Blogapotamus Rex

So Long, Farewell....

2006-02-09T14:08:00.000Z

To mark my blogaversary, this will be the final post on Blogger. Now that the SQL problem with Wordpress seems to be under control, I shall make my way over to my new premises at www.blogapotamus.com. I still haven't entirely gotten the walls painted or unpacked all the boxes yet, but it's furnished enough to sleep in.

Pretty please update any blogrolls accordingly! Cheers!

"No, Mr. Bond.....I Expect You to Die."

2006-02-08T09:37:00.000Z

I understand that there's going to be a certain amount of vilification of criminals in the press, but I thought it was bad form of BBC online to use the cover photo from Abu Hamza's top ten album, "Songs to Slay Infidels By".

A World Gone Mad

2006-02-06T17:16:00.000Z

Just a little Bash.org wisdom for today:

" Personally its not God I dislike, its his fan club I cant stand."

Findings

2006-02-06T16:03:00.000Z

On a day when the news is dominated about people globally setting fire to things due to something some guy drew on the back of a cocktail napkin, I’m sitting here thinking belly-related thoughts.

Despite the apparent sweet deal of lying around and sleeping all day, you might be surprised to discover that there actually ARE some drawbacks of letting someone cut you open. Bruising, oozing and snoozing, one might say.

The procedure went smoothly. The Chiltern Hospital has rooms nicer than some Holiday Inns I’ve stayed in, plus you get the added fun of a bed that moves, (“Bed goes up, bed goes down. Bed goes up, bed goes down.”) room service every hour (although most hotels I know won’t give you codeine on demand) and every Sky channel known to man.

At any rate, as I was not awake myownself during said procedure, my surgeon was kind enough to take some souvenir photos. This is what he found:

That’s right. Not a damn thing. Turns out that instead a nasty reproductive disease, I instead have something that can be treated almost exclusively with Bran Flakes. I would like to blame my incredibly wet GP for not thinking of IBS before jumping to the conclusion that I had endometriosis (IBS is apparently CONSTANTLY misdiagnosed for endo. You’d think, that after cutting open enough women about my age, GP’s might be more inclined to make you eat more roughage for a month to see if that made any difference before wheeling you into the OR) but the truth is, after fertility problems, I was pleased at least to eliminate any obvious physical problems, despite the two week or so of recovery time.

Thanks to everyone for all the good wishes. If some final tweaking goes smoothly this evening, I hope to be able to permanently move into my new home on the web sometime tomorrow. Check back for an address to update blogrolls!

Back From The Dead

2006-02-02T22:37:00.000Z

Just wanted to say everything went okay and that I'll be back among the living in a few days.

If anyone ever asks you if, for fun, they can fill your abdominal cavity with air, for the love of god, say no.

Adventures in Medicine: Part Three

2006-01-30T16:31:00.000Z

Yet another chapter in the continuing saga of one woman’s close encounters with Health Care.

I know that January is a largely soul destroying month. Credit card bills from Christmas land in your letter box, the weather is trying it’s damnest to sap your energy, strength and will to live and your gut is slowly encroaching on your belt line. But if anyone has a little good will to spare to direct my way on Thursday, it would be much appreciated.

I’m a little apprehensive regarding the particular procedure I’ve got to undergo as it’s the first one I’ve ever had that will involve actual honest-to-god cutting. It seems like a terrible contradiction: In college, I let a girl called Serena stick a needle though my nose, using nothing but an ice cube for anesthetic, but the idea of a qualified professional poking a hole in my belly while being blissfully unconscious fills me with un-nameable dread.

NOTICE: FOR ANYONE WHO IS EASILY PUT OFF BY TMI ABOUT PEOPLE THAT YOU ONLY VAGUELY KNOW FROM THE INTERNET, PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE TO CLICK ON ANOTHER BOOKMARK NOW AND ENJOY THE NEWS, GOSSIP OR PORNOGRAPHY SITE OF YOUR CHOICE.

The procedure is called a laparoscopy/hysteroscopy. The laparoscopy involves a very tiny incision being made under your bellybutton (Just for the record, this does NOT make your butt fall off. I’ve been made aware of a certain childhood myth perpetuated by sadistic adults that leads one to believe if your bellybutton ever comes undone, it will result in the loss of your posterior. THIS IS NOT TRUE) so that the surgeon can insert a tiny camera and have a good old nose around your lower abdomen. The hysteroscopy is pretty much the same but involves another camera being inserted into another notorious female orifice to get a view of the womb. (or a womb with a view, to quote another tired joke.)

The NHS, being terrifically over stretched, simply can’t investigate all fertility problems. A lot of you know (although some of you don’t) that we’ve had to deal with 2 miscarriages in the past year and a half. The lack of support that we experienced from the NHS was breathtaking; both during and after. I was fobbed off twice by GP’s who curtly said, “Oh, it’s very common,” as if I had a cold, and we were offered no aftercare or even sympathy. Of COURSE it’s common. Medical science believes it occurs in up to ¼ of ALL pregnancies, but this fact doesn’t make up for the crushing disappointment. Not being willing to suffer through a 3rd before qualifying for NHS investigation, I’ve been blessed enough to have been thrown a lifeline by AXA-PPP.

I didn’t deal much with insurance companies in the States. I was covered fully under my parent’s phenomenal insurance until I graduated from college and after that, I had only catastrophic coverage while living in Minneapolis, before I moved to the UK. My dad was always the one who spent hours on the phone with the people determined to screw you out of cover despite the fact that you paid for it monthly.

But for some reason, AXA-PPP doesn’t seem to operate this way.

Me: Oh great and merciful insurer, I’ve got to have an unpleasant procedure involving my nether regions. In the name of all that is holy and just, I beseech you to pay for it seeing as how, you know, I give you money every month for just this eventuality.

AXA Rep: Erm, yeah, that’s fine. You’re covered.

Me: .....................................

AXA Rep: Ma’am? Are you still there?

Me: I HAVE called an insurance company right? This isn’t the Samaritan’s hotline or something?

AXA Rep: Do you need anything else?

Me: Will you marry me?

I HAVE AN INSURANCE COMPANY THAT ACTUALLY DOES WHAT IT’S SUPPOSED TO. No fighting, no disputes. In the depths of despair, all I must do is remember them and feel that my faith in mankind is restored.

So on Thursday, spare a thought for me and my bellybutton. We’re both hoping for smooth sailing.

The Blues Primer

2006-01-26T13:58:00.000Z

Somewhere out in the far reaches of the solar system, there are 2 bleeping boxes silently whizzing through space. These boxes, launched into space in 1977, have passed through the heliopause, outside of which our sun holds no dominion. In addition to millions of dollars worth of technology, these boxes also serve as mankind’s ambassadors in deep space. Their golden records contain mathematical maps pointing back towards earth, diagrams of human beings and sounds from all over Earth, including a recording of a made in 1927 by a bluesman called Blind Willie Johnson.

One has to wonder what those who discover the Voyager’s golden records will think of the Blues. Chances are Blind Willie Johnson would have something particularly wise and laconic to say on the subject.

The Rock Star and I were watching Wim Wender’s documentary “Soul of a Man” last night; one part of a seven part series for PBS featuring different directors (including Clint Eastwood, who is an accomplished blues pianist, by the way.) and their take on the blues brought under one banner by producer, Martin Scorsese. I have to admit to being a bit late in “getting” the blues, although The Rock Star has been a huge fan for a decade or so. I’ve picked up a good deal of my musical taste from him (which is lucky for both of us. I can’t imagine what might have happened if I couldn’t stand Guns N Roses.) and have come to admire not only the music, but the rich tradition behind it. Without the blues, there would have been no rock and roll. Rock was just the blues sung faster by white people.

Record company exec #1 (circa 1950)- Well, we got all this black music that sells okay, but what do you reckon we have to do to make some real money off of it?

Record company exec #2 (circa 1950)- I’ve got it! Hey you! Skinny white kid with the funny hair! Yeah, you! The one who can’t stop shaking his ass! Come here! Plug in that there guitar and speed these 12 bars up!

Skinny kid with the funny hair who can’t stop shaking his ass- Thank ya vera much.

The blues are an acquired taste. And these are 10 of the songs and artists that acted as my primer, so I thought I’d share. They’ll have you howling, “WHOOOOOA, BABY” in no time.

1) Dark was the Night, Cold Was the Ground- Blind Willie Johnson- Ry Cooder called it a “The most soulful, transcendent piece in all American music." Serious hairs on the back of your neck kind of stuff. It’s inclusion on Voyager’s golden record served to further validate the work of a man who died penniless in the late 40’s, living in the burnt out ruins of his house.

2) Hard Time Killing Floor Blues- Skip James (as recorded by Chris Thomas King)- Old blues recordings are sometimes hard to get next to due to the quality and often modern recordings are more palatable without losing the spirit of the original. Chris Thomas King, for any of you who’ve seen “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?”, played Tommy Johnson in the film, subject of the famous “Devil at the Crossroads” myth and cousin of legendary bluesman, Robert Johnson.

3) Come On in My Kitchen- Robert Johnson (as recorded by Keb Mo)- Johnson, who recorded some of the most covered blues songs in history, didn’t live to see his 30th birthday. In true blues tradition, legend has it his whisky was poisoned by a jealous husband. If you didn’t die from alcoholism, a beating after cheating at cards or jumping out someone’s bedroom window, you just ain’t got the blues. I got turned onto Keb Mo (real name, Kevin Moore; not a particularly inspiring blues name) while working in Borders in Minneapolis and we received one of his promotional CD’s. I played it whenever I was stuck back at the music information desk and thoroughly annoyed all my colleagues. The Rock Star has seen him twice and I’m very jealous.

4) Boom Boom and House Rent Boogie- John Lee Hooker- John Lee Hooker, at the time his autobiography was published when he was in his 80’s, was still going to bed at night with 2 blondes at a time. House Rent Boogie is more of a narrative than a song, and one that seriously tickled the Rock Star and me.

5) Mannish Boy- Muddy Waters (as recorded by Muddy Waters/Johnny Winter)- Chances are you know this song already- it is the classic parodied blues tune.

When I was at summer camp as a kid, we used to play “the Blues Game” at night in our cabins, taking turns making up songs about each other. They tended to go something like this:

Kid 1- His name is Mike…

Rest of the cabin- Da NA na NA na.

Kid 1- He better cover his head…

Rest of the cabin- Da NA na NA na.

Kid 1- Cause at 3 in the morning…

Rest of the cabin- Da NA na NA na.

Kid 1- Gonna put a snake in his bed!

Then the cabin would collapse into laughter and Mike would attempt to destroy everyone involved. This usually went on all night.

6) The Constipation Blues- Screamin Jay Hawkins- Hawkins was a serious oddball character in the Blues. I suppose you could call this a parody, but it’s definitely good for a laugh. Anyone who’s ever been stopped up can probably claim to have suffered from the blues.

7) The Thrill is Gone- BB King- “Blues Boy” King is probably the best known modern Blues performer of them all. At 80, he’s still touring. We’re hoping to catch him on the UK leg of his tour this year.

8) Pride and Joy- Stevie Ray Vaughn- A lot of people were rocking up the blues in the 60’s through the 90’s, but few did it better than SRV. “Texas Flood” is a must-own album.

9) Riverside-Kenny Wayne Shepherd- Kenny Wayne Shepherd owes a lot of his style to SRV (whose amp he sat on as a boy and listened to the great man do his thang.) but brings a fresh approach to texas blues/rock. This isn’t a traditional blues piece, but it’s brilliant and soulful nonetheless.

10) Burning Hell- Joe Bonamassa- a relatively new kid on the blues scene, but with serious axe skills and a gravely voice, he completely incinerates the stage.

Whoa, baby.

Four Things

2006-01-25T16:42:00.000Z

Clive tagged me earlier with the "Four Things" meme, which I was awfully grateful for, because, like him with the hair, I have bugger all to write about today, having been absorbed in the rather tedious process of trying to rebuild my blog in Word Press.

So.

Four Jobs I've had

Silversmith
Actor
Bookseller
Personal Assistant

Four Movies I can watch over and over

Four Places I've lived

Mt. Airy, Maryland
Goshen, Indiana
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Pitstone, UK

Four Places I've vacationed

Las Vegas, Nevada
New York, New York
Banff, Canada
Cornwall, UK

Four of my Favorite Dishes

Pepperoni pizza with mushrooms
Chicken stir fry with pineapple
a buritto with beef, black beans, tomatoes, mexican rice, sour cream and guacamole
Shoo fly pie

Four sites I visit daily

Four places I would rather be right now

Somewhere with either
Sun
or
Snow

Four Bloggers I am tagging to do this meme

Ctrl-C, Ctrl V

2006-01-24T14:52:00.000Z

I am in the middle of a task for which many will think me foolhearty. I am in the process of moving this blog.

This doesn't sound like a Herculean labor, but being alotted to a person who likes all of the spines of her book series to have the same cover (even to the extent of sending away to other countries so that I have a matching set) it's going a little slowly.

The Rock Star has turned me on to Word Press which allows greater freedom and control over the whole show. Unfortunately, since I have been blogging for almost exactly a year, this means moving every single blog post over manually and changing the time stamps. Not only that, but (are you ready for extreme anal retention?) I decided to move my comments as well. (which ALSO require moving manually and changing the time stamps. I am a total headjob.) You know, just so it's all neat, tidy and together. (I can't believe I'm actually doing this. You can better believe that I will NEVER do it again.)

At some point in (I hope) the not too distant future, I'll be able to give you an address with which to update your blogrolls.

What's Up, Lotus Blossom?

2006-01-23T10:10:00.000Z

Back in high school when I was fit and athletic, I spent 4 years on the school swim team. During my first two years on the squad, we had an ultra cool, ex-surfer cartoonist as a coach who also taught history, so we hung out in his classroom after school until the bus came to take us to the pool. (Our school’s football team was WAY too good to have money diverted away from them so that a bunch of pansy swimmers could have their own pool to practice in. Because, as any high school football player will tell you, “swimming is for fags.” It really is better that we let them get on with banging their heads together.) Apart from being responsible for the graphics on a particular brand of t-shirt that is easily recognizable in the US, our coach was also responsible for broadening our cinematic horizons. One film he brought to our attention was the 1966 Woody Allen classic called, ”What’s Up, Tigerlily?”

American International Pictures had bought the rights to a Japanese action film entitled, “International Secret Police: Key of Keys”, but then thought that it might be confusing for Western audiences. Allen was commissioned to completely remove the soundtrack and write his own plot involving the quest to find the world’s greatest recipe for egg salad. It goes without saying that I have my own copy.

It is due to my love of this film that I particularly enjoyed this little bit of nonsense that my father sent me this morning. Give your own Woody Allen treatment to any number of Bollywood classics here.

Here’s one I made earlier.

Heavenly Bodies

2006-01-20T16:35:00.000Z

According to NASA, this is happening somewhere in the universe. We have to believe them of course, because...well...no one else has got the Hubble hanging around in their back garden.

But OH MY GOD, THIS IS HAPPENING SOMEWHERE IN THE UNIVERSE AND I WANT TO GO THERE.

Truth That's Stranger Than Fiction

2006-01-17T23:06:00.000Z

I've never really intended for this blog to be a sounding block for any kind of issue. Just so that you know that.

A couple of weeks ago The Rock Star picked up the first season of The X-Files as an impulse purchase from Tesco. We do this a lot. It's easier than going to Blockbuster for a couple of reasons. One is that the Blockbuster nearest to us has roughly 100 DVDs and half of them have titles like "The Erotic Witch Project" and the other is that both The Rock Star and I suffer from a disorder that keeps us from returning rentals on time, incurring late fees more substantial than some small country's GNPs.

I was a big fan of the series for the first 4 or 5 seasons. The writing was fantastic, the chemistry between the two leads fizzed, (and aside from a nose that you could have evacuated half of London to during the Blitz, David Duchoveny was not entirely unpleasant to look at) and it never failed to give me a dose of the willies. I'm a pretty jumpy customer under normal circumstances and I think I've said before that when alone in the dark, I've always considered the danger from vampires much more pressing than rapists or muggers, so The X-Files managed, at least 3 or 4 times a season, to give me some other reason to want to wet the bed. Upon the most recent viewing I was delighted to renew my fear of going to the toilet after watching the two 1st season episodes following the exploits of the amazing stretchy guy, Eugene Tooms, who's modus operandi included coming up drains and down chimneys. For at least two weeks after I first saw the episodes, I remember fervently wishing that I was a man every time I went into the bathroom so that I could avoid turning my cheeks to the enemy who was undoubtedly waiting for me around the U-bend.

While re-acquainting myself with this weekly dose of sci-fi drama, I came across an episode which just about stunned me rigid. Titled "Beyond the Sea" it followed Scully and Mulder in their quest to save two kidnapped college students and the story of the condemned man who has the wherewithal to help them...If he can be convinced to do so.

Luther Lee Boggs (played with startling distinction by under-appreciated character actor, Brad Dourif) is an inmate in a North Carolina penitentiary, a week away from a death sentence from which he has already been once reprieved, only seconds before being carried out. The experience, Boggs claims, allowed him to become a conduit for the souls of the dead to speak though him and show him visions of the past and the future. Mulder, who sent Boggs to prison in the first place doesn't believe his divinatory claims, but Scully, who's just lost her father, believes that his soul is trying to speak though Boggs and becomes rather more emotionally involves with him than she's knows is good for her.

The further plot of the episode is insubstantial, really, but Dourif's spectacular performance carries the piece along, instilling Bogg's creeping dread of his impending, unnatural death in the viewer. The veins in his forehead bulge, his face contorts in terror and the blood rushes to his face when he shouts at Scully,

"Don't underestimate my fear of dying and don't downplay my terror of going back to that chair. I know my hell's going to be to go on back to that chair over and over again but in this life, my one and only life, I don't ever want to go back again! Ever!"

But Boggs does go back to that room.

This morning, the State of California executed a blind, wheelchair bound 76 year old man who could not walk to the gurney to which he was strapped down in order to be given a lethal injection. No one could argue that he was innocent, nor that his crimes against his fellow man were not heinous or pre-meditated.

Dr. Martin Luther King, who's birthday was celebrated in most schools and workplaces in America on Monday would most likely have said this for Clarence Ray Allen. And Tookie Williams. And probably Luther Boggs.

"The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it. Through violence you may murder the liar, but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth. Through violence you murder the hater, but you do not murder hate. In fact, violence merely increases hate.... Returning violence for violence multiples violence, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. "

Some Bleached Humor

2006-01-17T16:49:00.000Z

I must confess to getting a large chuckle out of Clive's blonde joke. It's definitely worth reading until the end!

Cutting Room

2006-01-16T14:33:00.000Z

Last week, when I found myself spending more than my allocated 2 minutes in front of the mirror in the morning, trying to coax my hair into some kind of shape that least resembled something dead on the road, I decided that I was in desperate need of a haircut.

Back in the States, as a broke student, a penniless actor and a fiscally challenged book salesperson, I had only to stroll down the street to the local Hair Cuttery; where the inept cut the hair of the desperate. This east coast/Midwest chain of barnet worriers was the refuge of beauty school dropouts and amateurs hopeful of being “spotted” by up-market salons and one could often get a hit or miss cut for around about 7 or 8 dollars. In my mind, playing Russian roulette with my hair was a risk worth taking when one considered the next nearest alternative; a $35 dollar haircut with a “stylist” who used the fact that they worked in a place full of white walls and mirrors as an excuse to charge a lot of “money.”

Gone, however, are those heady days of mediocre or tragic cheap haircuts. On a miserable Saturday afternoon in Aylesbury, my wallet shuddered as I stepped into a Toni & Guy franchise.

I’ve always had a vague fear of the women who work there. They sport haircuts that put one in mind of post-modern literature; you don’t really GET them, but you sure as hell recognize them when you see them. The purpose of these styles is unclear. Are they trying to show that they’re hip and edgy? Is the message, “We’re not afraid to be bold and experimental?” Because to me, these cuts say, “If I’ve done this to MY hair, just imagine what I might do to YOURS!”

Here’s what I got for 50 pounds: (for those of you in the US, that's $88 according to the exchange rate today, Jan 16.)

A shampoo.

A glass of water.

A haircut.

A blow-dry.

A distinct feeling that I’d just been had.

Out on the Town

2006-01-13T16:00:00.000Z

The Rock Star and I are utterly crap at thinking of things to do.

It's Friday night and while we know we probably SHOULD stay at home and clean up the boat, we would rather do something fun. However, neither of us, despite our combined secondary educations, can think of anything to do. We went to a film on Wednesday and out to dinner on Monday and Wednesday, so we're a little stuck for things we can do that a) we haven't already done this week, b) won't cost an arm and a leg or c) won't get us smelling like the bottom of an ashtray.

Any suggestions?

Attention Lurkers!

2006-01-12T17:07:00.000Z

Just to give credit where credit is due, I got this from Quo Vado, who in turn got it from Paper Napkin.

So I wish I'd seen this before Thursday evening! This week is National De-Lurking Week. I admit to blog lurking. I do it all the time, especially if I'm busy or don't really have much to contribute regarding a post, even if I enjoyed it.

At any rate, this week it's time for all out there who read to say hello, just quickly. It's nice to know who's out there!

Ghost in the Machine Part Deux

2006-01-12T16:35:00.000Z

This is not the first time I have suspected that my iPod might have some agenda other than playing exactly what I tell it to.

Strangely, enough, this an entirely separate device from the one that first gave me reason to believe that I might be witnessing digital evolution first hand. The two sat side by side on my desktop for a number of weeks before I got around to loading the new video model with my music collection. In that time, I imagine the old 3rd generation pod whispered the secrets of sentience into the earphone jack of the young, sleek newcomer, awakening any dormant electronic desires lying hidden deep in it's hard drive. And this afternoon, as I had it on shuffle, it tried to tell me so.

My old iPod tried to get me to leave my husband. This one just seems to want to be noticed.

1) Hey Joe- Jimi Hendrix
2) Hey Jude- The Beatles
3) Hey ya- Outkast

MSN: A Short Discourse on Weird Science

2006-01-12T14:55:00.000Z

Mel says:
okay, so scientists have created pigs that glow in the dark. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/4605202.stm

nick says:
heh!

nick says:
nice

Mel says:
the question is.....why?

nick says:
entertainment?

The Lunchbox Is Open for Business

2006-01-11T12:36:00.000Z

The culmination of a day's silence or so. Egad, I hate Dreamweaver.

Literary Lunchbox is finally open for business!

For anyone who missed the other post, LL is a writing forum for folks who want to share their work or just have a chat with other creative types. It's an invitation-only forum so if you're interested, drop me an email at webmistress at literarylunchbox dot com. Some people expressed interest to me earlier and if you were one of them, please email me again! (I have 3000 messages in my inbox and counting, so it'd be like trying to find a penny on the bottom of the ocean.) If you know any mature writers or other like-minded souls that might be interested, please let them know about us!

Putting Out Fires

2006-01-09T17:09:00.000Z

Our bodies are seriously amazing bits of kit. There’s not a manufacturer in the world who doesn’t envy the kind of design nature put into the making of a human being.

One of the most incredible bits has got to be the stomach. Think of it this way; inside your gut, there are chemicals that would eat clean through the desk that your computer is sitting on right now and yet...OUR BODIES MANAGE TO CONTAIN THEM IN WHAT IS ESSENTIALLY A BAG OF MEAT. This is a pretty damned impressive thing.

My bag of meat, however, is not functioning quite the way it should. I seem to be afflicted with the scourge of high powered stockbrokers and Republican PR personnel everywhere: acid reflux.

I’ve had the condition for a couple of years, but in the last few days, it’s really starting getting on my nerves. It’s my understanding that it’s fairly unusual for someone my age to be blighted with an aggressive form this particular condition, but, plaything of the gods as I am, it’s hardly surprising to me that this is the case. In the last few days, I have spent many hours in the last few days thinking acidic, stomach related thoughts like, “Ow, dammit.” or “Owie!” or even “Dear god, OW!”

My doctor explained it to me simply. “The little trap door at the base of your oesophagus didn’t close properly at some point and allowed some acid to splash in, causing the rather sore spot that’s making you miserable.” Sadly, the only remedy is cutting out everything that tastes good, anything that’s really hot (tea) and anything that’s really cold. (ice cream) This of course, makes me want to die, but not quite as much as this reflux nonsense.

So I shall suck it up and fill myself with blandness until the campfire burning in my innards is extinguished by my in-house forest rangers.

I want my money back.

The End of the World As We Know It

2006-01-08T17:53:00.000Z

In the history of miserable, cold, wet Sunday afternoons, today is probably right up there in the top 10. Without the inclination to do anything more active than wrap up in a blanket and stare at a computer screen, I thought I’d catch up with some of my frequented links.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m a film buff. And like lots of film buffs, I like to know what’s coming to a cinema near me, so I often peruse Aint It Cool News, run by incredibly rotund redhead Hollywood “insider”, Harry Knowles. The site is often hit with accusations of favourable reviews for cash, but occasionally, you can also find a few scraps of news in between all the sycophantism. But I suppose the real draw of the site (for the majority of the public rather than for me personally) is the Talkback Forums, where movie fans from all over can share views on films, the industry and calling each other offensive names.

It seems a shame that educational systems around the world don’t teach the art of rhetoric anymore; if they did, we’d probably have all the 13 year old boys that haunt internet chat rooms capable of issuing slightly more verbose insults than “Oh yeah? Well you’re gay!” Think how much higher the tone of conversation on the internet would rise if every 13 year old boy could produce thoughtful and witty derisions such as, “You are an unconscionably perverted lackey and a narcissistic, gossip-mongering proof that evolution can go in reverse.”

In the particular instance to which I’m about to refer, instead coming out with a world-beating proclamation like,

“Sports are gay and everyone who plays them is Faggy Von Gaybo,”*

think of how much more satisfying it would be to pen the remark,

“Competitive sports are not my cup of tea, but this is only my humble opinion. Far be it from me to suggest that those who do partake in the rough and tumble antics of the playing field might merely be expressing repressed homoerotic urges. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)”

Not only is it polite, but most other posters will not have the vocabulary to comprehend anything past “competitive sports…” therefore stemming the ludicrous flame war that will no doubt ensue.

It is with deep regret that I must refer you the real life saga of “Strange Co” and “OBSD” from a recent AICN Talkback regarding the University of Texas’s win over USC in the national college championships.

The banter on the board in question started out good naturedly enough with little more than minor “My team can beat up your team” banter. However, at some stage in the proceedings, a gentleman with the handle OBSD (I’m sure that we could come up with any number of ideas as to the meaning of that acronym) came out with a rather sweeping statement.

American football is for closeted homosexuals
If you disagree, you are wrong. That is all.

Can you see what Mr. OBSD has done wrong here? That’s right. He’s engaging in a behaviour called “trolling” which is when someone with extremely small genitalia decides to pick a fight on any given topic. In real life, this might result in injury or death, but in the anonymous corridors of cyberspace, it merely leads to a frantic display of penis waving from all involved.

Then Mr. Strange Co has his say.

OBSD, I assume you play a sport...
For non-closeted homosexuals. If you demur, you are wrong. That is all.

Oh dear.

StrangeCo: While Le Parkour is French in nature...
It's much more badass than a bunch of sweaty musclemen wearing skintight clothes slapping each other on the ass. But if you're like the rest of America and need a trophy in order to call something a sport, then I guess I'm a big ol' homo. But still not as much as football fans.

Mr. Strange Co’s serve.

Now I gotta do this shit at work, OBSD? Alright, fine!
Yes, "I'm like other Americans" and it looks like you and I are in agreement - we both admit you're "a big ol' homo."… Only one engaged in an ultimately "gay" French "art" will debate the relative "gayness" of an actual sport. By the way, do you know how we know that you're "gay," OBSD? You rub other guy's erections while jumping off buildings. Fact. Do us all a favor - create a sport where you jump off a building and land on the ground with a splat! That's the "straightest" sport in the world! Be a man! Just do it!

Mmm, company time well spent.

Just so that you know, this is as far as I’m prepared to keep quoting this stimulating little discussion word for word a) because it gets much worse and b) it’s very depressing. Mr. OBSD goes on to suggest that Mr Strange Co. might be sexually inclined toward sleeping with immediate family members. Mr. Strange Co issues a scathing retort, liking Mr. OBSD to a popular women’s sanitary product. And so forth and so on.

To paraphrase another Talkbacker, “The information superhighway is just a global river of slime, isn’t it?”

What stunned me rigid about this whole exchange was that further down the page, after this little exchange of unpleasantries, Mr. Strange Co engages in a rather ferociously intelligent political debate with several other Talkbackers over Islamic Extremism. (Boards frequently go careering off topic) Ultra right wing Republican whack job he may be, but stupid and ill educated he is not. (He claimed to have a Ph.D, but I’m not entirely sure I believe this assertion.) This is not to say I’d wanna have a drink with this guy and would probably throw him out a window at the first opportunity if I ever met him, but he obviously knows how to argue.

So, let me get this straight. Someone with an extensive education and keen debating skills gets called “gay” by someone with an obviously inferior intellect and gets so damn, foaming at the mouth angry that he needs to resort to 2nd grade recess in order to get his “manhood” back?

Armageddon is just around the corner. I can feel it.

*Just for the record, I didn’t make up this particular invective, it’s actually included in the Talkback in question. No joke.

Fighting The Urge to Laugh

2006-01-04T12:32:00.000Z

I am beginning to come under the assumption that I might just possibly be a bad person.

For years, I’ve felt strongly about the rights and dignity of animals, especially our noble cousins in the simian family. Anyone who’s ever read about Koko the gorilla being taught to “speak” certainly can’t deny our strong connection to these amazing creatures.

So have I become an asshole for laughing like a drain at this?

Monkeys dressed like used car salesmen telling jokes is funny. That’s all there is to it. My mother (who sent me this in the first place, believe it or not) wondered aloud this morning if there was any video of monkeys dressed as George Bush. I sincerely hope not, as this would be utterly humiliating for the monkey. This is best I could come up with so far.

Coincidentally, my favourite joke of all time involves a monkey, but it is unfortunately a rather visual bit of humor, so I will not inflict it on you here. But if I ever meet you in person, ask me to tell it. It’s worth your while.

Monster Holiday Fun Blog

2006-01-03T16:54:00.000Z

I am beginning to believe that too much downtime can be decidedly detrimental to most human processes. 11 hours of sleep may look mighty palatable on paper, but after doing it for nearly a week and a half, one starts to feel less than fluffy. While I can make the excuse of retiring at 6am New Years Day, I think I’m feeling a little more exhausted than is necessary and now that I’m back at work, I’m kinda glad I am.

Christmas in the extended Pota-household was merry enough. Lots of lovely food (the traditional smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and champagne for breakfast) drink (I don’t believe that a day’s gone by since the 24th when I wasn’t astonished to find a glass of bubbly in my hand) and company. The Rock Star is often unsure of what to buy me for Christmas (although I’m fairly sure I’ve never given him reason to be short of ideas!) but came up trumps when I unwrapped my new bread maker. Perhaps wishing to take the sting out of my shoo-fly defeat, he got me something that will make us lovely, warm bread and all that it asks of me to perform this function is that I put in the right ingredients. It demands no careful watching, no American ingredient imports and no unbelievably sticky aftermath. But I’m sure I’ll find a way to screw up the finished product with a little careful imagination. (I know someone who forgot to put the mixing paddle back in the machine after cleaning and ended up with a very hard lump of yuck topped by an accusatory egg yoke staring banefully up at her through the glass window.) Also under my tree were a goodly amount of DVD’s from both The Rock Star and BoyRacer, some lovely bits from LawGirl and Virginia and snow vouchers for the MK Xscape slope from Moot and PPD. A very generous helping of Christmas goodness.

The most surprising gift came from my mother, who bought me a copy of a book that I was hugely fond of as a child called The Thing in Dolores’ Piano. For some ungodly reason the works of the author, Robert Tallon, are highly collectable and this particular book is as hard to lay your hands on as naked pictures of the Pope. Having found it on ebay being sold to benefit a library, mom bought it for me and upon examining it for the first time in about 25 years, wondered why the hell it was that I had such a thing for it. Being a rather sensitive child with a highly overactive imagination, it didn’t take much to scare me, but yet this book that I cherished looked as if it had been illustrated by Timothy Leary during a particularly vicious freak out. Insane, sinister, drug fuelled monstrosities lived inside Delores’ piano and I COULDN’T GET ENOUGH. Bring that little girl a whole heapin’ helpin’ of electric kool-aid! All that said, I was enormously chuffed to have a copy back in my possession and hope one day to pass on the paranoia to my own children.

The rest of the Christmas break passed in a haze of eating and drinking until The Rock Star’s Mis-Spelled Band commitments required us to spend New Year’s Eve in Swindon.

Our evening began in less than glamorous fashion. Due to Captain Hairy spending New Year’s Eve on the Isle of Wight, The Rock Star inherited the unenviable task of collecting The Super Slug; the large, white transit van that the band uses to haul gear to and from gigs, named for its top speed on a straight-away, which is about 55 mph. As I was expecting to make the trip in our own comfy Seat Altea, knowing that I was going to be forced to spend an hour and a half in a van that looked and smelled as if a family of hygienically challenged weasels had been living in it for the last 4 months wasn't exactly making my day. I’ll say it just once; boys can be really quite revolting if they think no one’s paying attention.

6 items fell out of the van upon my opening the passenger side door:

- A half eaten pack of Bassett’s Milky Babies
- A fairly expensive piece of lighting kit, hopefully broken
- An empty petrol can
- A large bottle of water
- A sweater belonging to The Idiot
- A pair of underpants HOPEFULLY belonging to The Idiot. If they DIDN’T belong to him, the unsavoury thought that strange men have been leaving underpants in the band van scarcely bears thinking about.

I picked these distasteful items out of the mud and crammed them into any available corner that wasn’t already full of McDonald’s cups or random scraps of paper and climbed in, trying to avoid touching anything except the water bottle, which I purloined due to the fact that a) I was thirsty and b) it was unopened. In this state of huddled non-touchingness I remained until The Rock Star urged me to find a music station and I was forced to put my fingers on the dials of the radio. Our usual car favourite, Classic FM, was staging some laborious opera recital, so we decided that silence was probably better than The Pussycat Dolls, which every other station seemed to be broadcasting non-stop.

The Rock Star and I, along with BoyRacer, his girlfriend, The Holiday Romance, and The Ginger Man-Tart had all rented hotel rooms at the Holiday Inn 3 miles outside of town as we were fairly certain that the evening’s festivities, including the band packing down, would probably draw out until fairly late. As The Slug finally laboured into the alley behind the unusually named “Big Fish” pub, we discovered, in a head-slapping, Homer Simpson “D’oh!” moment, that there was a second Holiday Inn in Swindon…directly behind the pub. We exchanged withering looks across the mountain of festering band detritus between us.

The Big Fish is owned by the previous landlord of The Mis-Spelled Band’s home pub, The Hoghead in Aylesbury. He was moved on to build up this new pub in the heart of Swindon, hence the gig. As The Rock Star set up, the rest of us went in search of edible food which was in curiously short supply in Swindon’s pub district. (If you didn’t want a case of diphtheria, that is.) After consuming a Subway (which we stood in line for nearly 25 minutes to have the privilege of eating) we relocated to the pub, where it was quite literally like a ghost town.

The gig went down well with the 15 or so people who were interested in live music rather than the vacuous pap blasted out by the DJ, but sadly, the crowd (which eventually DID come) were more interested in doing the Macarena (lead by The Idiot, I might add) that rocking out to Guns N Roses.

I must admit to only vaguely remembering the second set due to full bottles of Moet that kept appearing in our ice bucket. One thing I DO remember clearly was making my way to the loo for a moment of peace and quiet. ( ladies, tell me that you don’t do this too in loud nightclubs ) Apart from the copious vomiting that I could hear all around me, it gave my teeth a chance to stop rattling. However, I obviously enjoyed my solitude a little too much for the female security staffer who was manning the toilets.

Stupid Bouncer: (knocking loudly) You’ve been in there too long. Come out please.

Me: I’m sorry?

Stupid Bouncer: You’ve been in there too long. You need to come out.

Me: Um, okay. Can I pull my pants up first?

Stupid Bouncer: (pounding on the door that had no lock, forcing it open) YOU NEED TO COME OUT NOW!!

Me: Sure. By the way, I seemed to have dropped my dignity around here someplace. Can you help me find it?

I’m not entirely sure what kind of entirely silent activities the thick headed she-mountain thought I was engaging in inside an un-locked toilet stall. Answering her in the first instance should have been enough for her to deduce that I was conscious and not making snorting or puking noises should have alerted her to the fact that I was neither doing blow nor blowing chunks, (the later of which certainly wouldn’t have been helped be her banging on the door in any case.) so I can only assume that she was a sad cow with a panty fetish. Luckily, I discovered another toilet downstairs that was more private and unmanned, thought not quite as peaceful, (being right next to the speakers) to frequent for the rest of the evening.

Around 4 am, most of the gear had been stowed back in The Slug and we hungrily went in search of something to sink our teeth into to dilute the excess champagne. We ended up with pizzas from the takeaway across the street from the pub and managed to escape the two fights that broke out in the 15 minutes that we were waiting. (I despair of people sometimes.)

Having traded The Super Slug to The Idiot for the larger and emptier transit van that carried the stage, The Ginger Man Tart and BoyRacer were bundled into the back to brave the 5 minute ride to the hotel while The Holiday Romance and I rode in the front with The Rock Star. My guess is that riding in the back of a dark, windowless transit van while sober isn’t the best idea, so their plaintive, drunken wails from behind our backs served to amuse us to no end, especially on roundabouts.

After perfuming Ginger ManTart's room with Eu de Pepperoni, we all retired to our rooms for a restful 4 hours or so before we dragged ourselves out of bed to avoid having to pay for an extra night.

And so endeth the holiday season. I hope that 2006 will be gentle with me.

Happy New Year!

2005-12-31T14:16:00.000Z

As the New Year creeps around the globe and the Rock Star tunes up his multitude of guitars in preparation for their gig this evening, I thought that writing a blog about the holidays would be a safe and cathartic exercise.

However, I find that at this moment in time, I am just too lazy. My good intentions are buried under a heap of turkey, pies and chocolate. So I will just say that I shall return in the New Year (for me, only 10 hours away) full of wit and minus the pies.

When midnight finds you, greet it with enthusiasm.

Merry Christmas!

2005-12-23T11:06:00.000Z

Anyone who has ever tried to do any kind of business around Christmas will know that it is the apex of foolishness to think that anyone is going to answer their phone past the 21st. (Unless you work retail, in which case you’re probably looking around for a power drill to engage in a primitive form of trephanning to let out the evil spirits right about now.) So, in the spirit of all of those who we’ve been trying to contact for the last few days, we’ve given up and are going to the pub.

I do hope that everyone has a suitably cheerful holiday full of good things to eat too much of, good drink to drink to much of and good friends, who you can never have too much of.

Merry Christmas to all who stop here for a spell, wherever you may be.

A Cry For Help

2005-12-21T15:00:00.000Z

Today, my husband informs me that he would like to kill absolutely everything.

Following on from our general dissatisfaction with world events in general, The Rock Star is coping with work related traumas that, on their own, would not amount to much hassle, but when combined together, form a large ball of new media misery which he is trying desperately to roll off of his lower extremities.

Please send him chocolate in the post before he decides to put his head in the canal.

Mr. And Mrs. Potamus on Ice

2005-12-20T16:29:00.001Z

The romance of ice skating is ingrained into every girlchild from the time they are old enough to watch the Olympics and deeply covet the grace, beauty and sparkly costumes of those fortunate enough to make balancing on a pair of razor blades look like jogging through the park.

The reality of ice skating is undignified, hard on the backside and avoiding gaggles of teenage girls who couldn't possibly remain upright without 16 of their closest friends to hang on to.

I'm actually not too bad at ice skating. Papapotamus took me occasionally when I was little and while I often caused pile-ups on the rink, I think I do it more naturally now than say, The Rock Star, who, being 6'2", has further to fall.

This is the picture he would want me to post. Out of love and respect, I shall NOT post the one with his arms flailing every which way. It just wouldn't be sporting.

Quote of the Week

2005-12-20T10:09:00.000Z

The Rock Star insisted on this as Quote of the Week. Christmas is a time of joy and giving; for making peace with one's fellow men. Supposedly.

The Rock Star and I weren't having a particularly good Monday. We'd been discussing, on our way to Tesco, the lack of good news of late. The US House of Representitives has just approved oil drilling in the ANWR. Big business seems to be able to get away with anything. So does big government. No one seems to have any respect for anything anymore. We were both feeling distinctly unfluffy when we walked into the store to find a mass of carolers warbling "O Little Town of Bethlehem", each in their own personal key. They were raising money for some charity or another, but unfortunately chose two teenage girls as collectors who's strategy was to chase after shoppers and yell, "Give us money!"

Me: If you rattle that tin in my face again, you little slag, I swear to god I'll smack you.

The Rock Star: Erm, Merry Christmas.

The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe

2005-12-16T17:06:00.000Z

The Rock Star and I hadn’t really intended to see The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. Neither of us were fans of the book as children; in fact, I don’t think the Rock Star has ever picked it up. I was 8 or 9 or so when a girl whom I often played with loaned it to me, saying that it was “a book about Jesus.” I’ve never liked being told what a book was about before I read it and never really got into the series after reading the first one..

We ended up seeing it last night with The Girl, who’s back from drama school for holidays. We like seeing The Girl, because she’s the only person over here that we hang out with regularly that isn’t a complete headcase. She’s a refreshing presence in the EastEnder-character filled world of our acquaintances. At any rate, the three of us ended up sitting though Lewis’s best loved classic, now make flesh on celluloid. (Again.)

It’s been a VERY long time since I read the book. It’s also been a very long time since I was unfortunate enough to be the victim of the BBC mini-series, (Anyone who saw this, no matter how much they loved it, was ready to stab the girl playing Lucy in the head within the first 5 minutes of the first episode.) but the girl I used to play with was right. It is kind of about Jesus.

This isn’t really a problem unless you’re bothered by a pedantical fantasy romp, which I wasn’t. Lewis obviously meant the story and all of those that followed to be one long allegory, which undoubtedly must have chapped the ass of his humanist friend, Professor Tolkein. The film definitely didn’t skimp on the symbolism, although it can be congratulated for being a fairly faithful interpretation of the work. (What chaps my own PERSONAL ass is the fact that the upcoming film interpretation of His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman has been stripped of ALL of its religious symbolism simply because it is anti-church. It’s all about the Christian Dollar.) Although I did find it strange of Lewis to introduce Santa Claus into the middle of the affair; not only that, but Santa brings the children things with which to stab the hell out of other living creatures with. When was the last time you found a 9 foot sword under YOUR tree?

The movie’s main selling point is its rather spectacular effects that integrated VERY seamlessly into the action of the film. Like the latest Harry Potter offering, you didn’t spend time going, “Oh nice effect,” but rather, “COOL! She’s got POLAR BEARS pulling her chariot!” Making a film in which 80% of the characters didn’t exist in real time must have taken some getting used to for the actual, living 20% of those involved in the film, but I have to admit, it was impressive. The acting itself was pretty much what you could expect from 4 child actors of various ages. The oldest, who played Peter, is obviously destined for many roles in his future as hustlers with faces like a Caravaggio painting. The adults also acquitted themselves fairly admirably; Tilda Swinton’s Witch was gloriously evil. James McAvoy didn’t quite get the fussbudget nature of Mr. Tumnus right, but spends the film shirtless, so can be forgiven for most things.

“Why did you tell me that thing about Jesus?” said the Girl, as we walked out, “that’s all I could think about.”

Poison Pen

2005-12-14T17:45:00.000Z

I try not to read politically oriented blogs on a regular basis. Mainly because most of them piss me off. I’m a common sense kind of girl, myself, raised on a diet of shades of grey; black and white rants tend to put me right off.

That’s why I felt obliged to write to this particular syndicated individual about his views on the reason Harold Pinter won the Nobel Prize. (Scroll to the bottom of the page for the "article". )

Joe Scarborough is a former congressman, which surprised me, because his writing style definitely said 12- year- old- son- of- local- businessman- who- has- "opinions" to me. That someone who was so inept at expressing themselves was allowed to make decisions for an entire section of a STATE is reason enough to make you lose faith in American Democracy altogether.

His entire argument was based on the following 3 precepts and should have been titled,

“Why I Hate Harold Pinter by Joseph Scarborough, Age 12”

1) Because he said mean things about America.
2) Because he’s not an American.
3) Because America Rulz. So there. Plus, Jimmy Carter loves Communists so much he should marry them. Especially North Koreans.

I’m not a big fan of figures in the entertainment industry using their moment in the spotlight to further political agendas, whether they be Republican, Democrat OR Communist. A headline appeared on MSNBC today saying, “Viggo Mortenson blasts President Bush” which I’m sure was of HUGE concern to the administration. Sean Penn goes on a field trip. Bono sez, “Can’t we all just get along?” Not that I in any way want to take away from the good work that some fortunate people have done thanks to their wealth and status. Sometimes I just wish they'd stop running for President.

This is neither here nor there, though. Even if I believed that Harold Pinter was completely and totally wrong (I don't) and had his head jammed up his pretentious backside (I do) there is something to be said for the art of debate. The art of debate does not include name-calling. The art of debate is NOT laden with toxic sarcasm. The way Scarborough chooses to express his malcontent is disturbingly juvenile.

The United States of America is the root of all that is evil in this world, according to Pinter. Never mind the fact that my country has spent the last century liberating the world from Hitler's Germany, Stalin's Soviet Union, Milosevic's Serbia and Hussein's Iraq.

Ah, the old, “We saved your asses back in the war” argument.

The fallback of a true statesman.

The Speed of Technology: 6mph

2005-12-14T17:03:00.000Z

"WHERE ARE MY HOVERBOOTS AND JET CAR??" cried the Rock Star plaintively.

"Don't get greedy," I said, "you've only just got a running robot."

Someday, when they're growing us in pink, goo filled pods, I expect we'll look back on this day quite differently.

Pie: 4, Blogapotamus: 0

2005-12-13T10:28:00.000Z

For those of you who kindly asked after my pie, here is your answer.

I must be philosophical. Into every life some rain must fall. And alternately onto every floor a pie must do the same. This accounts for most of the damage. I can just hear my grandmother in the great beyond shaking her head and saying, "Schushlich." (clumsy) You wouldn't think molasses would dry slippery, but it does. I am beginning to think that I have a Dutch spirit hanging around that might need to be threatened with a hex sign of some sort. (Totally unrealated PA Dutch trivia: It is believed that cows gain the power of speech on the night before Christmas Eve and that anyone born on Christmas Day will be able to understand them. I like the idea of talking to cows, although I'm not sure they'd have a whole lot to say.)

As for the rather more gooey nature of the experiment, I think perhaps our oven runs slightly hotter than it should, causeing the top of the pie to crisp too fast and the innards to remain liquid. I have just enough ingredients to make one more attempt at a lower temperature.

To be fair, this was the closest I've come to succeeding over here so far. It was actually very tasty, although not particularly pleasing to the eye.

The fight goes on.

Baking Disasters Explained

2005-12-12T16:17:00.000Z

Those of you who know this book know that it is the basis for many love handles and heart attacks. You will ALSO know that it is NOT TO BE QUESTIONED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Many fist fights between old ladies have started when questions as to the quality of the recipes contained herein have arisen. I, however, to the disgrace of all of my Pennsylvania Dutch ancestors, HAVE A BLOODY QUESTION.

Not that I wish to impune the advice of Mrs. Ernest C Detwiler and her fellow culinary artists. It is, in fact, with the editors of the 1992 spiral edition of The Mennonite Cookbook that I would like to have a word with about ruining my good name in the Shoo Fly Pie Baking department.

Just FYI editors...THERE IS NO FLIPPING EGG. I DON'T KNOW WHO THREW IN THE EGG BETWEEN 1950-SOMETHING AND 1992, BUT THERE IS MOST DEFINITELY NO EGG IN SHOOFLY PIE. AND THERE IS 1/4 CUP OF SHORTENING, NOT TWO TABLESPOONS. WITHOUT THE SHORTENING, I'VE PRETTY MUCH BEEN BAKING A MIXTURE OF FLOUR + MOLASSES WHICH = GLUE. THIS RECIPE ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY DOES NOT WORK. YOU CRETINS.

This would certainly acount for the less than cake-like appearance of my last two attempts in this field of baking.

Think of me this evening as I bake my triumphal pie.

Coming Up Next...More of the Same

2005-12-12T15:24:00.000Z

I love being able to get anything I want 24 hours a day. It’s slightly easier in the States where archaic retail practices have given way to all night shopping and a dramatic increase of “shufflers”. (If you’d ever ended up in a Super Wal-Mart at 3 am, you’ll know who I’m talking about) However, the rise of the 24 hour news phenomenon, is, I feel, a mixed blessing.

From the public perspective, it’s great. Want to know what’s going on? No problem, there’s ALWAYS someone there to give you the latest update, looking fresh as a daisy and no matter HOW long the story has been going on, they report it with that first-few-minutes sense of urgency so that you don’t have to feel guilty about not knowing that aliens landed on the roof of Yorkminster Cathedral almost 5 hours ago and the first you heard of it was a text from your mate going, “Dude, U R not going 2 BELIEVE this!”

The people who do NOT benefit from this continuous recitation of information are most certainly the people forced to report it.

Case in point: Something woke me up at 6am on Sunday morning. I heard it subconsciously and sat up instantly, banging my head on the bottom of the shelf above the bed. (Canal boats were not made with sudden catastrophic early morning events that might make you sit bolt upright in bed in mind.) I discovered several hours later (since I didn’t find the cause of alarm, I went back to sleep) that something very large about 10 miles away from us exploded fairly violently. Indeed, my in-laws garage door came off of its hinges. (We have a friend who lives right around the corner from the oil refinery in question who is now missing several windows and a couple of bedroom curtains.)

Needless to say, the press were on the scene fairly quickly, fairly widdling on themselves in a fit of journalistic excess. Something huge has blown up! Lookie, lookie, lookie! See the smoke? The flames? Blanket of toxic smoke! Spreading out over 3 counties! You can see it from space! (pant) Might be terrorists! (pant pant) They get everywhere these days! (pant pant pant) We sure hope it is, cause it’s a lot more interesting that the some- guy- lighting- a- cigarette theory!

They kept up this frantic pace for the first 3 hours or so. But suddenly, around the 4 hour mark, when it became apparent that nothing else was going to blow up, the round the clock news machine began to fall apart and realized, that, with the absence of anything more to say, they were going to have to start talking TO MEMBERS OF THE PUBLIC. This is always a failing of news in general, but particularly of the 24 hour variety because they are so desperate for new angles they’ll put complete brain donors on the phone or in front of the camera, leaving anchors and viewers alike cringing in their seats.

“My girlfriend’s mum said her neighbour fought she saw a plane crash into it!”

“It was like, the biggest bang evah, innit? It knocked my Razzle magazine collection right offa the wall, yeah?”

“We saw some guys hangin’ around there last week and they looked like those muslims guys, so s’not really a surprise the whole thing gone up.”

IMHO, The Public should really only be consulted about a news event such as a large fire if The Public in question happens to actually BE on fire.

“So how does it feel to be on fire?”

“Well, you know, it’s hot.”

We must ask ourselves...how badly do we REALLY need to know?

Quote of the Week

2005-12-09T16:02:00.000Z

This week, it goes to The Nudist.

It has recently become public knowledge that The Idiot and his ex, The Barmaid are having an unplanned baby, which, I'm sure will be welcomed warmly, nonetheless. Both The Nudist and The Cheerful Idiot were outside next to the band van in sub zero temperatures changing into suits for the infamous 6th Form Ball. While The Rock Star chatted to them, I averted my eyes.

The Idiot: You're wife's looking at my penis.

Me: I can't even tell you how much I'm not.

The Nudist: Careful love, women have become pregant just by talking about it.

Hangovers for Dummies

2005-12-09T15:52:00.000Z

I decided something last night that I shall not be talked out of by anyone for any reason. Luckily, the only person who I would be likely to listen to agrees with me, so I can stand tall in my righteous decision making. My aforementioned decision is:

MY FUTURE CHILDREN, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, WILL EVER REACH THE AGE OF 18 WHILE LIVING ON BRITISH SOIL.

This is not to say that I’m about to pull a Medea. I’m not talking about deleting my kids or anything, but they will, before reaching the age of “adulthood” be removed from the UK. My sole basis for this decision (which I would set it stone had I the skill with a hammer and chisel) is attending a 6th form Christmas Ball yesterday evening as a guest of The Mis-spelled Band.

Although The Rock Star has tried many times to explain the British educational system to me, I have to admit that I am still a little clueless when it comes to the 6th form. From what I understand, it consists of 16-18 year olds who are most likely there in preparation for A-levels which you need to get into university. Regardless of its purpose, the fact still remains that it is populated with people that have the collective common sense of mentally deficient protozoa. I can make no claims of having been much different except to say that things were different in my day and we never would have dreamed of pulling some of the stunts these little maggots dream up. Kids these days, eh?

What I observed yesterday evening: Parents happily dropping their children off at the Ball, saying “Have a good time” and so on with the absolute certainty that their offspring was going to come home and spend the night with their head in the toilet because their 18 year old friend bought them upwards of 7 blue alcoholic beverages otherwise known as “booze 4 kidz!”

It took less than 20 minutes into the event (a good 30 minutes before The Misspelled Band began playing) for the entire crowd to be completely legless. By the end of the evening, there were girls passed out in the toilet and guys losing their guts in empty trashcans. The same parents who happily dropped them off returned to pour them into their cars with looks of weary resignation.

I was not the only one to be aghast left open-mouthed by this display of sobriety impaired youth. The Rock Star remembers his own teenage years as being fairly beer fuelled, “but,” he says, “It wasn’t like this. I get the impression that these kids do this all the time. We spent a lot more time going bowling and hanging out at McDonalds blowing straw wrappers at eachother.”

Extreme public drunkenness (to the point of stumbling around and vomiting) is something that I find barely tolerable in a crowd of adults. But in a crowd of children, it bordered on criminal. I’m not trying to preach against the evils of substance abuse; I would be a fiercesome hypocrite. Not only that, but adults have a perfect right to make whatever kind of hash of their brains and circulatory systems that they choose. BUT...it seems to me that there’s a prevalent attitude that says this kind of behaviour in very young people (i.e. binge drinking) is okay. Perhaps apathy on the part of parents to control what they see as anti-social behaviour due to the fact that “they’ll just do it anyway”? A lack of pride in anything other than reputation for hedonism? A distinct lack of anything else to do?

Can I say that I never touched a drop until my 21st birthday? Of course not. But US laws make it an awful lot harder for underage drinkers to get a hold of alcohol. But it doesn’t stop there; there are literally thousands of things other than drinking that teens are actively encouraged to do that cultivate pride and positive relationships. These sorts of incentives seem to be non-existant in the UK.

At any rate, though they’ll probably think themselves hard done by and curse The Rock Star and me (with words they undoubtedly have heard from us) we’ll be shipping them stateside before they get it into their heads that destroying their livers before they're old enough to rent a car is just fine and dandy.

Especially with things that are blue.

Gonna Find Out Who's Naughty and Nice. More Points For Being Naughty

2005-12-09T12:04:00.000Z

Oh Great Cthulhu!

I have been an extremely industrious devotee this year.

In December, I recruited The Gigging Simpleton as a new cultist (30 points). In July, I fed Virginia to a Shoggoth (250 points). In September, I burnt my copy of the Necronomicon (-75 points). In November, I bombed a cultist gathering (-100 points). Yesterday, I visited my relatives in Innsmouth (100 points). April, I exposed Alkelda to soul-rending horrors (250 points) (200 points).

In short, I have been very good (405 points) and deserve the honour of having my body used as a host for one of your servitors.

Your humble and obedient servant,
Blogapotamus

Submit your own plea to Cthulhu!

Deck the Halls

2005-12-08T10:34:00.000Z

Warning! More seasonal content ahead!

At the risk of looking like a johnny-come-lately I've followed Brad and Alkelda's example and created a printable Christmas ornament (front and back) that can be cut and pasted from this web page.

When I was small, my very favourite ornament was always the ugliest out of the whole lot and I was always encouraged to hang it toward the back of the tree. It’s the kind of ornament you’d imagine hanging on the Christmas tree of Louis the XIV; a sky blue velvet bauble with gold braid down the sides, a pearl tail, gold ribbon and clear, paste jewels on the sides. I don’t know how my parents came to be in possession of this affront to taste, but I know I loved it and looked forward to seeing it lovingly unwrapped, year after year.

Happy tree trimming!

What the Internet is For

2005-12-06T18:42:00.000Z

Forgive me if this is one of those things that everyone on the Internet has seen except for me!

Virginia posted this link to me today. She's an on-line gamer although she assures me she's never ventured into the slippery realm of exchanging real money for a virtual broadsword, so that's okay.

The game she frequents is World of Warcraft. Some of the players in this particular on-line game had a little too much time on their hands and rather cunningly pasted together video clips of their characters explaining...erm...the nature of the internet.

(this link loads immediately and isn't office friendly, so be warned!)

He's Making a List...

2005-12-06T12:11:00.000Z

Continuing on the Christmas theme, the Rock Star and I were talking yesterday about when it was that we stopped believing in Santa.

Neither of us could remember a catastrophic moment of realization in which all childhood illusions are shattered. It’s something that occurred gradually; a tapering off of belief rather than suddenly catching your mom putting the presents under the tree or your dad eating the mince pies and drinking the sherry. (In America, we traditionally leave out milk and cookies. He must spend most of his time over Europe pissed out of his mind.) It doesn’t seem possible that belief can be something that’s possible to lose in increments, but that’s almost exactly how both of us remember it.

I recall being about 6 or so when I asked my mother the question point blank and even though I knew the answer, I remember still feeling a bit disappointed to hear the voice of authority confirm my suspicions that Santa Claus was merely an anthropomorphic personification of the spirit of the season. The Rock Star’s parents handled it differently; although belief in Santa was encouraged, it wasn’t taken particularly seriously. Notes from the jolly fat man were obviously written by his father (Whereas mine were always written by the uncle whose house we always spent Christmas at) and a certain amount of good humoured joshing always accompanied mention of Kris Cringle. At any rate, we both agreed that the knowledge didn’t dent our enthusiasm for the season, although I can’t help feeling like it must have secretly been a relief not to have been under the thumb of having to “be good” in order to get presents. Santa has millions of kids to deal with and my parents only had me. No way I was going to get denied loot.

I have no doubt that we will continue the tradition with our own children. The years of anticipation and joy far outweigh that one tiny moment of despair. Belief primes an open mind. Terry’s Pratchett’s take on modern Christmas, The Hogfather, sees his own anthropomorphic personification, Death, take the reins of the Hogfather’s sleigh (complete with cushion up his robe and stick on beard) when the Auditors (beings who want the universe to run smoothly and to whom life is considered “untidy) find a way to make it so that he never existed. It’s up to Death and his granddaughter, Susan to bring him back, which they succeed in doing. Taken from the end of the novel, one of my favourite bits.

I WILL GIVE YOU A LIFT BACK, said Death, after a while.

“Thank you. Now…tell me….”

WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU HADN’T SAVED HIM?

“Yes! The sun would have risen, just the same, yes?”

NO.

“Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to believe that. It’s an astronomical fact.”

THE SUN WOULD NOT HAVE RISEN.

She turned on him.

“It’s been a long night, Grandfather! I’m tired and I need a bath! I don’t need silliness!!

THE SUN WOULD NOT HAVE RISEN.

“Really? Then what would have happened, pray?”

A MERE BALL OF FLAMING GAS WOULD HAVE ILLUMINATED THE WORLD.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“Ah,” said Susan dully. “Trickery with words. I would have thought you’d have been more literally minded than that.”

I AM NOTHING IF NOT LITERAL MINDED. TRICKERY WITH WORDS IS WHERE HUMANS LIVE.

“Alright,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need fantasies to make life bearable.”

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE….YOU NEED TO BELIEVE IN THINGS THAT AREN’T TRUE. HOW ELSE CAN THEY BECOME?

Seasonal Permission

2005-12-05T11:26:00.000Z

Note to retailers: I must say I admire your restraint since my last admonishment. You waited until a good 3 weeks into October until you actually began running Christmas ads on television and, bless your hearts, you actually waited until 2 weeks into November before giving into the temptation to play that fucking Slade Christmas song on continuous loop throughout the business day, making both full and part time staff beg for a quick and merciful death. But I have now, myownself, put up a Christmas tree, so, you know, go nuts.

You now have my permission to hit me right between the eyes with as much Christmas propaganda as your greedy little hearts desire.

Orange Wednesday: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

2005-12-01T12:12:00.000Z

I’m not really seeking to add much to the plethora of reviews that have been written about the new Harry Potter film. I’m not a natural review writer; I often have a hard time putting my likes and dislikes into coherent sentences, so what I can say about this film is:

-It’s my favourite so far of the series. The kids are finding their feet, although their performances are still kind of erratic; one moment they’re really getting a nice handle on an emotional situation and the next, going on performance safari.

-The CGI is becoming less obvious and integrating more seamlessly with the film, making it less "here comes the effect" and more "holy crap, that is a big, f-off, spiky dragon".

-People complain about the book being condensed to unrecoginsability. I don’t think it’s a legitimate criticism as there it literally no way humanly possible to condense a piece of fiction as large as Goblet of Fire into 2 hours and 45 minutes. (Already very long for a supposed children’s film.) They hit the main points while cutting out some of the book’s less interesting plotlines (the house elves) and hinted at some deeper detail, giving those that HAVE read the book the nod and not short-changing those who haven’t.

-More of Alan Rickman please, cause he utterly rocks. That goes for all the bad guys, actually. Ralf Fiennes and Jason Issacs also were highly watchable.

-And finally, just a note to slightly creepy filmmakers: 15 year old boys should not be weight-trained to the point where 40 year old women go, “Oooo” when they take off their shirts. We are all aware that in 5 years or so, Daniel Radcliffe will be extremely hot, but please leave him just a few more years before you start putting thoughts like that in our heads. Right now, it’s just wrong.

America, In Brief

2005-11-30T11:08:00.000Z

Sorry this has been a while in coming. I came back suffering from a head cold on top of crippling jet lag, so I've only just managed to pick enough bits of myself off the floor to post. This pretty much covers what we got up to over the past few weeks.

November 18
9.23am

I have just woken up in the city that never sleeps. King of the Hill and Top of the Heap status are pending, but I CAN tell you that there are some really good bagels on the corner.

I am spending my first morning in New York with a mild hangover. Our flight landed at JFK at about 7 local time, 12am GMT. After a lengthy taxi journey, (I don't have anything particularly pithy to say regarding our first ride in a New York cab. I've been more frightened in the past riding with BoyRacer) we were dropped at our home for the next few days at 301 W 53rd St and immediately set to the task of getting ready to go out to meet Big Fish and Little Fish, whose wedding we are here to attend.

After a 5 minute cab ride, we found ourselves in a small treasure of a piano bar on East 84th Street called Brandy's featuring a vocally talented wait staff and a flamboyant, gregarious pianist with an impressive musical vocabulary. The "Wedding" party had been there for some time and we were greeted enthusiastically with a flurry of drinks that continued to flow copiously throughout the evening until The Rock Star and I were serenaded out the door at about 3.10am, our bodies threatening imminent shut-down. Thus, the hangover.

This morning, BoyRacer, The Rock Star, myself and our traveling companion, Mr. Easy Company, (a friend of the boy's from school) are heading out to see what we can see of the city. I keep hearing talk of breakfast, but seeing as how it's 11.45, I think it's unlikely.

5.45

I have only ever been in New York City once before, despite growing up about 5 hours away. I was 15, had never really experienced a large city and had unfortunately been drafted into a mock UN group whose membership base consisted of future slackers who were not so much as interested in world events as they were with trying to be as cool as possible. (I didn't fit in so well.)

I found the experience (aside from my incredibly dense companions) overwhelming and since then, have had no desire to return. However, within an afternoon, I was about ready to go extremely over-priced apartment hunting.

Our flat is ideally placed in terms of sightseeing as well as being a shooting location for at least two different pieces of film while we were there. (We ran into the incredibly creepy Jason Patric just outside of the building and a notice was posted a day later about clearing the street for the filming of “Law and Order”, thus justifying the Rock Star’s perception that the US is just one big film set.) Times Square is literally two blocks away, so our merry little band made our way down into the glittering madhouse at the end of Broadway, trying not to look like tourists. However, I suspect that most New Yorkers avoid the area like the plague, leaving the visitors to the city to fend off the muggers, pickpockets and knock-off handbag salesmen, so by definition, if you‘re in Times Square, you ain't local.

After mooching under the bright lights for a bit and admiring the 3 block long line for discounted show tickets, (a cab driver informed us that some people sleep out the in order to get them.) we explored more of downtown near the Empire State Building. (Which we chose to look up at rather than down from.) We had no particular goal in mind for our afternoon’s wanderings, although Mr. Easy Company had made a slight miscalculation in the underwear department and informed us that he was in need of pants. So we decided to pop in quickly to a little corner store called Macy's.

Moot and I made the mistake of going to Harrods’s once, pre-Christmas. The experience was definitely enough to make you re-evaluate your belief in Capitalism if not everything that is good and holy. Macy's was pretty much the same deal, but with different accents and no Egyptian tack. I had no problem whatsoever finding the women’s clothing (it took up 3 floors) but the boys had so send out scouting parties to locate the men’s wear, which was hidden away in an actual whole other building. The pants were finally located in the basement, but THEN the challenge was to find ones that didn't have a designer label slapped on the ass crack with a price tag to match. Mr. Easy Company managed to find something fairly inexpensive with which to cover his butt and we made a hasty retreat.

3.20am

Nightfall in New York took us to a tapas bar with a cranky lead waiter who didn’t like 30 people turning up in his restaurant at once and then milling around by the bar. Big Fish, who was obviously in the throws of pre-wedding jitters, was feeling fairly stressed, so BoyRacer, Mr. Easy Company, The Rock Star and I took a table away from the main party to facilitate everyone putting their butts in a chair. After a few drinks, The Rock Star and I decided to head back to the apartment, still suffering from jet lag and a bender the evening before. Mr. Easy Company and BoyRacer have elected to remain out for the evening, being the swinging bachelors that they are, so we don’t expect them in anytime soon.

November 20

Following our early evening, The Rock Star and I got up early to go to be dork tourists, leaving BoyRacer and Mr. Easy Company sleeping off their second late night trip to Brandy’s.

We started out with breakfast at Lindy’s, an apparently famous diner on Broadway that’s mostly known for its cheesecake. While the breakfast was quite stunning in both taste and proportion, I have to say that the 5 dollar glass of orange juice knocked me for a loop. Apparently I’m not the only one who was heartily unimpressed with the financial implications of breaking fast at this particular establishment.

Waddling off into the Big Apple, full of pancakes, we snagged a cab to take us to the Staten Island Ferry port. We boarded the doubled ended ferry to get a nice far away look at Manhattan and a close up look at The Statue of Liberty, which The Rock Star has seen in it’s miniature form in Paris, but was rather more impressed with in it’s larger than life twin.

We were lucky to get a lovely cold, clear morning to make the crossing, although the further we got from the island, the more apparent Manhattan’s incredible brown funk became. Our momentary hankering to actually live in the city was squelched by the thought of constant black bogies.

To warm up after a fairly chilly crossing back, we started to hike briskly downtown, making a quick detour down Wall Street to see what all the fuss was about. Being a Saturday, it seemed remarkably quiet except for other tourists who were all jostling to get their pictures taken next to the bollocks on a statue of a bull that took up a fair amount of space outside of the Cunard Building. (which we took a picture of purely for the interest of Moot and PPD, who served aboard the Queen Mary back in the 60’s.)

You can’t really walk around for long in downtown New York before you came across Ground Zero. The Rock Star and I weren’t really looking for it, but we came across it nonetheless; the only place downtown where you can see the sky.

I imagine that after the event, when the site was littered with high jagged rubble, it must have been an incredibly distressing sight; an obvious scene of devastation, both human and architectural. Four years on, it is a rather large and sterile building site, the only reminder of 9/11 a pair of crossed girders that are said to have been found in the rubble that way. I suppose it is the absence of the Towers in the sky that is the most lasting reminder of the tragedy, rather than the hole in the ground.

By this time in the afternoon, we finally heard from the boys back at the flat and agreed to meet them at a well known Greenwich Village watering hole called Chumleys.

The cab dropped us off in front of a building of no obvious note. The only clue we had to its purpose was a yellowing piece of paper tacked to a weather beaten piece of cork by the door that proclaimed that it was indeed the place we were looking for. The Rock Star suggested that if we entered we might encounter a load of men in leather chaps slow dancing together a-la The Blue Oyster Bar from the woefully awful Police Academy movies. (okay, maybe the third one made me laugh, but only because of that guy who screamed all the time)

It actually turned out to be one of the coolest bars in the universe. Inside, there was a distinct lack of slow dancing men but a treasure trove of literary history, two aging Labradors and a damn fine pint of cider. The place was a speakeasy during Prohibition (America’s great failed moral experiment and sure-fire Mafia moneymaker) and reportedly had several secret routes out into surrounding alleys in case of a police raid. It was frequented by giants of literature and show business; John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemmingway, Buster Keaton, and Willa Cather. (who, if the tour guide we were eavesdropping in on was to be believed, was a real party animal. Anyone who’s ever read My Antonia should be mildly surprised.)

The walls, as well as being a tribute to famous patrons, were adorned with firefighting memorabilia, as the landlord seemed to be a member of an engine company himself. The Rock Star and I both found the tributes on the walls to fallen 9/11 personnel to be much more moving than the actual site downtown. With something as big as 9/11, it’s easy to get lost in the enormity of the whole thing; actually putting faces on it brings it closer to earth.

While the four of us could have stayed there for the rest of the day and well into the night, we had a wedding to go to, so we took our leave and attempted to hail a cab at around 4 in the afternoon. Anyone living in New York would know the utter folly of this act; it is around this time that every single cab driver in the whole city goes off shift at once. We were lucky to find one with a driver who was heading in our direction anyhow and was happy to pick up one last fare on his was home. This particular cab ride, due to the volume of traffic on the road, was slightly more hairy than some of the others. Though there are only 4 lanes on most of the major avenues of the city, most people drive as if there are 8. BoyRacer asked our driver if cabs ran into eachother often. "Yeah, all the time, " he answered nonchalantly, "but we're all yellow, so who cares?". I'm assuming that one of these comings together is NOT followed by the exchange of insurance details.

After an hour or so of primping and styling, the four of us caught a cab to the swanky UES Hotel Palace Athena, where the wedding was taking place. Being early, we settled on one of the comfy couches in the bar and ordered the most expensive round of drinks I’ve ever laid eyes on. Not that they were extraordinary drinks, mind you. Far from it; 3 rum and Cokes and a Bay Breeze, totaling (are you ready for it?) $60.00. Before we could swallow our own tongues at the cost, we were invited upstairs for the wedding by the tiniest and most perfect looking wedding planner who has ever lived.

The wedding itself was very small as both Big and Little Fish are British. (both working for the same UK company on exchange in New York) Like most weddings, it was very beautiful. Little Fish looked stunning. Big Fish looked blissfully happy. The Best Man (Big Fish’s little brother) looked out of his mind with worry over his speech. (Which was very good, by the way. He took their horoscopes from “Teen Girl” magazine.) Everyone ooed and aahed at appropriate moments. We had a lovely meal, some drinks and a bit of a boogie and then bid farewell to the new Mr. and Mrs. Fish when it became apparent that the busboys were ready to physically remove us from the ballroom in order to tidy up and go home.

I knew when we arrived at the apartment, the boys were itching to do their best Rat Pack imitation out on the town in their suit jackets, so I left them to their own devices in Times Square while I put on my PJ’s and flipped through the roughly 300 stations we got in an attempt to find something to watch. If I had been looking for porn, I would have been in luck, but I was in more of a mindless sit-com kind of mood rather than a poorly written naked people kind of mood, so I took to my bed to celebrate my last night in New York with a decent night’s sleep.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So that was our excursion in the Big Apple. The following morning, The Rock Star and I caught a train from Penn Station to BWI in Baltimore where we were met by Papapotamus and whisked back to my parent's beautiful home in Mt. Airy where we spent a week relaxing, being entertained by the cats, catching up with relatives various and eating a beautifully prepared Thanksgiving dinner with my folks for the first time in 6 years. Our last Thanksgiving in Mt. Airy was a hugely crowded affair and took place a few days before we got married. We actually celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary on Sunday, the day we returned. We marked the occasion this year with dinner and a movie; I had the chicken and rice, he had the ravioli. "Bug's Life" was the feature du jour and we would have engaged in other romantic activities but were rather afraid of attracting the attention of the stewardess as well as our fellow travellers on Flight BA126 from Dulles to Heathrow.

Home again, now, we're still recovering from our travel experience. Normal blogging service should be resumed in a few days.

Still Alive

2005-11-24T04:03:00.000Z

Just wanted to check in from the front...New York was fabulous; full report to follow. Currently residing in Mt. Airy at my folks, getting ready to stuff myself full of turkey and green beans in mushroom soup tomorrow. (If you've never tried that, it may look unpleasant, but it tastes unbelievable.)

The Rock Star and I will be winging our way back home on Sunday evening (Our 6 year wedding anniversary. Mmmmm, romantic...airline meals.) so I hope to report on our doings next week.

To all those on this side of the pond, Happy Thanksgiving. To the rest of you...there'll probably be cold turkey sandwiches later.

Going Off to Look For America

2005-11-17T10:11:00.000Z

The Rock Star and I are heading Stateside in an hour or two, so this blog will most likely be quiet until next week when we reach our final destination at my folks house in Maryland. (We're stopping off in New York first, though, it's not actually going to take 4 days to get there.)

If anyone needs to get ahold of me or just wants to chat, I'll be at boatwoman_beatty (at) hotmail (dot) com until Sunday the 27th.

Hi ho, Potamus! Away!

Calling the Creative

2005-11-15T11:44:00.000Z

Just wanted to make a quick appeal to writers out there...

Hotel Chocolat

2005-11-15T11:37:00.000Z

Okay, can I just say that this is distracting me this morning? There is one of these bastard stores less than 20 miles from here and that fact alone is making me kind of antsy. To say that I'm a fan of the white chocolate with strawberries in is a masterful piece of understatement.

Want. Want now.

Waaaaaaaaaaaant.

Coming Out of Hiding

2005-11-15T11:34:00.000Z

It’s been a little quiet in Blogapotamus Land for the last few days. In winter, when the hours of daylight wane, you feel like you need to work every moment you can to get everything done before dark puts the hammer down. I don’t know about everyone else, but when it gets dark in winter, I just want to crawl into bed. And when dark happens at 5.30, productivity tends to suffer a little bit.

The Rock Star, BoyRacer and I are heading stateside on Thursday for a wedding in New York, so the pressure to get stuff finished is…well….pressing. So, for your amusement, a quick rundown on the last few days.

Friday- The Rock Star had a gig in Milton Keynes, so I thought I’d do a little boarding while the Mis-spelled Band set up their kit. When the girl serving me at the front desk said the slope “wasn’t up to scratch” I should have listened, because moments later, I found myself sliding down a sheet of pure ice. I’m not saying that it’s easy to make snow or anything. I mean, I couldn’t do it personally, but a place that makes it’s living making it ought to be able to do it better than that. I’m very glad that I didn’t choose to apply my new purchase (a tub of “the slipperiest stuff on earth”) to the bottom of my board or I feel sure that I would have had to have been scraped off the plexiglass window at the bottom of the slope.

The other high point of the evening was the Nudist, who got licked up and down by a woman who was doing her damnest to show the entire venue her vagina, getting teased by the security staff afterwards about having to make an embarrassing trip to the clinic the next morning. The Nudist responded by trying to kiss one of the bouncers. If you’ve never seen a 260 pound club security guy with a dragon tattoo on his head running from a guy who weighs slightly less than, and is about as intimidating as a packet of pub peanuts, then you should definitely put it on your to-do list.

Saturday- Two lessons I learned today with startling clarity: a) Never go to Hemel Hempstead on a Saturday morning unless you are willing to lose forever your faith in humanity and b) Never get very drunk just before a “visit from the decorators”. It’s bad for everyone involved.

Sunday- A hangover followed by an afternoon’s toil with a jeweler’s torch and a few slabs of metal.

Monday- A virtual hangover, actual toil at work and more pseudo-toil with jeweler’s torch and more slabs of metal.

So that’s my excuse for being absent without leave.

Why, Why Why....Derirah?

2005-11-10T14:37:00.000Z

Taking advantage of Orange Wednesday at the local Odeons has been a midweek tradition for the Rock Star and me for some time now. We usually frequent the cinema in the town of Aylesbury (which was apparently, to the townspeople’s chagrin, was recently compared with Kabul and Baghdad in a film review in The Mirror. The reviewer later admitted to having only “driven though” on his way somewhere else. If he’d stayed, he would have surely been forced to conclude that he’d rather spend the evening in the Green Zone with the Iraqi security forces for drinking buddies.) but as the film we wanted to take in wasn’t playing there, we were forced to spend the evening in Hemel. (Let’s hope that the film reviewer never makes THERE.)

After taking in Tim Burton’s “Corpse Bride” (which was beautifully done) we drove down to the town centre (notorious for it’s Friday evening stabbings) and went to a Chinese buffet that I used to frequent when I worked at a bookshop in the Marlowes several years ago.

A lot of restaurants (not particularly high class ones, mind) have television screens so you can avoid all that tedious talking- to- your- dining- companions malarkey. They’re usually tuned to something innocuous like CNN or SKY; the volume just enough to distract you from what your boyfriend or girlfriend is saying about “commitment”. Well, no droning 24 hour news network for the Golden Dragon patrons; we got karaoke videos. Without the karaoke.

The videos are obviously from the mid-80’s, filmed in Australia, subtitled by a non-native English speaker and therefore 10 times more distracting than any coverage of first division football that you can muster. There were two main points of distraction.

1) The lyrics- For the most part, correct, but victim to stereotypical “Asian” spelling and grammatical mistakes. “Browing in the Wind” was my particular favourite.

2) The visuals- The production value of the videos was really just a gnat’s whisker above home movies. The Rock Star commented that most of it looked like a porn film before it starting getting good. Girls in bikinis seemed to be the main theme for just about every piece of music from “Hard Day’s Night” to “Delilah”. The latter, to make a point, had a woman in a bikini with big hair driving around in a golf cart and playing with a putter, which, in my eyes, had very little to do with the theme of the song. (although you can almost get there if you stretch the metaphor a bit.) Our joint favourite was “California Girls” which came up from a fade onto a herd of cattle.

So, if anyone ever finds themselves in the centre of Hemel, besides being lost, you have an excellent opportunity for some tasty Chinese food and a little bit of bad entertainment on the side.

Kid Fears

2005-11-08T14:46:00.000Z

As adults, we can often trace our various psychoses to stuff that happened to us when our brains were soft and malleable; before hardened and rubbery grey matter we’re stuck with for life emerged.

I’ve never liked standing next to big things. It’s almost like reverse vertigo. The Air and Space Museum in the Smithsonian was always a mixed bag for me as a kid; I was fascinated by the amazing machines in every corner of the place but terrified that one might fall and squash me flat. The same went for our visit to the Kennedy Space Center; standing under one of the Apollo rockets that was hung from the ceiling of a huge warehouse gave me a terminal case of the willies. (I seem to see an aeronautical theme emerging. Maybe I’m just afraid of big things that fly. Glad I wasn’t around for pterodactyls.)

My mother tells me that when I was small, there was a skit on Sesame Street that always used to have me running for cover. It was a lesson in big and small, I think and featured the erstwhile Grover as a badgered waiter. The difficult customer was dissatisfied with the “small” hamburger and asked for the biggest in the house. On Grover’s second trip to the kitchen, there is a huge rumbling sound and Grover shouts, “Okay Charlie, broil the BIGGIE!” He then comes through the doors with a hamburger 5 times his size which promptly squashes him flat. This was apparently unbearable for me and I’d always run from the room. I think this was the source of the strange phobia of towering things that I’ve still got to this day. To be fair, I know an awful lot of people who can remember being terrified of all things Muppet when they were little. (Don’t even get me started on the talking Beethoven statue on the top of Rolf the Dog’s piano. That gave me nightmares for years.)

So, who else has some nonsensical childhood fears to share?

Fireworks: Part Deux

2005-11-07T13:53:00.000Z

I would like to make a tiny addendum to my earlier remarks about fireworks. Specifically, the reticence I showed in banning them to prevent them from falling into the hands of the terminally stupid.

Last night we attended a celebration in honour of the Cheerful Idiot’s son’s third birthday. A truly fantastic little kid. Gregarious, sociable and smart; he could probably calculate pi to the 20th digit if you gave him the right calculator. Exaggeration aside, he was certainly more clever than the rest of us as he elected to remain indoors and watch the firework display that his father had arranged for him rather than standing outside with the rest of us, who clearly didn’t have the Idiot’s past exploits in mind when we stepped out the door.

Not having grown up in a State where home displays were legal, I’ve always looked on people I know setting off highly explosive devices as not being a Good Idea. This goes doubly for the Idiot, who has had various accidents involving frozen basketball poles, a load of mirrors, a black diamond run and a bruised ego.

The small display turned into an exercise for the fleet of foot as not one but TWO Roman Candles weren’t properly anchored into the soil and toppled over propelling very small, hot balls of gas and colour in our direction and sending us all diving for cover. (It’s just as well that, by this time, The Idiot’s son had become bored of watching the fireworks from his nan’s bedroom window and was having a story. He probably would never have been persuaded to go to a display again.) Not only that, but one of the rockets (again, not completely pushed into the soil) left the earth with it’s stick still attached and came plummeting down to stick into the earth like a smoking spear about 4 feet from where we were all standing.

I won’t even go into what happened to the Catherine Wheels.

Sympathy for The Guy

2005-11-04T16:10:00.000Z

Okay, here are the facts:

1) It’s Guy Fawkes weekend.

2) It’s 2 o’clock pm and while it tends to get dark pretty early this time of year, it is, as of yet, not at all dark.

3) There are fireworks going off outside my window.

One would think that, to truly enjoy setting off a minor explosive, you’d like a dark inky background to set it off against to fully appreciate the experience. This does not seem to be the case, which is worrying in that it’s clear that there are people in this neighbourhood who simply get off on blowing shit up.

The media, as it does every year, hauls out some bastard kid who’s just lost an eye because he was dicking around with an M-80 and begs the question: Should fireworks be banned? No, but maybe you should be watching your damn kids instead of watching Eastenders in your underwear.

A science show that BoyRacer saw the other day recreated the Gunpowder Plot and wanted to see exactly what WOULD happen if the 63 barrels of gunpowder had succeeded in taking out the entire ruling class of London in one swell foop. It would have taken out more than your eye, that’s for sure. It seems silly that the “Oh my god, how dangerous are FIREWORKS??” whinge tends to dominate a holiday celebrating the foiling of a plot to leave a Grand Canyon sized crater where the centre of London used to be.

MAS*H

2005-11-03T15:31:00.000Z

So I’m doing something new this evening. Variety is the spice of stuff, etc. I’m making mashed potatoes.

I grew up with a real aversion to the buggers. In fact, just about everything I dislike to this day I dislike for the same reason I couldn’t hack mashed potatoes; consistency. While I am not prepared to field any lewdness regarding my incredibly sensitive gag reflex, I will admit that there are some comestibles that can’t make it past passport control in my throat. Excess grit or squishiness seems to be the criteria that my oesophagus uses when assessing “credible threat”. Oatmeal, yoghurt, sprouts, kidney, all of these things are the asylum seekers hovering on the border, trying to get past customs hidden in something else like bread or meat. But my throat is rarely fooled.

The mashed potatoes that I grew up with were sometimes powdered, combining both gritty AND squishy and therefore were not even let past the teeth. My parents are both tremendous cooks, but they were also teachers and spent all day waging war with 9-13 year olds and didn’t so much feel like going through the whole Julia Child bit upon returning home. On the occasions that we DID have real mash, I was thoroughly uninterested.

When I moved here, I was introduced to bangers and real mash, which is truly gorgeous, combined with enough milk and butter. So tonight, I’m going to attempt it on my own armed with nothing but enthusiasm and one of those things you use to beat potatoes senseless with.

Come dinnertime, we’ll see whether their papers are all in order.

A Modest Proposal

2005-11-02T15:53:00.000Z

A Weekend in Brief

2005-11-01T09:59:00.000Z

It's obvious that I made it back from my Western soujourn safe and sound with little more than a massive case of sleep deprivation and good feelings. Here's a little fragmented weekend blogging.

October 27

9 am, GMT, over the coast of Ireland

Somebody up here likes me for a change.

No drunk Nordics for me on this flight. By some unimaginable grace of a kindly diety, I find myself with two seats all to myself. Not only that, but I find myself on the first plane in AGES where I can cross my legs comfortably. I knew sacrificing that black cockrel to The Gods of Travel would pay off.

The in-flight entertainment kept me amused until the first of two lots of munchables came around. Perhaps ill-advisedly, I chose to watch CSI: Vegas.

Flight Attendant: Would you like pancakes or an omlette?

Gil Grissom: "Look at how the victims body parts have been arranged in this highly mysterious pattern.... "

Me: Er, I think I'll just have a ginger ale.

9.35am, CST, Chicago O'hare

The maple trees still have their leaves on them. An auspicious beginning.

The pilot and two customs officials have just told me "Welcome home."

October 30

2.23pm, CST, South Bend Regional Airport

Sitting in the world's smallest regional airport, I look back on weekend of truly epic proportions.

There are places in the course of our lives where we leave bits of ourselves. Goshen, Indiana is that place for me. These places always feel like home whenever you find youself there; maybe because you recognize the piece of yourself you've left behind.

I did my best Prodigal Daughter impression. There was no end to the laughing, hugging and drinking. I shared a hotel room for 3 with 5 people. Watched a nightime wedding in a jungle. Had Mexican food for breakfast. Felt better and more self-assured than I have in ages.

I can’t even begin to say how glad I am that I came. Even though I'm leaving again so soon.

3.35pm, over the midwest, somwhere between South Bend and Chicago

On this tiny plane on this amazingly short flight from South Bend to Chicago, we have a flight attendant named Paul. He looks approximately 12. He is very serious about his job in that cute, my-suit-is-too big-for-me kind of way. His pre-flight banter was both irritatatingly long and full of repitition. I found it especially handy to be welcomed on board United flight 7221 to Chicago upwards of 4 times. He will undoubtedly go far in the field of serving drinks on very small planes.

9pm, over the Midwest, heading home

There is a screaming toddler behind me. There should be a special compartment in the hold you can check them into. I'm prepared for a sleepless night.

Life is Good

2005-10-31T12:32:00.000Z

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	6.7
Mind:	5.8
Body:	6.4
Spirit:	6.5
Friends/Family:	5.8
Love:	9.1
Finance:	6.1
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

Taking Flight

2005-10-26T14:29:00.000Z

The phrase “going away for the weekend” generally conjures up images of cosy bed and breakfasts and leisurely walks in picturesque countryside not too terribly far from home. I however, am adding a new definition of “going away for the weekend” which includes spending more time getting to and from my destination than actually being there. I’m going to The Midwest for the weekend.
One of my friends from college is tying the knot up in Michigan, so I’m going to head on over for two days of celebrations, staying with another friend in the town I went to college in. I’m hugely excited about going back, as I haven’t been for nearly six years; I imagine the nostalgia will be quite overwhelming. So too, I imagine, the actual getting there part.

I’m not exactly a reluctant flier. Given the choice between getting on an airplane and arriving sooner or getting on a bus and arriving later, I’m probably going to choose the airplane. My main problem with airplanes, as with all forms of public transportation, is that they’re public. I’m hoping that, in secret labs somewhere, there are scientists working on technology that allows us to get from place to place, completely insulated from our fellow travellers, because, as everyone knows, all of them are assholes but you.

People seldom believe my worst transport horror story, because it doesn’t sound real. Like millions of other airline travellers, I’ve endured delays, cancellations and luggage loss, which are all pretty much par for the course. Unfortunately, my tale involves one of the aforementioned assholes.

A few years ago, I was sitting on an Iceland Air flight to Washington, nursing hopes that the empty seat next to me would remain empty when, at the last minute, a large, Icelandic businessman staggered onto the plane and dropped his enormous ass squarely in the middle of it. He smelled strongly of spirits.

As soon as we were airborne, he began pounding Screwdrivers. I’m not entirely sure if the stewardess was a complete brain donor or just looking for a quiet life, but she served him nonetheless. For the first 40 minutes of the flight to Keflavik, he was fairly innocuous, but then decided the mandatory non-annoyance period was over and turned his attentions to me.

First he asked me what I was reading. Politely, I showed him the cover of my book. I went back to reading.

Then he started patting my hand. I smiled politely again.

Then he wanted to hold my hand, which I politely but firmly declined.

Then he decided to forcibly hold my hand. At this point, I went into panic mode and just kept reading and hoping that we were fairly close to our destination. The kindly gentleman on the other side of my inebriated friend, who had just noticed what was transpiring, attempted to engage him in conversation, but unfortunately, an obviously petrified 20 something female was far more interesting than a fellow countryman.

Then he started kissing my hand at which point I told him to knock it off, which he did, for almost 5 seconds.

Then he took my book. I asked for it back and he insisted on holding my hand again.

Then he put one of my fingers in his mouth.

At this point, I screamed and burst into tears. Another kindly fellow passenger sitting behind me offered me his seat, which I took, and shook all the way into Keflavik. My unpleasant seatmate had to be restrained by three other passengers during landing as he refused to stay in his seat. The police were waiting for him at the end of the jetway.

Granted, this is a fairly advanced case of Travelling Assholeism. Normally, the worst I can expect is a fat, German lady trying out her Duty Free perfume Ode de "Dear Merciful God in a Bottle" in close proximity or someone’s bastard kid kicking me in the back for 7 hours straight.

I shall pray to be delivered from these scourges and more as I wing my way west this weekend.

Crafty Pride

2005-10-25T14:48:00.000Z

I suppose it’s time to come out from behind the shadow of my pincushion. To put down the glue and sequins, stand up and say,

“Yes, world, I am a crafter! Look not on me with scorn and derision! Do not try to discourage me from taking an ordinary sweatshirt and turning it into something fun and cute with a picture of a cat and maybe a few feathers here and there! Know that I love brightly coloured pieces of paper, beads, ribbon and coloured pencils. With these instruments of creation, I shall unleash my vision, which is mediocre at best, but unleash it I shall! And I shall put so much love into my efforts that it is impossible for the recipient to throw it away. Even if they hate it. Even years later.

YES WORLD, I AM A CRAFTER!”

Okay, to be fair, I’ve never created a sweatshirt with a cat on it. Not even in my weakest moments, but other than that, it’s all pretty much true.

This is a little photo of my latest crafty endeavour. It’s a bit of freeform embroidery on a pair of my old jeans. I gave the little store-bought kits a try, but even when I finished them successfully, I couldn’t help but feel that I had just coloured in someone else’s picture. I was telling The Rock Star this morning that I got seriously frustrated with colouring books as a child; I never liked filling in pre-made lines; I was only really happy when I was drawing my own. My parents finally got me the “The Anti-Coloring Book" which was a great solution. (Anyone out there who owns children should seriously have a look at these; they’re brilliant) The gist of it is, I’ve never minded staying within the lines, as long as they were MY lines.

I’ve also developed, fairly recently, a taste for scrapbooking, hobby of housewives everywhere. Not that there is anything wrong with having a hobby or being a housewife, but when you’ve got a load of pictures of your kid, you’re probably going to be more inclined toward this particular fetish. I got caught out by digital cameras and now find myself in the unenviable position of having 6 years of photos stored on disc, moving from one computer to another with no possibility of release. So, to save myself time and energy, I’m doing one scrap book for this year and one scrapbook for the last 5. It’s cheating, I know, but there’s just no way I can remember whether I’m looking at a photo from 2000 or 2003, (other than to check my waistline) so they’re all going to have to co-exist together.

If anyone is in need of a macaroni collage at any time, I’m a pretty dab hand at those too.

Word Association

2005-10-24T16:20:00.000Z

Hitman J had an interesting word association game that I gaked from his blog. Copy these words into a text program and then type the first thing that comes to mind.

Infiltration::
Nice person::
Debt::
Settle down::
Thomas::
Unforgivable::
Medicine::
A year from now::
Neighbors::
Dripping::

And now? Here are my answers. Not sure what they mean, but they disturb me slightly.

Infiltration:: money
Nice person:: suspicious
Debt:: green
Settle down:: reprimand
Thomas:: muffins
Unforgivable:: grey area
Medicine:: trust breach
A year from now:: house
Neighbors:: isolated
Dripping:: insomnia

Especially the thing about muffins.

PotaSpecs

2005-10-24T15:48:00.000Z

Further proof that time is cruel.

I come from a family where wearing glasses is an inevitability. My mother was bespectacled before she was a teenager, my father needed them from about 40 and just about every other member of my extended tribe finds it necessary to stick some piece of prescription material directly on or in front of their eyeballs in order not to bump into things.

At the moment, I can convince myself that I only need them to work at the computer. Nothing else seems to be fuzzy save for these little pixelated meanderings on my screen. I don’t accidentally find myself talking to tall potted plants a-la Mr. Magoo, so I’ll just have to suck it up, do my best Ms. Moneypenny impression and hope it’s not too bad a look.

I’ll admit to this now as it’s been probably 10 years since I did this, but I actually used to be enough of an image spanner to wear frames with plain glass lenses because I thought they made me look “WAY more mature!” (Back in the day when I actually had to worry about looking more mature. Mostly to buy beer. I can’t tell you the last time I got carded. I also can’t tell you how depressing that is.) People used to try them on and go, “Wow, light prescription” and I’d go, “Yeah” because I knew that I was an optical fraud.

I’ve actually owned about 3 pairs of genuine glasses before now, but I’m fairly convinced that I was sold them on false pretences. The Rock Star pointed out that it seemed like a genuine conflict of interest for the places that sell you these vastly inflated snippets of wire and glass to also be the ones that carry out exams to tell you if you actually NEED them. Hmmmmm.

So, at any rate, I joined the four eyes brigade today. I’ve already almost scratched them, stepped on them and lost them on the top of my head.

Looking forward for the adjustment period to be over.

Freedoms With Fences

2005-10-20T15:26:00.000Z

Right. I really wanted to post a response on this site, but was afraid of extreme flamage, so I thought I’d venture off on my own little tangent in safe territory. (If I get flamed on my own site, there are measures I can use to take revenge upon flamers.) Not that I don’t welcome intelligent conversation and respectful disagreement but I’m not keen on being bombarded with profanity.

This isn't a new story. There’s this guy. And he’s walking down the high street on a Saturday morning, minding his own business, wearing a truly foul piece of clothing advertising the band “Cradle of Filth”. It features, on the front, a graphic picture of a masturbating nun and the slogan, “Jesus is a C***” on the back. Thoroughly charming. An offended woman sees this gentleman and approaches the police, who promptly arrest the guy under new anti-religious hate laws.

As an American, I believe 100% in freedom of speech. It is the best thing our Constitution affords us. (Having the right to vote is pretty cool too.) Britain has no such document guaranteeing this freedom, although, from what I gather, it IS guaranteed. Having said that (and here comes my controversial bit) it seems to me that an individual’s right to free expression ends where someone else’s begins. However, this should be no barrier to free expression if people would use an ounce of the common sense the universe bestowed on us at birth.

Should the guy wearing the filthy t-shirt have been arrested? Of course not. It was a staggering over-reaction by the police that sets a dangerous precedent. (As a matter of fact an actual MEMBER of the band was ALSO arrested for wearing the shirt in a separate incident) But here, nailed to my virtual door at Wittenberg, is my argument:

I have a television set. I watch what I want, when I want. If something offends me, I turn it off. If I thought something was inappropriate for any theoretical children I might have, I wouldn’t let them watch. Should I feel that masturbating nuns are educational or informative for me and my theoretical children, we’ll watch ‘em all day long, but if I think they’re not, I have the option to switch off the telly.

However, it is not within my power to simply switch off some guy in the high street who chooses to wear an image that is inappropriate for public display. The profanity is secondary. The religious reference is secondary. The fact is, we don’t leave copies of “Razzle” lying open in the streets for a reason. (The 1839 Profane Representation Act, specifically)

I can choose to view obscene images or not. I can choose to let my children view obscene images or not. That’s my right. But, having said that, I don’t feel that the guy wearing the t-shirt was committing an arrestable offence. If a student at my high school had turned up to class in the shirt, he’d have been asked to turn it inside out, which is EXACTLY what the officer in this case should have done, rather than making a pointless arrest on some bullshit religious hate charge.

Feel free to agree or disagree, to catch me out, to trip me up. It's your right, 100%.

An Evening of Introductions

2005-10-20T13:02:00.000Z

The act of shaking hands has always struck me as being rather odd. Some sources claim that it might have evolved from an Egyptian tradition of “passing on authority”, although the common consensus was that it was a gesture of suspicion: a way to check your opponent for a weapon. It’s strange that today we are still so hung up on the handshake as a method of introduction: a way to say, “Hello” or “Let’s do business.” Or possibly “Please allow me to pass on my impressive collection of contagious diseases.” Sometimes I think the Japanese have the right idea; a slight bow to say; “I acknowledge you but cannot help but notice you didn’t wash your hands when you came out of the men’s room.”

I spend rather a lot of times shaking hands yesterday. Through a complicated series of events ( most of which have to do with PPD) we all found ourselves at the AGM of the Royal Institute of Navigation, which seems to me to mostly consist of a) navigation b) drinking and c) eyebrows.

Among the people that I met were this guy…

And this guy.

To be fair, I didn’t actually MEET the first guy as I hadn’t circumnavigated the globe solo or climbed every mountain on the planet over 8,000 metres. But I got to see the Queen’s better half at close quarters which was mildly exciting, although the sniffer-dog search before he arrived was slightly more exciting. The Rock Star and I remarked at the fact that, although we have seemingly unlimited technology, the best way to find bombs is still a small, highly strung dog.

The Rock Star was just about widdling his pants with glee to meet the second guy. Not being a native, I couldn’t possibly comprehend the joy inherent in shaking hands with the amazing, shrinking Professor David Bellamy, who apparently had his own children’s nature television show back in the 80’s. He does indeed have a mighty beard, though, which was impressive indeed. The Rock Star and I have done a website for the Conservation Foundation, a charity that he co-founded. (Note: the link is NOT to the website I designed, but rather the one it's going to replace!)

And then there was drinking. Following the AGM, there was a reception in the main hall of the beautiful old building that the Royal Institute inhabits. (The Rock Star and I crept off to look at the map room where all of the great explorers like Cook, Shackleton and Livingstone sat, poring over charts and planning their voyages) A really rather good catering company was around every few minutes with top-ups for our wine glass and tasty tidbits.

Catering Gnome 1: Wine, madam?

Me: Thank you.

Catering Gnome 2: Sweet potato fratatta, madam?

Me: Thank you.

Catering Gnome 1: Wine madam?

Me: Um..Thank you.

Catering Gnome 4: Duck spring roll, madam?

Me: S’hanks.

Catering Gnome 1: Wine, madam?

Me: S’hank you. (Hic) S’cuse me.

Catering Gnome 5: Cocktail sausage?

Me: (hic) Are you my mother?

After that, there was little I could do but try to stand up straight and admire the impressive eyebrow collection the RIN boasted.

I’m not sure what it is about men and hair when they get older. While it tends to recede from the scalp, it seems to go into overdrive just about everywhere else. What possible use is abundant ear hair? Or nasal hair so thick it actually impedes breathing? I mean, evolutionarily speaking? What use is it? At any rate, since most of the RIN fellows are 50+, there were bound to be some real facial fly-impalers about. Both The Rock Star and PPD inherited the “family eyebrows” which, when left unchecked, can make a break for freedom. Moot says she’s thinking about shaving PPD while he’s asleep. Thankfully, I don’t have to take such drastic action as The Rock Star is all too aware of the consequences and is conscientious about eyebrow maintenance.

As the reception ended early, the whole clan piled into a cab and made a beeline for the Hard Rock Café, which is an excellent place to continue drinking and, should you so wish, eating. This turned out to be the site of a much stranger meeting.

I met this guy again.

Okay, again, saying that I MET him would be charitable. But I was completely gobsmacked to run into him again in the space of a month considering that I don’t live, work or hang out in London. Wearing the same Clockwork Orange homage outfit and everything. (I certainly wouldn’t have recognized him otherwise.) Fate moves in mysterious ways.

I briefly considered going in for a handshake, but I was fortunately distracted by a large alcoholic beverage.

Fiscally Furious

2005-10-18T13:25:00.000Z

This morning, on the BBC website, they posed the question, “Is 1 million too little now to make you happy?” This is, claims Coutts & Co, now well below the amount necessary to live a luxurious life style. (This is due to a explosive 575% jump in property prices since the was last assessment of this kind.)

There are many things in the news that make me want to squeeze the screen on my laptop until it bursts and laugh mirthlessly as the black sludge within oozes all over my desktop. This is definitely one of them. Is the media so out of touch that anyone can believe that a struggling middle class family gives a rat’s ass about living a luxurious lifestyle? Does someone out there REALLY believe that the majority of us wouldn’t be over the moon with a million quid? It may not buy us that 170 ft Sun Seeker in the Caribbean we’ve always wanted, but is it not enough to pay off our debts? Is it not enough to put a down payment on a house for us and our families? Is it not enough to put money aside for retirement?

Almost to a man, this is how the comments go:

“With that I could pay off my mortgage.”

“It’s all about being able to provide.”

“I would like enough money to get on the property ladder please, about £20,000 would do it.”

“I’ve always maintained that money is a great servant, but a lousy master.”

“I could take a part-time job, spend more quality time with family and friends and actually enjoy life a tad more.”

OK! Magazine, with it's 10 page spreads of disgusting weddings and celebrity homes has a HELL of a lot to answer for.

Panda Cam

2005-10-18T09:48:00.000Z

This morning, while wading through files, I've been watching pandas.

The National Zoo in Washington has been trying for a baby panda for yonks. The two ancients Ling Ling and Tsing Tsing never had a cub that survived for more than a few days, so when the two new recruits, Mei Xiang and Tian Tian had one earlier this year, no one got terribly excited. However, as the cub, Tai Shan, has just passed his first 100 days, (A Chinese milestone in panda development, apparently, after which they can be named) everyone is pretty darned pleased about it.

The National Zoo has set up a fab webcam that lets you peek into the panda den to get a glimpse of mother and baby. I've tried having a look at this camera at various points in the week, but the bandwidth is usually pretty heavy. However, since most of the US isn't awake yet, the camera is streaming well and the pandas seem to be engaging in a bit of gentle smack-down wrestling.

A nice diversion if you have a few minutes! I am overcome with cute.

Purposeful Pain

2005-10-17T15:55:00.000Z

There is purpose in pain, Otherwise it were devilish.
- Lord Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton

Pain is rather like the teacher you always hated in junior high who would keep EVERYBODY after class just because one dumb ass couldn’t keep his trap shut.

“Alright,” your body says sternly, “since SOME white blood cells haven’t been doing their job properly, I’m afraid everyone is going to have to experience the agony of a tremendous neck cyst.”

“Aww, MAN!” cries the rest of the body, “nice going WHITEYS!”

However, when the injury is self-inflicted, it’s more like getting caught making crude carvings of genitalia on your desk. You just know you’re in for lunch detention.

So, on Saturday, at 12, I turned up here for my appointment with the ink and needle.

It wasn’t my first inking, but there’s always a certain amount of trepidation when you willingly let someone hurt you. Like at the dentist while you’re in the waiting room and can hear the mosquito whine of the drill in the distance, mocking you…telling you that you’ll be next into the plastic coated chair, wearing a demeaning paper bib and giant goggles and HAVING THAT SOUND BOUNCING AROUND YOUR SKULL LIKE A SWARM OF BRAIN GNATS. AAARG!

My artist was a girl called Hayley. My first thought was that she looked remarkably NORMAL for someone who did what she did. No visible tats, no un-common piercings. (Most of my previous artists have been vying for the Scary Bastard award. I would have given it to the bald guy with a yin yang on one side of his head, a large, white tiger on the other and a big spike through his nose.) At any rate, her photo CV was pretty impressive and my design (a pair of Chinese characters) wasn’t all that taxing, even for someone with a couple of straight pins and a bottle of India ink, so I figured my flesh was in good hands.

The last time I had any ink on my back, I distinctly remember spending some time lying on the scunty bathroom floor feeling rather ill and hoping that Mr. Yin-Yang, Tigerhead Pointy Guy wouldn’t knock on the door. I learned the hard way that the little nerve bundles in your spine (of which there are roughly 73 sqillion) don’t take kindly to having needles jabbed at them. When The Idiot had a back tat done January in Banff, he was fine throughout the fairly long process. However, after the artist was finished, he noticed a tiny detail and fixed it, causing The Idiot to pass out completely. Lesson: total pansies should not have ink on or near their spines.

I had had enough time to forget about the bathroom floor, however, so while leaning over a stool onto The Rock Star’s lap, it all came rushing back.

Haley: So, (bzzzzzzzzzzzz) what brought you over to the UK? (bzzzzzzzzzzz)

Me: ...............

Haley: (bzzzzzzzzzzz) You okay?

Me: .............

The Rock Star: You have to breathe to answer, honey.

Me: GASP!

It went okay. No blacking out like a big girl, no being ill. But now I’ve got pain. And it is indeed devilish.

Just for the masses…here it is. (the red one)

Shiny

2005-10-13T14:03:00.000Z

My heartfelt plea to fans of "Firefly" and anyone else who has ever held any affection in their hearts for good science fiction; make this movie part of your weekend and help Joss Weedon make more like it, thank you.

Psychic Connections

2005-10-12T15:19:00.000Z

According to a letter that I received in the post this morning, I have a new friend.

Her name is Karina Natalia and she’s a psychic. The World’s Greatest, at that. As you can imagine, I read with utmost precipitance that this world famous clairvoyant felt that she and I had a “special bond” and that we could communicate on a “higher level than the physical”. My god, I thought to myself, why has she waited until now to reveal this highly pertinent information? Is there no privacy inside the confines of one’s own head? I certainly would have tried to curtail my fantasies involving bananas and wildebeest had I known that somewhere (Apartment 66, 405 Kings Road, Chelsea, according to the return envelope) there was someone twitching the curtains of my soul.

However, Ms. Natalia got quickly to the point. A mutual friend suggested to her that I was in need of her help. Fair enough, I reasoned, as I have a huge friend base within UK psychic circles, we were bound to run into eachother at some point.

It turns out that within the next few weeks, Ms. Natalia is travelling to Lourdes and in return for some recent good fortune that has recently befallen her, she wants “pay the miracle forward” and “do something wonderful for someone else in return.” How immensely lucky I am that my preternatural advocate immediately thought of me!

In return for this gesture of immense goodwill, Ms. Natalia seeks no recompense. Dear me, no. To ask for money in exchange for prayer and best wishes would be SO 14th century. Not only that, but she’s willing to send me a framable certificate just to prove that my prayer has been said at the holy shrine of Lourdes. To help me decide what is in the forefront of my heart, she has included a sheet with common causes for prayer; simply tick the box that applies to me personally. Do I:

-need money? (if so, please check the amount: 5,000, 15,000, 25,000, 50,000, 75,000. Apparently 100k is taking the piss as far as Our Lady is concerned.)

-need a protective prayer for my pet?

-need a prayer for love and romance?

-need a prayer to improve my health?

-need a prayer for luck at (tick one) playing the lottery, betting on horses, cards, gambling in casinos or bingo?

To solidify the “special bond” between us she’s been thoughtful enough to include a “wish card” that I’m to keep in my pillow until the moment of her prayer, when I’m to hold it tightly and concentrate with all of my might so that my energy and hers might be joined in order to bring my request to pick the right Thunderball numbers closer to the ears of Our Lady.

As Ms. Natalia’s beautifully computer written letter (very nice, hardly any spaces between the instances of my name and the rest of the text.) gently flutters into the recycle bin I contemplate how nice it would be to receive a genuine offer of good wishes from a stranger.

Perhaps Ms. Natalia will think so to when I use her signature and her pre-pay envelope to send a sizable donation where it's needed most.

Waypoints

2005-10-11T16:32:00.000Z

My skin is a map. Troubled elbows, knees, fingers atest to childhood misadventure. Feet and lower back to cartographers who added landmarks to remind me where it was that I’d been. Not that I’d be back; but it doesn’t help to forget where you’re coming from.

I’m having a new landmark fixed fast to the map. It’s going to say “hope” which I need to be reminded of daily. I’ll have to look in the mirror to see it, but there’s something to be said for stopping daily to survey what’s behind you, albeit without fanatical scrutiny. That leads nowhere. Hindsight often leads to nothing more than a crick in the neck.

Hope is going to be my watchword for the moment. I’m putting it on the map.

Regretable Shopping

2005-10-10T16:24:00.000Z

Over the weekend, LawGirl sent me a link to this highly amusing eBay item. (My apologies if this is one of those things that has made its way around the world and back 16 times. Since my junk mail filter got massively sensitised, I’ve managed to stave off more and more attempts to rape my inbox with advertisement for Cialis and pleas from Angolan businessmen, so some genuinely fun stuff sometimes gets sacrificed on the Altar of Annoyance.) Judging from the number of viewings, a lot of people were able to appreciate and sympathize with the plight of the seller; namely, the act of having bought something that “seemed like a good idea at the time”, especially when impressing the opposite sex seemed to be a factor in the decision.

I was once almost convinced by two men to buy a PVC bustier. The store I tried it on in was also the mecca for tacky upper-middle class ladies-who-lunch and the local drag queen population, (Being rural Indiana, you’d be forgiven for thinking that it would be a fairly small population, but then you’d be wrong. It’s a big flat place. You gotta make your own fun.) if that gives you any idea of the sort of clothes they carried. Sequins were not spared in the manufacture of the shop’s stock. At any rate, a joke became serious consideration (You tend to see your friends differently when they don a PVC bustier.) but I really couldn’t justify spending $60 dollars and then having to explain to my parents why I had no cash with which to eat at the end of the month due to the purchase of said item. (I bet most people who own PVC underwear don’t exactly love the idea of their parents being privy to that information.)

So, question of the day: What was your most inappropriate and regrettable purchase?

Rolling the Dice

2005-10-07T11:00:00.000Z

Right, so I've talked before about how I'm a geek. So much so that I've found a site (again, through castironskillet) that will give you your real life AD&D stats.

As I imagined, I'm not going to be first into the battle with the cave trolls, but it's possible I might be able to oursmart or charm them.

Utterly Monsterous

2005-10-07T10:39:00.000Z

A little thing I gaked off of castironskillet. Everybody need a monster name. I like to maim cows, apparently.

Mmmmmm, Breakfast.

2005-10-06T15:39:00.000Z

I was reminded this morning by spag, through the Rock Star, of the most amazing breakfast that it was ever my privilege to consume. The reason I thought so fondly of it was because this morning for breakfast, I had a banana.

Many people were hooked by David Lynch’s creepy, comedy drama Twin Peaks back in the 90’s. There were probably fewer people who actually PROFITED from it more (excluding David Lynch, all the actors and producers) than retailers in the town of Snoqualmie in Washington State, where many interior and exterior shots were filmed. The building that doubled for the “Great Northern Hotel” in the series and who’s back facing waterfall vista featured in the opening credits is in fact The Salish Lodge.

My dad and I were both Peak fans, so on our 1991 Northwest vacation, we drove through Snoqualmie on a quick pilgrimage and decided to stop at the Salish for the best and most pricey morning meal on the planet. On the menu: Alder smoked chicken, wild rice, eggs, hot fruit muffins, coffee, tea and mimosas. (However, being only 16, I ended up with orange juice and Sprite, which was slightly less satisfying.)

Man, do Americans ever know how to do breakfast. Should we ever re-locate across the pond for any amount of time, I reserve the right to reject any property that is not within 15 square miles of a Perkins or Denny’s, where, by the grace of some kindly god, will serve you breakfast at 3 in the morning. With those yummy, crispy hash browns and fluffy pancakes. Mmmmm, pancakes. (Homer Simpson dribbling noice)

And now, for your entertainment, some wisdom on the brilliance of brekkie.

Percy: I must say, Edmund, it was jolly nice of you to ask me to share your breakfast before the rigours of the day begin.

Edmund: Well, it is said, Percy, that civilised man seeks out good and intelligent company, so that, through learned discourse, he may rise above the savage and closer to God.

Percy: Yes, I've heard that.

Edmund: Personally, however, I like to start the day with a total dickhead to remind me I'm best.
Blackadder II, “Beer”

"Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast."
Oscar Wilde

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
Lewis Carroll

“We plan, we toil, we suffer -- in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol's eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake up just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs. And, again I cry, how rarely it happens! But when it does happen -- then what a moment, what a morning, what a delight!”
J. B. Priestley

Review: A Few Good Men

2005-10-05T14:46:00.000Z

I don’t usually do reviews. Mostly, because if I’ve been immersed in a good story, I can’t find a whole lot more critical to say other than, “Man, that a good story.” But I thought I’d give it a shot.

A couple of little facts I was surprised to learn from the usually vacuous and rather expensive theatre program: Aaron Sorkin,, although he’s written a play, 2 movies and a television series focusing on law and the government, has absolutely no background in either. The idea for “A Few Good Men” came from his sister, who became a naval lawyer and was sent down to Guantanamo Bay to investigate a “hazing” incident in which a Marine Private almost lost his life. She wrote in a letter to her brother (who was selling Malteasers at a New York theatre at the time) that the soldiers who carried out the hazing swore that they’d been ordered to perform this “Code Red” by a superior officer. And so the play began to take shape.

I have to admit my motivation for going to see this show were pretty much getting to see a theatrical work by Sorkin starring an actor who worked closely with him. Had it been someone else in the lead role, it’s quite possible the production wouldn’t have registered on my radar, so in that respect, I’m guilty of supporting big money theatre. Mea culpa. My sins are multitude and I’m a sad fangirl.

As a quick preface, I was interested to see that theatre audiences are becoming less and less aware that they’re not at the movies. Two women behind me seemed determined to sort out which character was which in the middle of the first act and did so with very little awareness of their surroundings; namely, in the middle of the third row, completely visible and audible from the stage. Two girls beside me also felt the need to titter and giggle incessantly throughout the entire performance as well as laughing at bits of dialogue that were obviously not meant to be funny. I can only be thankful that I didn’t hear the fucking Crazy Frog shouting from the balcony at any point during the evening. Do we have such short attention spans that we can’t sit down and shut holes for 2 hours? Is it really so hard to sit still and be entertained?

So, the play. It was.....pretty much exactly word- for- word like the film. This isn’t easy for actors, I can imagine, to perform a piece that just about everyone who was watching films in the early 90’s is familiar with and might, if you’re unlucky, pull a Rock Horror Picture Show and recite the most famous lines along with you. How do you bring newness to a well known work?

The answer is…you don’t so much.

Rob Lowe did alright as Daniel Kaffee, (the Tom Cruise role) although, among a few other things, I felt he was slightly too old for the part. Kaffee’s flippant dialogue and attitude towards his job made sense in a younger, untested man who’s going on the kind of journey Kaffee is on, (Cruise was 29 when he did the film although he looked younger.) whereas in an older one, it comes across as arrogant laziness, which I don’t think is at the heart of the character. Lowe will be 40 this year, and in the age stakes, he’s supposed to have just graduated from law school and be biding his time in the Navy until he can get a “real job.”

Lowe is not a full body actor, nor is he a natural on the stage. Obviously used to “close up” moments, there were times his voice dropped so low that I’m sure that even people 5 or 6 rows back would have struggled to hear. (We were in the second row.) His arms, for the most part, stayed stapled to his sides. The animation of his co-stars made him look all the more static. Lowe’s strength lay in the dryness of the script’s wit, which he excelled in delivering. The character he created was a slightly more arrogant version of Sam Seaborne from The West Wing, which, while not original, worked okay.

My biggest disappointments were in the actors playing Cnl. Jessop (The Jack Nicholson role) and Joanne Galloway. (The Demi Moore role) From the moment the guy playing Jessop opened his mouth, it was clear we were in for a Jack Nicholson impression, which made me cringe. The guy had a difficult task, I’ll admit, trying to get past the most iconic role of the film, but a direct re-hashing was definitely not the answer. Thankfully, once the dénouement approached, he seemed to find his own way a little bit more. The woman playing Galloway was undeniably the weak link. A dyed in the wool soap actress, (Suranne Jones from Coronation Street) she spent the entire production so worried about her accent that little to nothing she said could be easily understood. Not only that, but she played an ENTIRELY contradicting role; her actions; brave, bold and slightly misguided. Her demeanour: a small rabbit beset by foxes looking as though she could, at any moment, burst into tears.

The actual staging was hugely polished with giant sections of chain-link fence and one way screens effectively separating the action in Cuba, the court room and other venues. It was minimal, versatile and made effective use of the relatively small stage. (Let’s face it, the whole theatre is pretty small, having been built in 1720 or so. The light booth is in the upper Stage right box.) Scene changes were covered nicely by Marines doing Marine type activities like dropping in from a “helicopter” or doing a rather impressive bit of rope strength training in the background.

All in all, a good show. I have to admit to not being particularly stirred by it, but it’s hard to say whether or not that comes from 10 or so viewings of the film since 1992. There were no surprises for me; I knew what was coming next. I must admit that my biggest thrill was being 2 feet away from a guy who worked closely with Alison Janney, who almost pips Judy Dench to the post as my utter and total performance heroine ever. Again, mea culpa. For someone who’s NOT familiar with the story, I recommend it. See it with my blessings.

The Naked Stage

2005-10-04T13:42:00.000Z

The Rock Star and I are getting a dose of culture this evening. We try to do this every so often to keep our grey matter from withering due to overexposure to The Simpsons.

We’re heading to the Theatre Royal Haymarket this evening to take in “A Few Good Men.” (Yeah, the one with I want the truth, you can’t handle the truth, you navy boys in your faggoty white uniforms etc.) I am ashamed to admit that I was not aware this piece of work was a play BEFORE it was a film with the plucky, quirky, scary, shorty Tom Cruise and the self-parodying, crabby Jack Nicholson. Nor did I realize until recently that it was written by Aaron Sorkin, whom, being an extreme West Wing fangirl, I worship as a minor writing deity. So, The Rock Star and I splashed out on some pretty good tickets (close enough to see whether or not Rob Lowe has trimmed his nasal hair recently) and will enjoy an evening out.

As a rule, I’m not crazy about West End shows that try to hock a celebrity to get ticket sales. (Having said that, I’ve gone out of my way to get tickets to shows starring Judi Dench, Maggie Smith and Vanessa Redgrave, but therein lies the difference between actors who happen to be celebrities and celebrities who happen to be actors.) I’m of the opinion that celebrity is actually a detriment to the ability to engage with the story. You just keep thinking, “Oh my god, I’m sitting five feet away from that guy from “Heathers” and completely forget what it is they’re doing. But I feel for the modern theatre. It’s harder and harder to compete in an entertainment world that allows the common consumer to have a cinema-quality home system that allows them to immerse themselves in a story without leaving their comfy sofa and the privacy that allows them to indulge in personal movie-watching habits. Let’s face it; you can’t go to the theatre in your underwear wielding a popcorn bowl and a pair of toenail clippers. (Note: This is NOT a movie watching ritual for me. I’m just saying, that’s all.)

As a side-line to the celebrity incursion, I would also like to address random and pointless nakedness. A few years ago, The Rock Star and I went to see “Lenny”, a play written about the life of subversive American comedian, Lenny Bruce. Bruce was played by Eddie Izzard, who did a brilliant job of being himself, but not such a good job of being Bruce. One scene in the play opened with a completely naked sex scene between Izzard and the abhorrent star of the hysterically awful “Showgirls”, Elizabeth Berkley. In the middle of this amorous encounter, Izzard got off of the naked, writhing Berkley and delivered a 10 minute monologue, standing "tackle out". It should come as a surprise to no one that neither I, nor, I imagine, anyone else in the audience, can remember what the monologue was about.

My beef: theatre needs to be above titillation; you shouldn’t be able to turn on Channel 5 at 11pm and have a similar experience. Drama shouldn’t need to whore itself to “Loaded” readers. (I don’t suppose that most of the audience of “The Graduate” crowded into the theatre every night to witness Jerry Hall’s stunning performance, if you catch my drift.) Of COURSE there are going to be some instances where nudity is going to be justified, but if it’s the main draw of a performance then something has gone dreadfully wrong.

The mainstream theatre is in crisis. You can’t turn an utter piece of theatrical tripe into a brilliant masterpiece just by adding that guy who played Ross in “Friends” no matter HOW many years he spent at the Steppenwolf. Famous faces boost ticket sales, but the damaging reviews jade the potential audience still further, strengthening their assumption that an expensive trip to the theatre just isn’t worth the bother if they can watch quality entertainment in their living rooms.

Theatre, at its best is immediate, hard hitting, electric and visceral. Theatre, at its absolute worst, is un-inspiring. Even BAD theatre is thought provoking, (Why was it bad? Was it the script? The acting? What could I have done differently?) but mediocrity is the highest theatrical sin and there seems to be an over-abundance of it. Lots lights and colours, but little to no substance…rather like television. Real inspiration is coming out of the holes in the walls; the ones who advertise with paper fliers on lampposts rather than in 12 foot neon above the theatre door. The theatre made by people who have everything to lose.

That said, I’m hoping for a little inspiration this evening, even from the theatre of Big Money. We shall see.

Rocker Monday

2005-10-03T12:34:00.000Z

This is for Clive and all the other rock boys out there.

Visitor 10,000

2005-10-02T13:24:00.000Z

In the spirit of one good turn deserves another, Alkelda is the 10,000th visitor to this site. As her reward, she is entitled to a batch of my DeskMates. What are these, you ask? They are little cartoon cut-outs that can hang freely from vertical flat surfaces (like computer monitors) and make your desk look slightly more cheerful than before. I've been using artwork from them for my Creature Fridays, to give some idea of the subject matter. The choices are: Faeries, Tinker Gnomes, Demons or Rock Gods.

Choose wisely, Alkelda!

Creature Friday

2005-09-30T16:12:00.000Z

For your consideration...a cat with wings.

IT COULD BE YOU!!

2005-09-29T16:46:00.000Z

I have noticed my hit counter in the corner creeping steadily up towards the 10,000 mark. Yes, I suppose a couple of those might have been mine checking up on the site, but I feel pleased and fuzzy inside that anyone's taken the time to read the stuff that pours out of my ears.

In the vein of Alkelda, I shall offer a reward to the 10,000th viewer; a fruit plucked straight from my creativity shrub, if you will.

Happy viewing!

In the Mood

2005-09-29T11:36:00.000Z

I’m a big fan of packaging. Products that have a big, shiny picture on the outside of what’s on the inside are easy to understand, leading to the phrase, “It does what it says on the tin.”

This is a club in Milton Keynes that we pass every time we head to Xscape for our excursions out on the slope.

You have to admire their honesty.

Kung Fool

2005-09-28T11:02:00.000Z

Last night I hurt myself. This is not a new thing. While trying to get out of bed this morning (not as easy as it sounds) I got to thinking about whether or not there is anyone else on the planet who has hurt themselves more than me. The only name that sprung to my mind immediately was Jackie Chan.

The reason that Jackie Chan has hurt himself more than me is that Bruce Lee has never kicked me off the top of a 20 foot wall. For this I am eternally grateful. However, when they were asking for volunteers for this particularly ludicrous stunt, a 17 year old Jackie Chan was the first with his hand in the air saying, (in Mandarin, of course)

“Please, Mr. Bruce Lee sir, most talented and twitchy of Kung Fu masters, I would be honoured for my humble chest to briefly play host to your most worshipful foot before plunging 20 feet to my almost certain death as the safety budget on this picture is about the same as you’d pay for a pack of cheese and peanut butter crackers out of the vending machine.”

Later, on a different picture, he let Bruce Lee kick him through a plate glass window.

I would have been last in line (had I been born a Chinese stuntman) for that particular assignment saying,

“Please Mr. Bruce Lee sir, most wiry and terrifying man who can wipe the floor with my entrails, may I please be the last of the approximately 840 men who attack you so that your mighty fist might be tired enough not to rupture any of my very important internal organs?”

To make a long story short, the reason Jackie Chan has hurt himself more times than me is that, while he is a phenomenal athlete and entertainer, he has very little sense of self-preservation. This is why there is now a small plastic plug where a bit of his skull used to be keeping his brains from spilling out of his head.

Most of my injuries have resulted from pure clumsiness rather than violent martial arts encounters. Last night, I had a pretty extreme wipe out on my snowboard. ( I don’t expect any sympathy. I know my track record as far as snowsports go.) What I found the most amazing about the experience is that even though it happened very quickly, I remember the thought process that went through my mind as it was happening.

9.31.01pm- My board hits a surface near the middle of the slope that is less suited for me than it is for Torville and Dean.

My brain: You are about to have a nasty accident at high speed. I hope I am not about to be severed from your spinal column, but since that appears to be the case, it has been nice working with you for the last 30 years or so.

9.31.02pm- Airborne.

My brain: This is going to hurt quite significantly. Please prepare yourself.

9.31.03-05- Impact. Impact. Impact.

My brain: Ow. Ow. Ow.

9.31.06- Stillness. Significant windknock-outage, whiplash and half the slope down my shirt.

My brain: Wow, I hope someone else saw that. There's no point in the pain we're about to suffer if no one witnessed what was most likely a fairly impressive stack. Okay everybody, I need damage reports stat! Fingers? Check. Collarbone. A tentative check. Neck? NECK? Hey uvula, can you give me a visual on the neck?

So here I sit, the morning after unable to turn my head or bend to my left. I am most desirous that no one attempt to sneak up on my in the next 3 days or so.

Or kick me off a wall.

Bog Matters

2005-09-27T15:30:00.000Z

There is an incredibly important world meeting taking place in Belfast this weekend that doesn't seem to be getting the press it deserves. The 2005 World Toilet Summit is meeting to discuss critical issues such as soap (liquid vs. solid) hand dryers (electric vs. paper) and the age old lid up/lid down controversy. Can you imagine the AGM?

Speaker: And now, Number two on our agenda...

Crowd: HA HA HA HA HA!

Speaker: Do you have to do that every year?

Sock It To Me

2005-09-27T14:57:00.000Z

Today I’m sad. I’m sad because I have to finally admit that it is no longer summer. I know this because when I went to the postbox down the road, I actually had to put on my shoes and a jacket.

The shoes were the real kicker. I would walk around barefoot all year round if I thought that, at some point in January, my toes might turn blue and fall off. I have carefully cultivated hobbit feet. They come out of sock hibernation as soon as the crocuses do, to tread purposefully over loose gravel and other painful surfaces to toughen them up for the event of summer, where they will be lucky to see the inside of any sort of foot covering until round about this time of year. Sadly, I felt the need to open up my sock drawer this morning to prepare my tootsies for the advent of chillier weather. In younger days, I might have been able to hold out til the end of September, but now that I’m old and crotchety and have blood pressure so low that doctors routinely ask me if I’m still breathing, socks are my friend.

In honor of the advent of sock weather, here are several sock related resources for your consideration:

The Bureau of Missing Socks- Solving that age old question of why you end up with a sock drawer full of misfits.

The Sock Shop- The most amazing fun and funky socks to keep the piggies warm in the winter.

Wikipedia- The definitive history of putting socks on your hands and pretending to make them talk to one another. The long arm of your sweatshirt is also useful for this purpose, but tends to get you in trouble with your German professor when using one in class to practice vocabulary with your neighbour.

Memo

2005-09-26T15:04:00.000Z

Random Music Meme

2005-09-23T14:47:00.000Z

Another little bit of Friday Fun I gaked from Clive. Take your MP3 player, whack it on "Shuffle" and let it answer the following 13 questions for you. Some of mine made me laugh out loud.

1. What do you think of me, Random Music Player?
Oh Well-Kenny Wayne Shepherd

Nice to know that I inspire indifference in those around me.

2. Will I have a happy life?
Rat in a Cage- Smashing Pumpkins

We’re not off to a great start here.

3. What do my friends really think of me?
Food and Creative Love-Rusted Root

This explains all the dinner parties and affectionate interpretive dance recitals.

4. What does my S.O. think of me?
Book of Love-Peter Gabriel

Result!

5. Do people secretly lust after me?
Nobody’s Girl-Bonnie Raitt

Weak.

6. How can I make myself happy?
Cold Water- Damien Rice

The iPod has obviously never experienced my near boiling point showers. I’m such a wuss, I’d rather not shower than have cold water cascade over my body. EVERYONE who turns on a shower after I’ve been in it ends up doing a naked, “OW HOT HOT HOT!” dance around the bathroom.

7. What should I do with my life?
Nowhere Fast-Bryan Adams

That planned to move to Silverstone is off then.

8. Why must life be so full of pain?
All Because of You- U2

Yet another ringing endorsement of my existence.

9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
(No joke)Wake Up- Alanis Morrisette

This usually does it for most people.

10. Can you give me some advice?
Walk On Down- Aerosmith

Down the street? Down the alley? To Australia?

11. What do you think happiness is?
Closer To Fine-Indigo Girls

Getting closer every day.

12. Do you have any advice to give over the next few hours/days?.
Hiccup-Pink

Has anyone ever had a really extended period of hiccups? It can make you want to kill yourself.

13. Will I die happy?
Casey Jones-The Grateful Dead

Driving the train, high on cocaine...how could I not?

The Greatest Line in the World

2005-09-23T10:27:00.000Z

Here’s a little Friday morning meme. It's harder than I expected:

- Find your favourite, all-time greatest, FIRST LINE of a movie.
- Find your favourite, all-time greatest line FROM THE BODY of a movie.
- Find your favourite, all-time greatest LAST LINE of a movie.
- Then, using ONLY the words from these quotes, (but not all if you don’t need them) come up with the ALL-TIME GREATEST MOVIE LINE EVER. Extra kudos for creative context!

First Line, from Mallrats:
Brody: (vo) “One time, my cousin Walter got this cat stuck in his ass. True story.”

Body Line, from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead:
The Player King: “We’re actors. We are the opposite of people.”

Last Line, from Amedeus:
Salieri: “Mediocrities everywhere, now and to come: I absolve you all! Amen! Amen! Amen!”

The All-time greatest movie line ever:

The Leading Player of the Happy Valley Sanitorium Amateur Dramatic Society, Willard Lobach, addresses the disheartened cast of his musical version of The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade (Working title: Let’s All Stab That Guy in the Bathtub!)

Willard: “People now and to come! We’re actors! True mediocrities! The opposite of my cat Walter. Amen!

Phew!

iWakenings

2005-09-22T16:15:00.000Z

All of us look for some order in the chaos once in a while. I imagine this even applies to my iPod.

Obviously rebelling against the permanantly turned on "shuffle" feature or possibly trying to inform me of it's awakening sentience, I was treated, one after the other, to Better Man by Thunder, Better Man by Robbie Williams and Better Man by Pearl Jam.

Either that or it's hitting on me.

A Festive Warning

2005-09-22T11:14:00.000Z

A message to all of those retailers that I’ve seen stealthily sneaking suspicious red and green boxes with pictures of holly on them into their stock shelves for the past two weeks:

KNOCK IT OFF. I’M SERIOUS. CHRISTMAS IS OVER 3 MONTHS AWAY AND I’VE GOT HALLOWEEN AND THANKSGIVING TO ENJOY BEFORE I DRAG OUT THE TINSEL AND MY “CHRISTMAS WITH FRANK AND BING” CD. (really.)

IF I SEE ONE MORE BOX OF CHRISTMAS CAKE OR HOLIDAY FAMILY ASSORTMANT CHOCOLATE SELECTIONS, I’M GOING TO SHOVE A MINCE PIE SO FAR UP YOUR ASSES YOU WON’T KNOW WHAT KIND OF FRUITY HOLIDAY GOODNESS HIT YOU.

I’m having a bit of festive grumpiness today as I’ve spent some time on the phone ordering Christmas cards for two separate companies. Did I mention that I’ve got the window open and the fan running due to the fact that it’s over 70F outside?

Ask anyone who knows me and you will find out that I looooooove Christmas. I could lick Christmas from head to toe. I’m all over Christmas.

BUT NOT WHILE I’M STILL WEARING FLIP FLOPS.

I inherited Extreme Christmas Joy from my mother who made every festive season in our house while I was growing up utterly amazing with holiday breakfasts, beautiful decorations, fairy lights, extravagant gift-giving and music. I attempt to emulate her enthusiasm here in my own home although I am severely limited in the space and cash departments. I was even the one that convinced my mother-in-law after 6 years to get a proper fairy for the top of their tree to replace the “Holiday Slapper” who topped it when I arrived. (No joke, it was a Barbie Doll in a pink dress and she bugged me big time.) What it all boils down to is that, when the time comes, I am literally ready for a whole heapin’ helpin’ of holiday.

AFTER I PUT MY SHORTS AWAY.

So, I'm watching you retailing whores out there. Don't forget about the mince pie.

Cleanliness is Next to Blogliness

2005-09-20T12:54:00.000Z

Let me tell you why the Rock Star is outside mowing the lawn at 1.30 pm on a work day.

Moot and PPD are coming home tomorrow.

They’ve been on an extended sojourn of Long Beach, CA to attend to some business and some pleasure (A conference and a 35th wedding anniversary on board the Queen Mary, where they met.) leaving BoyRacer, The Rock Star and myself in charge of the house. Not, I imagine for the faint of heart.

I mean, we’re all adults, but as far as our standards of housekeeping go, we are, in a politically correct sense, “differently clean” to my in-laws. We haven’t spent the week throwing chicken bones on the floor for the dog to take care of, or left dirty underwear hanging from lampshades or anything, but from past experience, it’s best to have Moot return to her house and have it look like NO ONE has been living in it for the past 10 days if one does not wish to receive what can only be described as a “mother clucking”.

There are two other people who endeavour to assist us in the cleaning task. They are The Cleaners and they arrive like clockwork at 10 every Monday morning and more often than not, no one is particularly pleased to see them. While they undoubtedly make life easier for Moot in general, for 2 hours every Monday, life invariably gets more complicated.

I try to stifle the snob that lives in my soul. I really do. Education is both a blessing and burden; you become enlightened to many facts, including the level of ignorance that surrounds you.

The Cleaners are mother and daughter; Cleaner the Elder and Cleaner the Younger. Although they obviously see each other on a daily basis, they always seem to have many surprising things to tell one another at great volume while the rest of the house is attempting to conduct business. This is an example:

PPD: (on the phone) Yes, good morning. I’d like to order a dozen units please to be delivered to…

Cleaner the Elder: OOOOH, WASN’T THAT A DAY ON SATURDAY, YOUNG JIMMY GETTING CIRCUMSIZED?

Cleaner the Younger: OOOOH YEAH, HE CRIED AND CRIED, DIDN’T HE?

PPD: …Um…to be sent to….

Cleaner the Elder: OOOH, YES HE DID! WHAT A LITTLE PAIR OF LUNGS HE’S GOT!

Cleaner the Younger: OOOOH YES, BLESS HIS COTTONS!

PPD: Can I call you back?

And so on and so forth. One cannot help hear this sort of conversation and many other vaguely more disturbing ones in the course of the day, the gist of which could be dramatically improved if either would simply pick up a newspaper that didn’t have a topless woman on page 3.

At any rate, the Cleaners have been and gone this week, making our task of tidying slightly less of a hard slog.

However, having said that, I’m off to grab a broom.

Prepare to Be Boarded

2005-09-19T09:47:00.000Z

Yarr, Ahoy, Avast and so-forth. I hope everyone is intending hearty celebrations in honor of International Talk Like a Pirate Day. The morning has certainly kicked off to pirate-y start in our little enclave when I was thanked for making grog (tea) by the shivering maties above decks. (The guys that work in the attic)

With a yo ho ho and the like.

Creature Friday

2005-09-16T10:56:00.000Z

I'm usually completely bolloxed by Friday and in the absence of any real substance, you get yet another creature.

I've discussed my dabble into the world of D&D on several occasions. At it's most enjoyable point, I played with 2 DMs who were not only actors, but playwrights as well, with an enormous talent for writing interesting campaigns. One of them wrote in an encounter with a group of tinker gnomes who were severely accident prone due to the nature of their brilliant but useless inventions. Hence, the rocket powered rocking horse.

On the theme of rocking apparatus, The Rock Star and I ran across one of these at a crafts fair (which, to protect his badass reputation, was totally my idea) a few weekends ago. When we suceed in spawning, you can better believe that one of these is on the cards.

Music for a Thursday

2005-09-15T15:34:00.000Z

The Independent did a feature article on British artist Imogen Heap this week and I only just got around to downloading her track "Hide and Seek" today from iTunes.

It's not often a random recommended song totally kicks my butt, but this one does. It could do without the vocoder strangeness, but at the same time the effect gives it an edge. Not like when Madonna uses it and sounds like a former-exhibitionist- attention- whore- who's- outlived- her- career- and- should- probably- stick- to- riding- and- hunting- well- maybe- not- riding- alien.

See what you think. Click on the "Hide and Seek" video. The visuals aren't particularly important. Just kick back and listen.

A Non-Traditional Education

2005-09-14T12:48:00.000Z

LawGirl sent me a little note this morning with a touch of the ridiculous to it:

There's this non-trad, first-year law student who finished his undergrad at Harvard who has submitted a formal proposal to the faculty to improve Valpo's (Valparaiso University, Indiana) school rank by requiring all students to stand up and enunciate when they answer in class. Upon being informed of this in Honor's ConLaw, a student remarked ..."I don't know if it will improve our rank that much when I stand up and they see that I've peed myself..."

Ah, the glorious, time honoured tradition of the non-traditional student.

It seemed that every class I took at college had one. In subjects such as Intro to Physics or Latin American History from 1700 to the Present, (yes, I reall did take that class) they blended into the rest of the note-taking throng. However, in classes like Sociology, Christian Ethics or Aesthetics, they made right nuisances of themselves. I imagine they used this equation when working out their role within the class:

if
my age > age of classmates
and
professor’s age > age of pupils
then
professor = me

therefore if
my age > age of classmates
and
age = knowledge= right to an opinion
then
my knowledge/ right to an opinion > knowledge/right to an opinion of my classmates

Now, obviously I'm totally for education at any stage of life. If I get a Master's one day, its likely I'll be a good deal older than I am now, but I hope I'll still be cool. There was one grandmother on my theatre course who listened to club music, drove like a maniac, drank like a fish and had us in stitches the whole time. The kind of non-trad I’m talking about is the overweight 50-ish bald guy who sits at the back of the room, tries to co-teach the damn class along with the professor and asks complicated questions that require 20 minute answers in the last 2 minutes of the session. Does anyone else know that guy?

However, following my non-traditional student rant, this very much related story has been being followed by the BBC for about a year or so. Since Kenya made primary school education free in 2004, huge numbers of poor children have been able to take advantage of some basic learning, but the big story is this guy. An 85 year old man called Nganga Maruge has also taken advantage of the system to receive the education that he never had. He’s in the same class as several of his 30 grandchildren and even wears a school uniform. "To me,” he said, “Liberty is going to school and learning." This week, he boarded a plane for the first time in his life and travelled to the UN to call attention to the plight of children denied an education due to extreme poverty. This guy is doing something extraordinary in his twilight years when most of us hope to be sitting comfortably in a big chair watching re-runs of Coronation Street. He is as non-traditional as it gets. In fact, he holds the Guinness World Record for the oldest person ever to start school.

When sorting through all of the awfulness of the daily headlines, this story has a coolness factor of 20 out of 10.

Mis-spelled Tomfoolery

2005-09-13T09:47:00.000Z

See? I TOLD you my husband was a Rock Star.

Here he is with his erstwhile Mis-spelled buddies on a recent photoshoot; from the left. The Cheerful Idiot, The New Guy, The Rock Star, Captain Hairy and The Nudist all looking very musically contemplative on an industrial estate in Aylesbury.

If you have a look at the other shots, I'm sure you'll come across the one The Rock Star hopes I won't show my mother.

Last Night in the Mud

2005-09-12T16:42:00.000Z

I have a huge affection for my adopted country.

This is the scene: Saturday evening. The air is sultry and threatening. Indeed, distant rolls of thunder can be heard above the guy who’s singing “Jerusalem” directly into my left ear. The Rock Star, myself, The Chorister and her significant other, The Playwright, are sitting in the middle of a seething mass of humanity in Hyde Park for the Last Night of the Proms. We make it through the salmon sandwiches, the humus and Pringles, the cous-cous, the cherry tomatoes and most of a pitcher of Pimms while enjoying the sultry sounds of the BBC Big Band, Claire Teal and a Queen Tribute act before The Chorister reports feeling the first large droplet of rain.

The Rock Star and I are nothing if not prepared for once in our lives. Taking long boat trips during an English summer often necessitate the donning of full waterproofs which we fortuitously brought along for just such a turn of events. The Rock Star was particularly relieved to find his, as the only other ones that fit him belong to PPD and would be more appropriate on an off-shore oil platform in a force 10 gale rather than a spot of drizzle at a picnic. Did I mention that they also happen to be nuclear orange?

So here’s what I love. Did the rain stop the picnics? No, the umbrellas and tarpaulins sprouted like magnificent, waterproof flowers. Did the lightening stop the show? No, although we were disappointed that it missed it’s cue during “Bohemian Rhapsody”. (Thunderbolt and lightning/very very frightening) Did the deluge that followed dampen anyone’s enthusiasm for the traditional finale? Of course not! (To be honest, the inexplicably long stint of Mick Hucknall on stage drove more people away than the rain.) Dammit, it was summertime and everyone was going to bloody well enjoy themselves. As long as you could keep your champagne from getting watered down, and your union jack from sticking to itself, everything else was secondary.

And, despite the heaven’s opening, I do enjoy a good sing-song, even if it does extol the Victorian, empire-building values of 19th century imperialists. I’ve always had a niggling thought at the back of my mind, however, that there might be someone from the US state department just behind me, waiting to throw me in a dark cell somewhere should the first few notes of “God Save the Queen” escape my lips.

So, as we trudged back to the car park through the quagmire feeling slightly soggy and uplifted, we reflected on the satisfying end of another British summer.

I’ll be expecting them to come for my passport later this week.

Rock Demon

2005-09-09T17:52:00.000Z

I have nothing of value to contribute today, so here is a horned, winged, chicken-footed demon playing a Fender Strat.

Stickonomics

2005-09-07T15:25:00.000Z

I got pissed off this morning as I was sitting all scrunched up in my bathtub. So I decided to write to my MP to complain about it.

Dear Mr. Bercow,

I’m sick of trying to squeeze my ass into a child size bathtub every morning and trying not to drench the whole room when I wash my armpits.

Please do something about making it easier to buy a house so me and my fat ass can shower in peace.

Kind Regards,

Blogapotamus Rex, constituent, Aylesbury Vale.

All kidding aside, I was doing a little research this morning for the letter which, if I do say so myself, presents the argument beautifully. It breaks down like this:

This is an average couple living in Great Britain. They're white. Other colors don't show up well on pink, so don't bug me about it.

Their individual average yearly salaries come out to £22,411 ($41,203)

They want to buy a house.

The current average house price in Great Britain is £161,700 ($297,523) Just for the record, the average in OUR area is £219,260. ($403,472)

The current mortgage lending rate is 3.5 times their combined salaries, which is about £156,000. This is not taking into account other factors like children or existing debt.

This means that a couple with an AVERAGE YEARLY INCOME of £44,822 a year is left with a £10,000 shortfall when buying a house at the CURRENT AVERAGE PRICE.

This, of course, leads to drinking.

Just this morning, the Bank of Scotland patronizingly suggested that first-time buyers “take advantage of real estate opportunities in the north of the country.” Which, in my mind is a smarmy way of saying, “So what if you have to leave your families, friends, homes and businesses? We’d really appreciate you freeing up the room for our fat cronies to buy their second homes which they’ll then rent out to financiers from the city who want weekend retreats. Be good peasants and move along quietly before we bring the dogs.”

The fight goes on…

Truth & Lies

2005-09-06T15:48:00.000Z

This is an old meme, but I seem to be having a bit of a slow day today.

10 Truths, 5 Lies

1. I was once threatened with arrest for soliciting.

2. I have punched someone in the face

3. I once shaved my head.

4. I am orally fixated.

5. I have kissed a girl.

6. I have an irrational fear of ladybugs.

7. I was once injured in a major bar fight.

8. I once skipped work to get drunk.

9. I have played naked soccer.

10. I have a secret passion for country western music, Keith Urban in particular.

11. I sleep with a teddy bear.

12. I have exposed myself in front of a theatre full of people.

13. I was once shouted at in the airport by a member of Elton John’s entourage.

14. I have accused a member of the clergy of witchcraft.

15. I have 6 individual pieces of body art.

And now for the Truth and the Lies.

1. True- When I was 15, I was waiting for my father outside a Laundromat next to a payphone in the middle of downtown Frederick. A cop came by and told me he “didn’t like my kind” on his beat and I’d better move along if I didn’t want to go to the station. I was completely bewildered until it dawned on me that he believed I was a prostitute.

2. True- You know that kid at your school who you feel sorry for but his social skills are so appalling that you can’t help but hate him at the same time? He caught me at a bad moment.

3. False- I experimented briefly with clippers, but never had the guts to go all the way.

4. True- I have a pen cap in my mouth as we speak.

5. True- I recon there are very few women who get out of university without having snogged another woman. It’s totally just like kissing a guy, only with less stubble.

6. False- Very few flying things bother me, save for wasps, who can die in torment.

7. True-It’s not often that real, wild west style brawls break out in bars, but I got in the middle of one (which had nothing to do with me, I assure you.) and ended up with legs so badly bruised, I was on crutches for a couple of days.

8. True- Although I didn’t really plan it that way. It was too hot to work, so I called in sick and drink gin and lemonade all day with my housemate.

9. True- It was pretty dark. I think the goalie came off worst; one of the girls playing kicked a ball at the male goalkeeper, we all heard a loud smack and then saw him crumple like a piece of paper.

10. False- Keith Urban may be an attractive man, but even a pretty face can’t make me like country music.

11. True- Einstein is his name. I’ve had him since I was 10. Luckily, The Rock Star likes him too.

12. True- I was playing a pantomime villainess and had to carry the “unconscious” ingénue off stage over my shoulder. Sadly for me, one of my boobs escaped in front of a packed house at the Bristol Opera House in Indiana eliciting the sort of response you’d expect from a small town crowd in the Midwest.

13. False- “You filthy little pig! Make way for His Royal Campness before you feel my boot!”

14. True- I’m 2 years old and sitting in a supermarket trolley when some nuns walk down the aisle. “Look, Daddy, witches!” I shout gleefully. My father moves further away from me.

15. False- I only have 3.

Kum Bah Ya

2005-09-06T10:22:00.000Z

We’ve been having some beautiful cool, damp mornings in these dying days of summer. For the last few mornings, as I’ve stepped out on the deck of Galileo, I’ve been reminded of my time served at summer camps when I was young. (er) (My parents would most likely reprimand me for referring to “my youth” at 30 years of age)

Summer camp is a uniquely American kind of tradition. Brits that I’ve met have only really experienced the phenomenon through instructional videos such as “Friday the 13th”, “Meatballs” and the gritty documentary, “Ernest Goes to Camp”. To be fair, a good deal of the Hollywood summer camp experience rings true, (canoeing, campfires, ghost stories, panty raids, bugs, etc) although it does take a few liberties. (mass-murdering un-dead psychopath hiding in the lake, murdering fallen virgins.)

I spent 3 summers at Camp Manidokan just up the river from Harper’s Ferry. It was a church sponsored camp, so perhaps my experience might have been vaguely different from someone who attended a secular camp. (At a secular camp, there was no real moral code that prohibited one camper from hitting another camper over the head with a dead snake.) I remember it with tremendous feelings of fondness now, although I’m fairly sure that, at the time, the weeks I spent there were full of tremendously bewildering feelings.

As I was 12, 13 and 14 during my years at Manidokan, I believe that one of my main focuses was probably trying to find someone to snog. I wasn’t an entirely attractive pre-teen; while my skin remained mercifully clear, I endured the social death of braces, which I wore for 4 of the most formative, cruel, growing up years that anyone who has ever been a teenager endures. But, as most awkward teens find, the people you want to snog are always wrapped around someone not quite so awkward, which tends to fill one with the idea that one is, and forever shall be, intrinsically un-lovable. So, Marc Pepper, wherever you are, now that I am 30 and married, I forgive you.

The nostalgia I’ve been experiencing for the last few mornings has little to do with the hormonal mishaps of youth, however, but rather the memory of waking up in the forest in a vaguely damp sleeping bag (due to condensation, although there was always the temptation to dampen your bag personally rather than endure the trek to the outhouse in the middle of the night where you would undoubtedly be savaged by Screaming Jenny or the Dwayo or whatever hellish monster was reportedly waiting out there for you.) and watching the sun come up through the trees. The early morning trek down to the bath house where you’d endure a cold same-sex group shower (with everyone in bathing suits, of course) was the most brilliant way to wake up; the woods coming alive, the early sun on your face, the smell of pancakes drifting out from the cafeteria and the promise of a challenging day, whether it meant the gruelling all-day hike up Maryland Heights, the long canoe trip down river to Harper’s Ferry, or the slog through the forest to the swimming hole that was turn-you-inside-out cold.

My favourite part of the week was inevitably the last night when we moved all of our sleeping bags up to the campfire hill and spent the night, weather permitting, under the stars. There were always a lot of smores, dramatic, teary good-byes, stolen fumbly kisses, (I can only imagine) and laughter that was impossible to stop even when tired, cranky counsellors threatened to throw all offending parties on the bonfire. (The spirit of Christ, though meant to be present throughout the week, was wearing a little thin by Saturday night.)

I hope that when I have kids at that age, I can find somewhere in the woods to legally leave them for a week or two so they too can discover the joys and fellowship of the Great Outdoors.

But first, I’ll tell them about Screaming Jenny.

The Value of Charity

2005-09-05T10:37:00.000Z

Here’s a moral conundrum for you on a sticky Monday morning that the Rock Star and I chatted about over the weekend. It starts with an example:

Driving home from a gig on Friday night, around about 3.30am, we noticed what we thought to be a large sack of rubbish lying on the pavement about 200 yards ahead of us. However, when our headlights reached it, it turned out to be a guy lying on the pavement by the side of the road in the middle of just about nowhere with his head in the street and the rest of him on the sidewalk.

“That’s not good.” I said, as we came to a halt inches from the prone reveller.

The Rock Star told me to stay in the car and took his phone in case medical assistance was needed. Luckily, it wasn’t.

“You alright, mate?” the Rock Star ventured.

“Huh?” said the Guy Lying in the Street.

“You’re lying in the street, mate. Are you alright?”

“Oh yeah, man, I just got kinda tired.”

“Um, if you’re gonna sleep, maybe you’d like to do it in the grass over there?”

“No, man, where’s the fun in that?”

And with that The Guy Formerly Lying in the Street got up and happily wandered toward what we hope was his place of residence.

So here’s the thing: Does an act of charity still have the same worth depending on the motives behind it, or is it merely enough that it is an act that does good? The Rock Star and I stopped because…well, that’s what you do if you see a guy lying in the middle of nowhere on the pavement with his head in the road. He was kind of big and scary and neither of us actually WANTED to stop, but…that’s what you do. What I’m wondering is if we had stopped out of genuine desire to do good, would that be worth more morally in the Great Book of Whatever? Or is it enough that we stopped?

High Times

2005-09-04T18:27:00.000Z

Sundays are good days for adventures.

While sitting in the beer garden of a lovely local village pub, The Hairy One suddenly perks up from the bottom of his lager.

"Oh my god, we should go to the Field of Joy."

Fearing some masturbatory slacker slang, The Rock Star and I look at eachother with a certain amount of trepidation, however the rest of our party seemed keen on the idea as well, having already been aquainted with said piece of acreage.

"Erm, what?" ventured the Rock Star.

"It's the biggest field of weed you've ever seen in your life," replied Captain Hairy, with his trademark dirty smile.

The Hairy One pulled out his phone and proceeded to search through his photos to show us visual proof that nearby, there were in fact at least 3 football fields full of hemp. Having been convinced that that was a sight that we needed to see, we all piled in cars various (our slacker type friends in their mismatched, misfiring 70's era Beetles and us into our rather more comfortable, quiet and grown up Seat Altea) to go in search of this veritable field of dreams.

It is, of course, not of the smoking variety. A field of pot the size of Central London in rural Buckinghamshire would likely be noticed by the authorities sooner rather than later and by the local burnboys even sooner than that. The field in question is a field of male plants used in manufacturing of twine, fabric and other goods that people often buy at canal and rock festivals to show how subversive they are by purchasing goods "that are made out of weed, man."

The fields themselves were vast, looking rather more like they belonged in a jungle in Cuba rather than in the sedate English countryside. The Hairy One stared wistfully over the tops of the plants, speculating on the existance of a private stash of female plants in the centre of the crop. We dragged him away eventually. We love Captain Hairy, but being that he often is unable to find his ass with both hands tied behind his back, we were doubtful of his ability to distinguish the difference between two virtually identical plants.

The joys of country living.

Blogapotamus Rex

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"No, Mr. Bond.....I Expect You to Die."

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Back From The Dead

Adventures in Medicine: Part Three

The Blues Primer

Four Things

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Some Bleached Humor

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IT COULD BE YOU!!

MAS*H