffs and buckles in their arsenal? It's possible that they might even give up their beautifully-trussed jackets in exchange for your mortal soul.

See http://www.chanel.com/fashion/8#8 for some hypnotic luuuuuuuuuuxe styling.

Mother's Advice

2009-08-12T08:32:00.006-04:00

Now, my Mum was not prone to soundbite pop culture characters to demonstrate a point, truly, but when we watched 'Gone with the Wind' together, one drizzly Sunday when I was about ten she decided to share a little theory with me, her gullible lone daughter.

Based on characters in the film (you know it? It was le big hit you know) she proclaimed that there were two types of women. Only two mind, things were simpler then, none of this five people you meet in heaven complication, no, just two. Those two types were either

Scarlet O'Hara, namely a manipulative shrew who you somehow can't help rooting for.

OR

Melanie Hamilton, AKA " Miss Mellie" The sweet and lovely southern belle who gets the man ultimately (and what other goal could she possibly have?)

I remember being a bit shocked that the many layers that make up a personality, all those diverse cultural influences, the effect of time and location, even genetic predispositions, all of this could be reduced to the two choices that fall to women.

If of course you are looking to simplify your life and put yourself in a box but you are unsure whether you are a Scarlett or a Melanie, the eyebrows are key. Apparently tweezed, slanty ones mean wickedly charming or just wicked but the Miss Mellies of the world have infinitely softer, more yielding examples.

I wonder if this insight will make gauging folks any easier? I might try it today.

A nostalgic activity

2009-08-05T09:06:00.004-04:00

Is there anything more engrossing than making a mix-tape/play list for someone? Especially when you are handing over music you think they may not know. It was quite the teenage wooing technique back in my hood.. it demonstrated just how cool you thought you were. I used to go all out: mix-tape, complete with a highly-bespoke track list. The more I liked the person, the more effort I put in: frankly if it wasn't covered with stars and stickers it was a slap in the face. Obviously I moved with the times and upgraded to CDs, the now obsolete mini-disc and of course now it's all on itunes. I wonder if any of my friends or loves past still have them somewhere? Stashed under their bed or locked in a vault somewhere? I might put word out.

Of course, on the other side of making the mix-tape, there was the delight of receiving a mix-tape from a like-minded soul, be it new friend or love.

I think the mix-tape unites us all.

Two mysteries and a suit made of meat.

2009-08-01T17:17:00.006-04:00

Today is a nice, lazy day however I am thinking. I have been treading the same ground intellectually for some time so I now throw it the floor:

new career choice.

I'm not sure how I ended up in an industry (commercial art) without prospects despite working really rather hard for more than five years but it would seem that this is the case. Mystery no. 1! Now, rather than bemoan this, I simply have to find out how to transition into something else. What that something else might be is Mystery no. 2!

I should point out that I am qualified for nothing and have no discernible talents.

I'm looking for a good fit, a fit like a second skin, a suit made of meat.

Anyone.

Quick thought...

2009-08-01T17:15:00.002-04:00

Why is the word 'neckerchief' so funny?

For it is, I think possibly because it's archaic sounding compared to current vernacular.

That's all I have.

Thursday: a day of extremes

2009-07-23T21:10:00.003-04:00

Today, in the post I received the following:

1) My fancy-pants, long-overdue triathlon shorts. Complete with genteel padding, sufficient to cushion and yet not wreck my silhouette.

2) My package from Papyrus featuring a bulk order of birthday and wedding cards. I hate the choice in Duane Reade (my friends deserve better) and yet seem to be buying one or the other every week, so a bulk order was timely.

3) THE most beautiful box of teeny, tiny cards from a beloved fashion girl in London. The gorgeousness of the box makes me feel giddy, the cards are perfectly exquisite. I will document and display.

I also saw and walked along with Alexa Chung and her boyfriend at the corner of Lafayette and Spring. She too, like my dreamy cards, is teeny tiny and has a beautiful face. She is less scary in real life than on TV, where she seems wonderfully cool but rather arch.

In the Catskills...

2009-07-22T22:16:00.004-04:00

I MET A CHILD CALLED DIESEL.

That is all I can say on this subject. He was running amok in a car park and his mother was howling at him.

In other news, I am taking part in the New York triathlon this weekend. I fear both sharks and jellyfish during the swim, perhaps one group could sting the other? I'm also a little apprehensive about swimming the Hudson river, hardly a beauty spot. I may perish. Had to share.

But back even with these considerable trials weighing me down, I am forever grateful that I was, nor ever will be, named Diesel. I am also pleased that I am not a Tatiana.

Possibly the most romantic proposition ever...

2009-07-16T21:04:00.003-04:00

Driving upstate a few weekends back, I was listening to a local station, one that favoured jangly guitars and light rhythms with the balladeurs singing of how their man done them wrong. One song in particular stood out:

Every time you take a sip
In this smoky atmosphere
You press that bottle to your lips
And I wish I was your beer
In the small there of your back
Your jeans are playing peekaboo
I'd like to see the other half of your butterfly tattoo.

Hey that gives me an idea
Let's get out of this bar
Drive out into the country
And find a place to park.

'Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

I know the perfect little path
Out in these woods I used to hunt
Don't worry babe I've got your back
And I've also got your front
I'd hate to waste a night like this

I'll keep you safe you wait and see
The only thing allowed to crawl all over you when we get there is me.

You know every guy in here tonight
Would like to take you home
But I've got way more class than them
Babe that ain't what I want.

'Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

You never know where one might be
There's lots of places that are hard to reach
I gotcha.

I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you baby way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

I'd sure like to check you for ticks...

_________________________________________

You tube: LIVE PERFORMANCE (of the song, not the act of checking for ticks..)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KvHB4zpNX4&feature=fvst

Thank Brad Paisely for the music and the images and, well, for the romance.

Here's to Brad and his ticks.

Sights in the city

2009-07-11T15:09:00.002-04:00

Riddle me this...

Three girls of indeterminate age board the subway. They are clearly travelling as a trio and share a similar sartorial sensibility, jersey dresses, flip-flops and wafty appendages draped over them in an artful manner. They are not dressed for business yet nor are they tourists. I decided that they must be visiting students for a summer program.

But this is not the quandry, for each of these girls, grouped together and chatting about the day gone by, each one of these girls was brandishing a coffee cup, here's the clincher, from a different shop. One had a Starbucks cup, another the classic 'have a nice day' cup of popular legend and the third clutched a cup from Pret a Manger.

How did that happen?

Is this what freedom feels like?

2009-07-01T09:46:00.002-04:00

Source: Gallerycrawl.

Holiday Weekend

2009-07-01T07:56:00.003-04:00

“Life is nothing but high school … you get into real life and that turns out to be high school again—class officers, cheerleaders, and all.” Kurt Vonnegut

So, going with this idea that everything comes down to high school, I am tickled to witness collective excitement growing in this here city about the upcoming holiday weekend. Yes, everyone has end-of-term fever, work attire is looking increasingly beachy, the subway is emptier as the week progresses. By tomorrow I shall be the only soul left.

Given that the 4th of July is a celebration of independence from the tea-pushing, slave-pedalling Brits, Manflesh and I are heading out of town to avoid a dunk in the Hudson. Keeping to the educational theme of this post, we are staying in the Catskills, in a small former school room where guests are known as pupils and quadrupeds abound. I have been promised horses and goats but also bears. Two of those three I shall endeavour to stroke.

West Village idealism versus The Winter of our Discontent?

2009-06-28T16:50:00.004-04:00

What's this? They gave peace a chance but then let it die? Or perhaps the harshest Winter ever seen took it's toll on the plants?

Inevitable Michael Jackson post

2009-06-26T08:53:00.005-04:00

It's hardly novel, but I feel quietly crushed by this news. Another felled icon of American pop culture. The New York Times has a touching article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/26/arts/music/26jackson.html?_r=1&hp

For all of the weirdness, this is the man who gave us the moonwalk, Thriller, black patent shoes and plasters as fashion accessory. He also had good views on tree-climbing, suggesting everyone should do it everyday. He was right.

So, borrowing from the Tristram Shandy school of mourning...

For those moments when words are not enough.

2009-06-23T22:14:00.003-04:00

Because today is Tuesday and tomorrow is Wednesday and sometimes that is the only reason I need.

Rules to live by

2009-06-17T22:41:00.006-04:00

How to consolidate your friends and identify your potential enemies in any social function.

It's easy, just ask the following three questions:

1) Does the thought of pop tarts make you smile?

2) Do you remember the Skee-Lo track 'I wish'?

3) Would you ever refer to a dog as a 'little guy'?

Response 1) If said person looks distant and doesn't know what to say, run for the hills. Foodies are limited! Embrace the e-numbers, but remember to brush your teeth.

Response 2) Yes or no. Open shut case. If you can't see the logic in this I can't help you.

Response 3) Quadrupeds rock and lower your stress levels by 30%. No further explanation required.

Let me tell you a story...

2009-06-10T08:53:00.003-04:00

One stolen day, I made tracks to the decidedly fancy Hamptons, not to wear white and laugh at the great unwashed, but instead to explore East Hampton as a friend was stationed there for a work-thing. (My beauty is in the details). It was just at the tail end of the summer, when there would be moments of fleeting warmth but wool and tights were essential before giving in to the tyranny of a Winter coat.

I arrived in East Hampton and the scene was perfect, the summer season had more or less trailed out the week before so the holiday town, for once, had the air of a normal town, aside from the bombastic Gucci and Tiffany shops that replaced the conventional newsagent and pub.

After a day of pottering, going into the marginally more accessible shops we headed to the beach. I had some left over champagne from the wedding and sharing a toast with the sea seemed like the perfect way to finish it.

We grabbed rugs and blankets from B's house and headed to the water. The beach was empty. I could see for hours and miles in either direction. We sat down, uncorked the ludicrous champagne and watched. It was overcast, however the sun was strong enough behind the cloud banks to illuminate everything, making the clouds glow at the edges. The colours were all muted, soft, as if they had been rained on. The sea was a slate grey colour. The sand itself was a creamy colour. Suddenly this was more than just a lovely day out: it was unbearably beautiful.

We were now huddled under blankets as the wind coming off the sea was brisk and watched the sun progress west.

We had time to take one quick photo, above and then I realised I was late for the bus back. After a scramble we got to the bus stop, only in time for me to decide that I needed a wee... and thus diving into someone's front lawn and making tactical use of some convenient shrubs.

Do you like my lamp? OR Dumpster-diving is the new black

2009-06-05T20:18:00.009-04:00

Rule: always live in the nicest area you can possibly afford.

Why so wise sage?

Because the recycling opportunities are endless, much like the sea (well, a bit).

One day, earlier on in the NYR (New York Romance) I was running down the stairs, in an effort to avoid a painful stop-and-chat in the lift and look what I found on the 6th floor, in the recycling stairwell. Look!

The curves! The elegance!

O happy day! the merry little guy works too, all we had to was replace the bulb.

The moral of this particular story is that richer folks than you may throw out things you might like, thus it pays to stay vigilant.

Dumpster-diving is the new black.

Poem on the underground

2009-06-03T20:16:00.008-04:00

What kin is my father to yours?
Who is your mother anyway?
How did you and I meet, but in love?

Our hearts have mingled like red earth and falling rain.

Sadly, I didn't come up with this. It was one of the featured poems on the London Underground a while back, I think around 2000, the summer of love #1, and I looked up and read it, as I was impatiently counting down the stops. It was hot, scorchingly hot, and my mind and eyes were full of everything. It was the summer everyone was reading Captain Corelli's Mandolin and it became customary to peer over the reader's shoulder to see where they were up to. So whilst my mind was darting on every which subject, I saw this poem and have never forgotten it. I know there is a trend for middle-aged, corny humour in this series of poems at the moment but this one made me float for the entire summer.

First warm evening of scent!

2009-06-02T21:00:00.004-04:00

Does everyone do this? After the longest, hardest winters, my OBF (Official Best Friend, or 'Whim' as she is also known) and I made a habit of celebrating that magical first evening when the temperature rises above 50 degrees and it is just possible to smell the air. Suddenly it is possible to smell pine and water and drains and food floating out of any nearby restaurants. It's such an enlivening experience and yet, every year, it happens, and every year we respond to it and each other in the same way. It always makes me grateful for scent and the fact that even the longest, bleakest winters do eventually fade into something altogether more palatable. Of course, the only downer in all of this voyage of discovery is that this night is regularly a false dawn and whilst you know spring and warmer times are coming, there may well be a fair few frosts before you can venture outside in just one simply city dress and maybe a jumper or something. (I'm from Norfolk remember)

Bucking the trend, last Thursday had some magic!

2009-06-01T08:00:00.003-04:00

Last Thursday went pretty much to type: intense, rather long and undoubtedly complicated at work. So far, so standard. However upon returning home and checking the answerphone, I discovered that two friends who had been engaged for a while had decided to 'elope' within their very own city, New York and had got married! It was all top secret and they simply called everyone afterwards. They sounded so euphoric and liberated but also quietly thrilled with their delicious secret. It was a good day.

Haiku.

2009-05-26T21:30:00.004-04:00

Is any form o'
poetry more maligned
but still diffic?

(Quite possibly)

New York Magazne - simply the best

2009-05-26T21:08:00.002-04:00

For witty, irreverent yet never mean editorial look no further. This magazine is not just in love with the city, it's subject, the magazine is in a long-term healthy relationship with the complete package: core (Manhattan) bad moods (The Bronx) pretensions (Brooklyn) roots (Staten Island) and nutty inlaws (Queens).

The first issue I ever read gave me 200 hundred reasons to love the city, especially at the moment, as capitalism crumbles.

This is one of my favourite reasons:

http://nymag.com/news/articles/reasonstoloveny/2008/52970/

Thursdays are grim but Fridays are magic!

2009-05-15T08:59:00.004-04:00

Friday! Friday! It never gets old!

I'm enjoying the quiet half hour before work when I can do what I like and right now, in between tapping on this battered la'to', that means gazing out the window as the city wakes up. New York is a late riser, no question and aside from the sounds of construction (proof that the recession is over?) it is quiet. Well, almost quiet: the bright red alarm bird who warbles as soon as the sun comes up is singing his tiny heart out. Is he looking for a mate? He really is bright red by the way, curiously exotic given his concrete surroundings.

Incidentally, I don't hold opinions on every day of the week, this theme has played itself out. On to the next...

Thursday, day of woe.

2009-05-14T08:33:00.003-04:00

Thursday, Thursday, most hated of days! Why are Thursdays so tricky? Is it because it's just one more day between you and the weekend? I don't begrudge the working week, particularly, but by Thursday I'm tired and simply waiting for the magic of Friday. Is it because historically crappy things happen on Thursday (freak rain storms, broken shoes, losing travel card, arguments and the big one, death) or, is is an irrational prejudice, like any other?

No

Thursdays ming! Thursdays may even suck.

It started when I was 15, late for school, it was drizzling of course, I believe it was that thankless part of Winter after Christmas. It was bleak and cold and even looking up to the sky requires considerable resilience. I had survived, I had made it to school, in the snot-coloured uniform. I was working away during CDT, Craft, Design Technolgy, a subject so grandiose it could only fail to disappoint, for we learnt next to nothing about craft or design and technology wasn't even mentioned. Anyway, dutifully carving up pieces of wood for no good reason, I was demonstrating a keen eye for turns on the ban saw. Quietly going about my business. When I looked down and saw the ring finger of my left hand ON the blade. There was blood.

The purity of my wood had been compromised.

Without wanting to turn anyone's stomach, it was a mere superficial wound and certainly looked worse than it was. That said, blood on the floor is never a good sign in a room full of metal so I turned to a classmate and sighing flashed the bleeding limb-ette. She took over, grabbed the teacher and I was made to sit down for the rest of the class, elevating the luckless finger to let the bleeding abate.

I was more annoyed than hurt as I realised with a stab of spite that this simply would not have happened on any other day.

I still have a small scar and whenever something merdique happens on a Thursday I contemplate the white line of vindication and feel somewhat reassured: It's not me. It's Thursday.

To facebook?

2009-05-10T19:42:00.005-04:00

A large part of my being is anti facespace, mybook, linked-in etc, it smacks of self-obsession and if there's anything this generation doesn't need, it's a new avenue for self-expression. We seem to be so busy emoting about our lot that we don't actually do much living. Call me old-fashioned but surely it's better to have too much to relay rather than a detailed rendering of your life, minute-by-minute? This, although never vocalized, has always been my opinion.

Then I moved away from the homeland and the online photo albums became less token and more vital as I watch the lives of my friends evolve. I liked it. It helped me to cope with the distance and although no-one knows this, I'm secretly nice and like to see when people procreate and/or meet new loves. It's sweet to see how happy people are.

Naturally, with any shift of opinion there is always that moment when the backlash begins. And so it was with facebook or whatever platform it is you are using. But now, today, as the fuss has died down and the online networking phenomenon is a routine part of life and no longer a headline, it becomes clear: Facebook is simply the modern equivalent of the phone book, back when the phone book was largely accurate because people stayed put. I remember reading American plays and thinking how easy it was to track someone down back then, all you needed was a name. Men sourced dates, parents introduced each other when their own offspring were too inept to do it and 12 year-olds started talking about school after school. It was simple.

In the 80s and 90s the world went a bit urban, or so it felt and everything seemed to speed up. In speeding up, and moving up, out, on, through, details were lost and one of those details was the concept of using a phonebook. It became infinitely more difficult to find someone, there was still Directory Enquiries but in order for that to work you would have to know some part of your intended's address. Men presumably did not scour the phonebook for dates and parents stopped making smalltalk. The twelve-year olds may have made it work though.

So it was and as my peers and I came of age, phone numbers achieved this hazy holy grail of friendship and wooing, for to have the phone number meant to have access to your intended. Success was gauged by the simple possession, or not, of the phone number. You didn't even have to kiss, you simply had to leave with the number scribbled on a bit of paper to prove that it was on. It makes me feel nostalgic just to remember it.

Now things are different again, now it is more like the days of the phonebook because by knowing someone's name you can, once again, find them. It's nice and simple and honest, because no-one forgets a name. But because everyone on these sites is so accessible, it is also much more difficult to read the signals, especially if you're trying to go out with someone. E-mailing on facebook is almost meaningless, conversely, befriending someone online usually means you stop making any effort to e-mail them at all, because you don't have to, because you have access to them for as long as they use facebook.

Weird. Progress begets it's own problems it would seem.

Tibidabo, Barcelona

2009-05-09T19:47:00.000-04:00

and I shall give to you... said to be named after the temptation of Christ...

This is one of the most poignant places I have ever visited. I couldn't pinpoint what makes it so compelling but like most magical places, it is more than the sum of it's parts. If however I did try to break it up into parts I'd have to start with the timing.

I've been to Barcelona a fair few times however it was always after exams when summer evenings open out before you, full of opportunity. So my feelings towards Barcelona have always been one of liberation and freedom but there is more.

Another less specific consideration is the sheer commitment involved in getting there. Walk to one end of La Rambla, board the subway. At the other end, pay two euros (approx $ 147 at current conversion rates) to board a fenicular railway. Yes, a tram that is pulled up claustrophobically-tight turns by one single, fraying rope. Those of an anxious disposition should look away!

After winding up the hill, you will be confronted with a retro, pleasing theme park to your right, with decaying rides and sugary goodness in the form of churros. It has a niche appeal all of it's own but to stop here is to miss the main event.

The church.

I'm not joking, for in the church is the lift, the lift takes you up to the top of the church where you will find a narrow flight of stairs. Climb, climb, climb. The stairs open up to a large stone walled platform, once here you can walk around the entire frame of the church, marveling at the view. On one side there is the ochre confusion of Barcelona city, all noise and buildings. On the other side are the milky mountains of Barcelona, all hazy and undulating and luscious, a bit like a Henry Moore sculpture from the 40s.

This large stone vista is dotted with stone apostles, undeniably handsome, bearded men, looking out over the same views with an ingrained (get it?) sense of wisdom and acceptance. They appear to be diplomatically ignoring the rather transient tourists. They have seen it all before. It is one of the few examples I have even seen of a statuary having presence.

It is customary to spend a considerable amount of time with the apostles, seeing what they see. It stops the monkey-mind and slows you down, completing the transition from bustling working life to this altogether more considered, poignant phase.

But there is still more to see, up there on the ledge, of the church, on a hill, way up high. If you can bear to tear yourself away you must enter the central body of the building and start climbing an increasingly-steep series of ladders. Up, up, up, incidentally, this is not a time to wear a skirt above the knee.

Once you have run out of stairs and ladders, you will climb through a trap door. You can then walk out in to a tight, walled circle. Directly above and behind you is a statue of Jesus so large it literally frightens you. You are now at the very pinnacle and the views outward are hazier still, the world beneath you appears to be shimmering or breathing. You can see the rhythm. Far below you can hear distant screams of people on the fairground rides and you can smile at the thought of all that life so far below.

Wistful and compelling as this is, it is the company you keep that makes each visit to the very top so peculiarly affecting. The first time there was a collection of nuns, singing in one lilting voice to the statue of their Christ. On another occasion attractive school children were there with a teacher and part of their experience was to write one feeling or state on a piece of coloured-rice paper and throw it out into the world. Due to unexpected air thermals several of these paper birds came back to us, I caught 'Pax' (Peace) and Kate caught 'Amor' (Love).

Is it any surprise that I love it so ? I wonder that we managed to leave, but we do each time.

License plates of New York #4

2009-05-09T14:07:00.002-04:00

The original and perhaps the best:

License plates of New York #3

2009-05-09T14:06:00.003-04:00

Carly Simon's biggest fan or a nod to self-deprecation? Or maybe Carly Simon herself?

License plates of New York #2

2009-05-09T14:04:00.003-04:00

Someone with a sense of humour?

License plates of New York

2009-05-09T13:59:00.004-04:00

I found the following on my wanders through the city.

Do we think this car belongs to a graphic designer?

Creative experiment!

2009-04-27T13:30:00.006-04:00

Has anyone noticed the rather wistful profile picture (right hand side bar)? Sadly, the girl in the picture is not me but I found it by googling lyrics from my favorite song. Cheered by my success, below are some more of my findings.

It is lovely to see how other people have responded to them.

The first one was found after searching 'and I need you more than want you'

This is another one, found by searching 'lilac wine, I feel unsteady'. The comma makes all the difference...

Barney #2

2009-04-26T19:39:00.005-04:00

So, my Mum was on the train on the way into London, this was itself fairly unusual as normally she worked in Bletchley. Something had come up so she was being sent to the head office for one day, which meant the early train into London Kings Cross (pre 1988 so it still had those archaic and ultimately lethal wooden escalators). Mum settled in her seat with no thoughts eitherway about the journey, she had found a seat which was a bonus and was thinking about opening her book when she noticed that those in the formerly silent carriage started fidgeting and straining to look out of the windows of the train, eager to catch a glimpse of something just out of view. As they were just pulling out of her station my Mum remembers being surprised, was the train running late? Were they checking the progress of the journey? No, 7.02: for perhaps the first time in the history of the UK rail network, the train was on time. Was it perhaps a jaded response? Collective disbelief at this unexpected punctuality? No, that wasn't it either, as a nation we were not yet that cynical. What was everyone looking at? Other than moderately pleasing hills coupled with a smattering of garage blocks the scene was bare, except for those nasty early 60s garages, and as my Mum's eyes wandered over these aberrations on the landscape she saw it: a small blob on top of one particular row of garages. Was it a child hiding so he wouldn't have to go to school? A freakishly large bird of prey? As the train charged onward so her eye keened on the blob... it was big and sandy in color and it was moving. Thanks to her astute rendering of local geography my Mum realized with a start that those garages were the very ones that were set back from our home. They were very close and despite the buffer of one sallow field and a 6ft fence she had to look at the grey concrete every time she looked out of the kitchen window. Oh yes, she knew those garages well and then it hit her, apparently she was not the only family member to know those garages intimately: that sandy, moving blob was Barney! Clearly he could jump over the 6ft fence but even in the seconds it took for this to sink in, a second revelation crowded in: the commuters around her not only looked for Barney but they recognized him too. He was what they had been looking for out of the dingy windows.

'Do you see him often?' asked my Mum, somewhat nervous of the answer, 'oh yes, virtually every day, he usually....'

but before he could finish his answer my Mum gasped loudly, for as they were more or less level with Barney and the stretch of garage roofs, Barney started running, in full afghan gallop, along with the train, as if he was trying to beat it. (What can I say? He really was silly) The passengers all started laughing and cheering, this was a ritual apparently, my Mum continued to enjoy that poignant mix of delight, fear and surprise. Barney meanwhile was thundering along the garages, pretty soon their length would be finished, would he know to stop? Mum asked the question, dreading the answer but apparently yes, he had learnt to recognize the end of the line. One chancer even suggested that he witnessed this learning curve one morning a few months ago as Barney had taken a tumble but this was largely viewed as apocryphal. Paws thundering, tongue flapping, ears streaming out behind him, Barney ran on, gradually but imperceptibly slowing his pace until the giddy gallop became a lollop and finally the graceful trot of legend. There was applause. The commuters were chuckling quietly, people were talking and smiling (remember this is Britain) and Mum felt a smidge of gratitude for the bounding fool on the garages. Despite the obvious danger element she was pleased that Barney had in his own way gained some notoriety and brought joy to a large group of people.
However the next day she did put up an 8ft fence.

Barney, the afghan hound

2009-04-24T07:56:00.001-04:00

To set the scene, Barney was my Mum's beloved giant afghan hound who left his mark on the suburbs circa 1975 - 1983. Now anyone who knows anything about the afghan breed knows that for starters these animals are as stupid as they are beautiful. I cannot overstate this, to make up for their intellectual shortcomings they move with the utmost grace, trotting as if in water. This afghan in particular looked a little bit like a 1990s Sheryl Crow, not wanting to be unduly mean, this is purely an observation on hair/ear/face proportions:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDZNX4IM_Nk

Anyway, Barney, or Paws, with his beautiful long gleaming coat and high maintenance bath and blow-drying schedule was a joy to my Mum, if something of a liability. He swallowed the door key once, I even had a clear image of the X-Ray, with a comcially clear generic keyshape in the little guy's stomach. There is a chance that this is embellishment post-fact (for how would we have the X-Ray? I'm not sure Vets just hand them out) but the truth remains: our door keys, Barney's gullet. This is one of those scenarios that simply does not seem true and if it were to appear in a movie viewers would scoff at the implausibility of it all but happen it did.

Summer evening, England

2009-03-02T17:14:00.000-05:00

I thought I would share this image as I think it is sublime. For me it captures that simply exquisite moment of a summer evening. The light is fading and there is a wonderful feeling that something is going to happen...

Best of Craig's List #1

2009-02-26T20:27:00.000-05:00

_________________________________________________

This is a serious ad from Craig's List a few weeks ago:

________________________________________________________________________________

Females aged 20-30 (Chelsea)

Reply to: job-1045797074@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

Prominent art gallery owner seeks a motivated girl with the ability to handle a vast range of tasks and duties that can maintain his personal life. You must love dogs, be able to clean well, likes to shop, and have a flair for interior design. Someone who is positive, intelligent, reliable, and has a VERY flexible schedule.
Please reply with a description of yourself, picture, and a short message as to why you would be the ideal condidate for the position.
Position available immediately.

Perfect for college students/recent grads.

_______________________________________________________________________________

A college-educated, dog-loving, endlessly available cleaner?
Aren't we all?

__________________________________________________________________
Date: 2009-02-22, 3:55PM EST

Looking for beautiful girl aged 20-30 to sit at reception desk in Chelsea art gallery. Part-time, days during month of March. No prior gallery experience necessary. No answering phones etc necessary, only job requirement is to be there.
Please send current photo and days available for work.

Compensation: $15 per hour
This is a part-time job.
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
PostingID: 1045797074

____________________________________________________________________

Is it even legal?

Gary Glitter

2008-10-29T15:18:00.000-04:00

Newcastle, mid 70s: not the urban city of haircuts it is today but a rather tough mining city with a cruel wind, pit ponies and extremely specific accents. In amongst this rather industrial city, the youth culture found a way to survive by inventing it's own subculture, markedly different from that of their parents. In the case of my family, my Mum, young, single and employed, turned to disco. Oh yes. There were union jack platform boots [sadly lost] and emergency flares and my Mum and her friends spent their money in the haunts of Newcastle, drinking babycham and working on their dance moves, all whilst pretending to ignore the whelpish lads who would make rather clumsy passes at them or indeed any other interchangeable female of breeding age. It was simple back then...

Friday and Saturday nights were established and, much like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, they truly lived for the weekends. Only they wore less white. However one of the group, Tracy, started to be a little aloof, she stopped coming out. For weeks my Mum would call and invite her but the answer was always the same, 'no'. This Nun-like seclusion was quite out of character and the heroine of this tale [Ma' Mama] resolved to find out what was happening.

Had she met someone? Was she broke? New friends? What o' what could it be?

The answer was unexpected to say the least: Tracy confessed that she had always disliked her nose... Now I've asked my Mum about this, apparently it was fractionally larger than the average nose but she was in no danger of being mistaken for a sundial. News that young Tracy was unhappy with her nose was a shock but my Mum could accept her discomfort but had not yet worked out why this would stop her, suddenly going out. There was more, there always is...
Tracy was saving up for a nose job. Now, once again, I want to highlight that this was all taking place circa 1973. "Nose job" was not even a phrase back in this forgotten decade. This also was not California, this was stout, dour Newcastle where any personal vanity was seen as a rather Southern affectation and would be duly mocked for the rest of your life. There was revolution in the air! Tracy was questioning the validity of the nose god gave her, hell, she was questioning her very parents and the nose their night of love gave her. It was a huge deal.

My Mum, a little shocked but impressed at her conviction then understood that Tracy was staying in, to save money for the nose job. For, as it turned out, there was a time restriction. Tracy was a devoted follower of the pop singer Gary Glitter, someone subsequently arrested in Thailand for his predilection to jailbait, but at this time, those heady 70s, he was an extremely popular, if somewhat absurd singer who was on 'Top of the Pops' with various number one hits. Tracy wanted to see Gary in concert, to convey from the mosh pit her desperate devotion in a crowd of teenage girls all bearing their breasts and shaking their mamaries! Hot! For Tracy, her natural nose was the only thing between her and some Glitter-tastic love. A nose job was vital for her peace of mind and future happiness. The new nose was the passport to the gilded land of Gary, leaving behaind her groupie status forever.

Somewhat bemused, my Mum went away and left Tracy to her own devices for the 10 months it took for her to save up. Jump forward 7 months: Glitter's concert was coming up in 3 months and they were planning to go together, after the operation.

Tracy goes in for the operation, now, this was an involved procedure and, to reiterate one more time, plastic surgery was not recognised outside medical circles and the aftermath was undocumented. This meant that when Tracy emerged from hospital an incredible 10 days later no-one expected the bruising, swelling and bandages. Newcastle was unprepared for the hidden cost of surgery but Tracy was adamant her new life was about to begin... after a further two months, the swelling had receded, the bruising had gone and Tracy was duly reborn. She went on a strict diet to slim down for Gary, she got a new hair cut to show off her new, proportioned nose, she went shopping for an entirely new wardrobe. In short, Tracy was on fire! The only tiny problem was that her nose did not look any different. Being of a collectively considerate disposition, none of Tracy's friends pointed this out to her and she was happy in her state.

So the concert countdown started. They went shopping for concert-specific outfits, they resoled the platforms to ensure maximum height and comfort. The new album was bought and some low-level dance moves were practiced in front of mirrors so they would look cool and nonchalent if the Glittered one ever looked their way. Lyrics were learnt, hair was IRONED for crying out loud. There was seemingly no end to the preparations. As mating rituals went, this was elaborate.

On the evening of the concert, my Mum and Tracy, in their very gladdest-of-rags, made their merry way to the concert some 6 hours before the concert began, to get a good spot. Six long hours on those first-issue platforms made of unyielding mdf wood, six hours being pushed around by similarly perky teens, six hours of making one drink last an hour, to ensure they wouldn't run out of money. six hours and then, gradually the time passed. Here it was, the moment Tracy had literally spent twelve months waiting for, one year of her life, absorbed with the single task of looking irrestible. The Glitter chords started, the crowd started clapping, my Mum was looking around in wonder at the theatre of it all. Every other pair of eyes in the room was drawn to the stage. And then suddenly, in the shadows, there he was, with the skintight leathertte trousers, a little more squat than he appeared on TV, a little older too, but still him, undoubtedly him. The preamble was over, here was the moment when worlds collide and life is forever changed. Mum reported that she was holding her breath in reverence for Tracy's Big Moment. The Glitter walked into the centre of the stage, towards the microphone... Here he was at last! He opened his mouth to speak and, looking around, Mum noticed that Tracy was not where she had been for the last six hours, namely just on the right of her field of vision. No, Tracy was nowhere to be seen. Mum scanned the room, a little alarmed by her sudden absence. She then noticed people to her right pointing at the ground. Tracy was lying in a crumpled but skinny heap at her feet, she had fainted. She missed the entire concert.

Witness the fitness

2008-10-15T21:42:00.000-04:00

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I've just realised that they all look alike. Sinister social engineering or preference adaption? Still, at least I'm consistent.

Mid-90s: slave auction at a girl's school... what could go wrong?

2008-09-30T22:32:00.001-04:00

"The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don't turn against him; they crush those beneath them... allow me to amuse myself a little in the same style..."

Wuthering Heights

Indeed, whilst my friends and I were certainly the brunt of the posse at school it did not stop us all uniting for one rather cruel episode. A bit like the United Nations, but uniting for malevolence rather than peace.

Anyway, in the jolly hockey-sticks tradition of the aspirational but ultimately dull private school, there was always the odd charity event that in hindsight could only be described as morally dubious. The slave auction, the auctioning of teachers to the highest bidder now seems absurd, like the idea of opium-smoking and snuff boxes. However, in this estrogen-loaded environment, slave auctions were deemed permissible and given the fevered hormones, anyone male was always a popular choice. Our class in perhaps the only moment of unity we ever displayed, decided to 'buy' Miss Corbeau [not her real name, but it's hardly a stretch]. Miss Corbeau, in our defence was not a 'nice' person. She had turned up at the high school, having apparently been hounded out of her last job at a school that was yet more small-minded than the one we were in. Teaching us French, something as a school, they did well, Miss Corbeau was both dull, untrusting and had an annoying habit of uttering 'tiens, tiens' after everything she said, for no particular reason. Perhaps she was trying to hang on to her fluency, itself a hallmark of a more exotic period in her life, perhaps it was an oral tic, however it came across as a rather affected, disparaging attack, it's very formula was abrasive, just saying those words out loud isn't satisfying, they don't fill the mouth as some french phrases do, no, it was simple and grating: "tiens tiens!" and reminded us, surly as we were, of being told off by someone else's mother. It's fair to say we despised her intently. That we despised her says something about the arrogance of youth and the central position we allocated ourselves in judging all that was, or was not reasonable. The facts that we were brats aside, she does seem in hindsight to have been rather small-minded and ungenerous but this does not justify the zeal we which decided to wear her down.

So the slave auction...

to be continued...

Pre-ironic leggings, limited trouser options.

2008-09-29T18:03:00.001-04:00

I am rolling with laughter at the idea that fashion has, once again, come full circle and is now endorsing the legging. This is an eat-your-own-face sort of development. Whatever next? The Snood?

Leggings: what makes them so flobby?
Is it the way they cling to every nodule of fat? Is it the way they make even normal people look like aspiring trapeze artists? Fat trapeze artists Or is it simply that now every Target Mom in the other 50 states [who counts Alaska anyway?] are now wearing them with their Crocs?

OK, I'm not THAT mean however I simply remember the nightmare the first time around. This was the 90s and plaid was a big statement. I blame Seattle but no matter whose fault it was I definitely got the tail end of this sartorial misfire. Perhaps I am still holding on to the disaster that was ski pants... anyone else remember such a thing? Now we have the vile fusion of the ski-pant and the legging: it's like an old childhood friend mating with the niche North European blonde kid in the corner then the two of them joining forces to steal your pony and copy your haircut [only better].

A websearch has confirmed that I am not alone with my distaste, it does offer some solace but now I think of it, what trouser options are available?

The low-slung jodhpur pants that make you look like you've put your legs through the sleeves of your boyfriend's jumper. Or worse, that you are sporting incontinence pads and need a low girdle for space. When is flirting with the bladder-control look ever good? How many people have you seen wearing them on the streets?

The Mom jeans? Bootcut may be flattering but nothing spells late 90s like bootcut jeans. Oh, except 'The Rachel'.

Back to that slave auction idea... Post II

2008-09-22T10:33:00.000-04:00

So the slave auction, 800 teens crammed into a room without ventilation, expressing their ongoing frustrations in a grotesque parody, by selling human labour. What could go wrong? Yup, the teacher-slave auction. Sick. Anyone with any sense would have seen that our form was more or less baying for the teacher's blood, even the mean girls dropped the act for a few nano-seconds to express small emotions like glee, delight and joy. There she was, this teacher, quivering on the stage, the beady eyes bulging, a revealing sheen on the forehead, shining in the overhead lights. She was nervous during the auction and a wreak by the time the gavel fell and 'U4R' were declared the winners. This small victory now was the highlight of a 6-month smear campaign: strict non-compliance, answering only in English, tipping back on our chairs, hiding behind the obligatoy mane of hair, spraying nasty body sprays everywhere. You know, the usual teenage rebellion in an unimaginative girl's school in England. Now, casually discarding the past three years of carefully-constructed animosity between all class members, we united in our common goal of humiliating this teacher who would be ours for one day. The suggestions were ludicrous and overly elaborate, much like the death scenes of a James Bond villain. As a group we quickly warmed to our theme and to list just one rather telling suggestion, we opted to make said teacher crawl on her hands and knees along the corridor and pick up rubbish. With her mouth. Now remember, this was allowed to go on.. As the time passed we whittled out the more obviously demeaning options but something funny started to take place: the old bitchy hierarchies crept back in and the actual task or organising the afternoon from hell for the teacher became rather dull. Why unbalance an adult's carefully-constructed notions of balance when we could all just bitch about each other to each other? why deliberate when you can dive straight in and ruin someone's afternoon? why flirt when you can, ahem... you get my point.

So, with most things at that school, it was over before it began. In the end, the luckless woman was made to run around the school for the lunchbreak before retreating to the staff room for a double and a breakdown. I am not sure anyone really paid attention in the end, which makes the spectacle all the more pathetic, being humiliated is one thing, but to be humiliated and not even have the expected audience? Needless to say, she left at the end of the year. I think I speak for most of the friends with whom I am still in contact when I say that there is some lingering guilt, that woman must have dreaded our lessons and given that we had French 3 (or 4) times a week that was at least 20% of her life.

Yet still, "tiens tiens" is un-effing-believable. I'd rather knit my way to freedom using oatmeal and spoons.

My job description

2008-09-22T08:22:00.000-04:00

"Executive Assistant"/Child-minder

Tasks:

1) Making travel arrangements

2) Compiling call lists.

Travel Arrangements
This job requires the patience of no less than twelve saints as you will be working closely with someone who is never wrong and who changes extensive travel plans on a daily basis. A comprehensive understanding of European travel opportunities will ensure success, particularly if the candidate can recite the journey times from any one station/airport in Europe to any other station/airport in Europe by the following means of transport: airplane, train, car, hovercraft, ferry and helicopter. Initiative in making travel arrangements is strongly discouraged.

Call Lists
Everyday your manager will ask for a call list, it is not possible to know whom from the previous day's call-list he has contacted so these lists become up to 25 pages long. Your job is to keep this going and present one everyday.

This is it.

Further qualities:
Any candidates with psychic abilities are especially encouraged to apply as low-level mind reading is a component of this job.
Open-minded attitude towards escorts is essential. Candidate must enjoy working with children.

Please note: this job is not a route to career progression.

Chair dancing is funny

2008-08-10T19:38:00.000-04:00

Simple yet true. it's one of those odd things that is funnier than it should rationally be, the joy it generates is greater than the sum of it's parts. I might do an equation on the subject. However, this is the exact opposite of most films, whereby the artistic endeavour is tortured and minute but the end result falls a little flat to the average viewer [or is this just me?] Chair dancing on the other hand is a delight. For true chair dancing joy I recommend a song that is similarly, more enjoyable than it should be. You know, the odd, cold dance track that for some reason captures a great beat which somehow imbues it with soul anyway. For example, Freddie le Grand's, 'Put your hands up' (for Detroit) Perhaps it's the refrain, I love this city, which unites the listeners to others, perhaps it's simply the beat production, however it works. For reasons that are probably still a mystery to the songsmiths themselves.

So chair dancing, consider it my gift to you, the gift that keeps on giving.

There are four types of people in this room

2008-08-09T22:29:00.001-04:00

1994: It was hot and after the pointless hysteria of the internal exams we were, as a class, united in the countdown until the summer holidays. Our last lesson of the day was geography with our prickly teacher who was a rather wry individual, however this was largely wasted on my 13 year-old self. Listless, tired and wishing for an easy class I remember being lazily pleased that we were going to be spared further discussion of the slums of Bogota and were instead going to have a talk. To "talk" in England means trouble and my fellow class mates picked up on it. There was a barely perceptible stiffening in the room as slumpers sat up in their chairs, hair was brushed out of eyes and hands emerged from sleeves. This was a third-tier private school for girls in a provincial southern city in the 90s: we did not indulge in 'talk'. "You're ok, I'm ok" hadn't made it to Norfolk and whilst there might be the odd admission of these intangible, inscrutable reactions [read 'emotions'] we would not, as a class, as a school, as a county, do anything as sinfully obvious as acknowledge them. This was for our chirpy counterparts over the Atlantic. To 'talk' meant that we needed to and to need to talk was frankly, a little embarrassing. And yet, here it was, but then almost as soon as the implications of 'talking' were understood so came the realisation that when adults say they want to 'talk' it actually means that you, as a youth, listen.

In short, we were due a bollocking and make no mistake.

And so it began, the talk, the teacher calmly and economically listed our failings. There was theatre in it's restraint. The quieter the voice, the more we leaned in to hear it. It's like rewatching a film: you know exactly what is coming but you can't quite believe the drama of it. We were so stunned that, for once, the 26 individuals to whom this speech was intended, did not make eye contact with each other, seeking validation among their own personal peer group and thus confirming that the teacher was wrong, no, for once, it felt as if this speech was aimed at the individual, a collection of individuals and we reeled, collectively for once, we reeled.

There was truth in it, as a class we were horrible, precocious, mean, arrogant and proud of it. The other three forms in our year group were skanky, wet or boring, at least we demonstrated pluck and verve. Within the class there were two warring factions. The posse: so cool, so 'fucked-up, so what? Then there was me and my friends, we were the sad group, because we weren't in the sports teams and we did our homework ourselves. Yes, we were sad. The confines of our lives were such that you had these two options in this girl's school in Norfolk of the 90s. The teacher however saw things a little differently. He listed The Four Types of People in this Room as follows:

" there are fools, people who thoughtlessly plough through life, hurting feelings and creating tensions, then there are the loud-mouths who ensure that every minute situation escalates into a drama, then there a couple of individuals who are bitches..."

I felt myself flinch at this word, 'bitch' was certainly not within my received dictionary of suitable teacher vocabulary. The teacher was a renegade, going off book to shock us! My god, was all of this true? Were we these people? He then resumed that the final group was the group of nice people, just trying to get on with their lives. Before we got too carried away with the idea that we had all been discussed, that we had elicited attention, we were drily informed that each and every single one of us knew which group we were in and we all knew everyone else's label. This last development was a relief: finally a return to stoicism, we didn't need to talk about it at all, we all understood implicitly our place within this particular hierarchy. Couldn't we just get on with it now? The socio-economic growth of Bogota never seemed so interesting to those twenty-six girls trying to forget this entire experience.

As the class recovered we began to fidget and adjust, yes we were horrible but now what? A staff meeting with all the teachers unfortunate enough to teach us had been unequivocal. We were on probation. Things were apparently so bad that we were all on a three-strike system, and out meant expulsion which, as a threat, carries a fair amount of clout when you're thirteen and likely to get into seven kinds of trouble at home. It was fine to act big at school but no rational person took the attitude home to parents unlikely to humour it.

To be continued...

The role of women

2008-07-23T22:20:00.000-04:00

Without wanting to beat my breasts as a militant feminist, I am currently furious with myself. I'm self-raging as frankly I've accepted a new job where, once again, I am someone's assistant. Now, it's irrefutable that in most cases the boss is of the peen-owning variety and the woman of the submissive, ordered, administrative sort. I fit into this perfectly and yet it seems so confined. My beloved manflesh and I both went to 'good' universities, not Oxbridge grant you, but still recognised institutions. He is doing fabulously and, within his chosen path, he is certainly considered something of a precocious talent. Whilst I organise the travel plans of a Little Man. How did this happen? I am going nowhere, I have no transferable skills, in short, I am qualified for nothing! Must I accept my own mediocrity? Now? So soon? I'm not talking about changing the world, simply exercising my brain from time to time and experiencing some uncharted thoughts in the course of the day. Not just considering how to break the news to Little Man that due to company allegiance the airmile program will not recognise five flights booked through a rival operator.

Did I mention that I am not a travel-rep?

1987, snow, nostalgia

2008-07-12T11:25:00.000-04:00

I was all of 8 and to my brother and I, heavy snow storms meant big snow drifts. Snow is now fairly rare in the green land of England, and when it does fall it tends to form into grey sludge to match the sky. As we are utterly unequipped for any sort of extreme even 2 inches can undo the entire country. When the snow arrived it had retained it's American origins: namely being bigger, brighter and whiter than any snow I had ever seen, and oh the portion size! The cosy nook of Norfolk was smothered and glorious. For children it was a welcome excuse for an extra holiday as the schools were forced to shut because of menacing icicles the same size as the pupils. The impromptu holiday ended up lasting three weeks and our village was snowed in because the main road to the city was blocked at Booton dip, situated about 3 miles out of the town. Milk and bread were helicoptered in to the next village along, Cawston, to keep the townfolk fed. I heard the bigger boys talking with authority about snow drifts and quickly learned to spot them and take advantage of the weightlessness they lent, fleetingly, to a small child.

But all of this reminds me of the infamous Winter of 1947 when the sea froze [see attached image] now this may happen in the wilds of Canada but our the small island this sort of extreme is impossible.

Earth girls are easier than ever

2008-06-29T20:03:00.000-04:00

This movie-film is a gem and I'd forgotten how I loved it soooooooooo until I had the blissful chance to revisit her charms and delights. Is it Gina's skinny ribs? The Blonde song? The 'Curl up and Dye' salon? Or Jeff, simply Jeff in his stately hotness?

I have my personal theories on the magic of this film but it is more than the sum of these considerable parts, what took it over into cult status? Devotes of 'The Fly' wanting to commeorate that glorious Gina-blum fusion in an altogether perkier world? The convenient reemergence of 80s fashions? LA?

Roach-gate

2008-06-29T19:01:00.000-04:00

O winged minion of hell!

There it was, climbing the wall of my bathroom. I felt queasy. I felt greasy and it was nothing to do with the dirty burger I'd eaten in a haze just moments before. There it was, it's siena brown shell gleaming defiantly at me, in filthy contrast to the clean, cold white tile it was scaling with nimble prowess. I screamed, the scream of a soul just sent forth from the bowels of the earth, manflesh came running... But the nifity little bugger had disappeared! How he could hide his shiny brown self with such success in our sterile room of ablutions? We slowly took out every extraneous item: shower curtain, "bath robes", shampoo, conditioner, conditioner, conditioner [note to self: walk PAST Duane Reade, no need to go in every single time], flannels, shower gel etc.

No sign of the beast. Where had it gone? Unable to locate it we surmised with touching optimism that it had gone out of the window.

We returned to our prior distractions: playing the lute and working on the dance moves, but still we could not rest. Heart pounding, I retraced my steps in to the sorry bathroom and turned on the bath tap. Evil fears nothing but discovery and sure enough, a flurry of brown started tap-dancing in my tub. The 'clickter-clackter' of it's unquantifiable number of legges was repulsive, some sort of dance-hall spectacle directly out of William Burroughs. The beast was crawling and so was my flesh. The scream burnt up out of my throat and signalled to my long-suffering manflesh that the bitch was back. We were armed this time, with wine glasses and cardboard, employing the spider-specific method of entrapment. The beast practically laughed at our efforts and unleashed his top trump: wings.

Freakin' wings!

It could now traverse beyond the plane of the wall! O unhappy development! This beast was wily and escaped into unchartered territory, namely the rest of the apartment. The brute made straight for our living room, which, furnished with sofas, chairs, books, guitars and stereos, is a roach's delight for hiding places and dusty nooks. The ante was up and nerves were running high, the bug situaiton had reached defcon 5 and if we were ever to sleep again we would have to catch the roach. Sacrifices would have to be made, it was us or it and 8 months into our lease, we weren't going under without a fight.

Our only option was to trail it's luckless path, tracking it with the light-giving torch. It scurried like a common crim, seeking the murky shadows, from stray object [boxing glove] to stray object [wine-rack]. It was vile. It was also vast. The size and weight of a small child at a conservative estimate. Finally we broke it's stride and it made a heady bid for the entire floor space. Foolish ambition! Heroic manflesh threw a tumbler with calm precision and... managed to imprison the chestnut-brown roach and it's indecent number of limbs! Those years of playing darts were not in vain and we were safe at last.

The hour was late and the vibe was fatigued, so feeling safe we reinforced the trap with a chunky French dictionary and went to sleep, confident that we would not be faced with unwanted bedfellow.

Bleary-eyed but chipper, we returned to the scene and were relieved to see the beast was in his box. It was time to rid ourselves of our Pacific Heights horror so we took it to the roof to fling it over the edge to perish. However the crunchy, cantankerous cock' of a 'roach employed those wings again and simply flew back on to the wall of the building. I feel cheated. I feel wronged. I feel it might one day want a rematch. How to protect the hearth from such a sequel? Wire wool? Rentokill? Answers on a post card please.

Having survived an encounter with the great white of the bug world, I have no interest in meeting another.