You've probably seen this. But still, you've gotta love it.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
Oosquai?
Mood: English Breakfast Tea!
Listening To: 'Gang of Gin,' Babyshambles
Reading: Wilt, Tom Sharpe
Eating: Toast, with Butter and Honey
Drinking: English Breakfast Tea!
I don't know about you, but I have a thing about drinking tea. Love it. Especially if I can sit beside a hot wood-burning stove and have a ginger kitty with pretty green eyes curl up in my lap with a sort of very peculiar expression which nevertheless expresses 'you know, this is a very high honour that I am conferring upon you. Now, pet me,' exceedingly well.
I do love him, though. He does respond to a whistle, which is more than most cats will do.
Maybe it's a trait peculiar to green eyed blonds. That is, the demand for petting, not the response to whistling.
I've decided to go on a reading kick. I'm completely horrified at the things I've been writing lately, and I don't see a reason to go on unless I hit the 'reset' button. And so, I close my satire comedies, put away Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, Tom Sharpe, even Mikhail Bulgakov, and reach for my good old fashioned anthologies.
Despite this all, I'm still looking forward to a natty piece of political fantasy that's meant to come out in July. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.
I want to leave you with a pretty picture. So have one, just for you.
Biscuit biscuit!
Listening To: 'Gang of Gin,' Babyshambles
Reading: Wilt, Tom Sharpe
Eating: Toast, with Butter and Honey
Drinking: English Breakfast Tea!
I don't know about you, but I have a thing about drinking tea. Love it. Especially if I can sit beside a hot wood-burning stove and have a ginger kitty with pretty green eyes curl up in my lap with a sort of very peculiar expression which nevertheless expresses 'you know, this is a very high honour that I am conferring upon you. Now, pet me,' exceedingly well.
I do love him, though. He does respond to a whistle, which is more than most cats will do.
Maybe it's a trait peculiar to green eyed blonds. That is, the demand for petting, not the response to whistling.
I've decided to go on a reading kick. I'm completely horrified at the things I've been writing lately, and I don't see a reason to go on unless I hit the 'reset' button. And so, I close my satire comedies, put away Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, Tom Sharpe, even Mikhail Bulgakov, and reach for my good old fashioned anthologies.
Despite this all, I'm still looking forward to a natty piece of political fantasy that's meant to come out in July. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.
I want to leave you with a pretty picture. So have one, just for you.
Biscuit biscuit!
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Unrequited
Isn't it depressing to be madly in love with someone who has absolutely no interest in you? Well, I know how you feel. I, personally, am completely and utterly infatuated with Sherlock Holmes. And, well...we all know he's busy shooting cocaine and chasing phosphorus-covered hounds.Just thought you all should know that.
And no teasing about my penchant for gangly men.
But he really is unbearably sexy. And I'm not talking about Basil Rathbone or Jeremy Brett, though they are rather edible in their own rights. I'm talking about grouchy, masterful, drug-addicted, sharp-cheekboned, tobacco smoking, heavy-drinking, Watson-waking, fist-fighting Sherlock Holmes, with his strange mood for scratching horrible sounds out of the violin as well as sonorous melodies, periods of languid inaction, his habits of keeping his tobacco in his Persian slippers and his mail pinned in his mantelpiece with a knife. I absolutely adore him.
So there.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Rumpelstiltskin!!!
Erm...I'm not entirely certain what possessed me to call this post that, but I've just had a singularly strong cup of Irish Breakfast, so you're going to have to bear with me, here. Dre, mah dolly, I am sorry I didn't post pics soon, but the skin is just healing up, and I'm able to go swimming. Yay.
Oh. Hey, you guys. I am Getting into Shape. Yes, yes. Well, this week, I am. I realised that I have gooey bits that I'm not happy about. Don't get me wrong, I like certain bits of me to be not-so-tucked and firm, but there is a certain Individual Who Will Remain Unnamed who constantly makes me feel her muscles. And I feel...diminutive. So I shall therefore...do a couple crunches and pushups and swim a little, to make myself feel better.
The only trouble is, I would really love to play footy. We've just set up some poles in the back yard to make a pitch, but the game comes round when I'm getting dinner ready. So. I shall...simply have to go to the gym.
Yes. The gym.
The Man with the Camera is coming home soon, so I shall snag him to take a couple snaps of my new inky splotch, so consider yourself warned.
I have NOT been writing poetry.
I am re-reading the Gulistan of S'adi, hoping it will get me back into the groove, but I am also interspersing it with paragraphs of So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish, so that'll probably go to pot.
Anyhow.
I'm so free, livin' right under this coconut tree.
Oh. Hey, you guys. I am Getting into Shape. Yes, yes. Well, this week, I am. I realised that I have gooey bits that I'm not happy about. Don't get me wrong, I like certain bits of me to be not-so-tucked and firm, but there is a certain Individual Who Will Remain Unnamed who constantly makes me feel her muscles. And I feel...diminutive. So I shall therefore...do a couple crunches and pushups and swim a little, to make myself feel better.
The only trouble is, I would really love to play footy. We've just set up some poles in the back yard to make a pitch, but the game comes round when I'm getting dinner ready. So. I shall...simply have to go to the gym.
Yes. The gym.
The Man with the Camera is coming home soon, so I shall snag him to take a couple snaps of my new inky splotch, so consider yourself warned.
I have NOT been writing poetry.
I am re-reading the Gulistan of S'adi, hoping it will get me back into the groove, but I am also interspersing it with paragraphs of So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish, so that'll probably go to pot.
Anyhow.
I'm so free, livin' right under this coconut tree.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Captains
Let's be honest...they're dead sexeh.
1. Captain von Trapp
2. Captain Jack Sparrow
3. Captain Morgan
4. Captain Wolf Larsen
5. Captain Blood
6. Captain Hook
And I'm sure there are many more. Even Queen Elizabeth had her own personal little rogue privateer in Sir Francis Drake.
Sorry, I was just taking some time out of my busy schedule to think about how lovely Christopher Plummer is. And then I started thinking about The Sea Wolf, and of course Jason Isaacs and Johnny Depp couldn't help but poke their fat heads in.
None of this is my fault. Someone wanted to know what I think is sexy. So I started thinking about sexy people.
Damn it.
1. Captain von Trapp
2. Captain Jack Sparrow
3. Captain Morgan
4. Captain Wolf Larsen
5. Captain Blood
6. Captain Hook
And I'm sure there are many more. Even Queen Elizabeth had her own personal little rogue privateer in Sir Francis Drake.
Sorry, I was just taking some time out of my busy schedule to think about how lovely Christopher Plummer is. And then I started thinking about The Sea Wolf, and of course Jason Isaacs and Johnny Depp couldn't help but poke their fat heads in.
None of this is my fault. Someone wanted to know what I think is sexy. So I started thinking about sexy people.
Damn it.
Mangroves in Drought
a crisp, new note, drawn out
far longer than it should have been.
i cast my net without a thought
for what i might drag in.
far longer than it should have been.
i cast my net without a thought
for what i might drag in.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Some Kind of Incendiary Device
Mood: Resigned
Listening To: 'Call Me on Your Way Back Home,' Ryan Adams
Reading: An address
Watching: Layer Cake
Eating: Bunnies
Drinking: Nog
I'm thinking, this song is one of the best-written depressing angst songs in the world. 'Well, I miss you. Honey, ain't nothin' new' is one of the greatest pieces of strategic simplicity in the world. The gentle, bluesy guitar in the background, the occasional off note in his voice, it's all a fantastic way to reach into your gut and tug something. Even if you've never felt what he's singing about, he's got a way of making you know exactly what he's talking about. And feel pretty sodding glad that you don't have to deal with it.
Honestly, this is probably a really bad attitude coming from someone who's torn consistently between being a hopeful, bright-eyed romantic and a complete misogynistic cynic, but I am so glad I've never been as miserable as he is in this song. 'I just wanna die without you.' I mean, we've all been a bit depressed when someone's gone, maybe even felt physically ill for a couple of days or something, and yes, wanting to roll over and not do anything much for a while, I understand. But something of that measure? Sounds like someone with absolutely no foresight. Or perhaps too much.
See, there? That last bit is the ruddy romantic in me. Wretched little bint, who thinks everything's daisies and sunflowers, and rivers of jasmine tea.
I had a dream last night, that I was Russell Crowe, that I was walking round a sheep ranch, and that some little outback bandit stabbed me in the neck, and it wasn't fatal, but it was fairly annoying, and some quack doctor said that I was going to die over a matter of months.
Which brings me to the next song on my playlist, that is, 'Wild Horses' by the Stones. I do love this song. The fact that Jagger tugged this out of his substance-befuddled brain after writing so many sex, drugs, and rawk'n'roll songs is really admirable. I mean...honestly, now, something as soulful and easy going, and...there.
Anyhow, I'm picky about lyrics. Good ones. The right ones smack you upside the head, without the pain, just a slow, safe realisation that 'holy Mary, this is some good stuff.' The rubbish ones do the same thing, but with a very quick, very unwholesome feeling of 'oh Lord, someone actually had to write this dreck.'
The first time I heard the song 'We Are the World' I had that feeling. 'Someone...a real human being...had to come up with this, and finance it, produce and record it, and all that nonsense.' I was very depressed for about five minutes, after which something better came on, and I felt a little better.
But, to end this nonsense on a happier note, I am going to go inflict upon myself some pain, which I can then languidly enjoy for the next two weeks. Bring on the languor.
Listening To: 'Call Me on Your Way Back Home,' Ryan Adams
Reading: An address
Watching: Layer Cake
Eating: Bunnies
Drinking: Nog
I'm thinking, this song is one of the best-written depressing angst songs in the world. 'Well, I miss you. Honey, ain't nothin' new' is one of the greatest pieces of strategic simplicity in the world. The gentle, bluesy guitar in the background, the occasional off note in his voice, it's all a fantastic way to reach into your gut and tug something. Even if you've never felt what he's singing about, he's got a way of making you know exactly what he's talking about. And feel pretty sodding glad that you don't have to deal with it.
Honestly, this is probably a really bad attitude coming from someone who's torn consistently between being a hopeful, bright-eyed romantic and a complete misogynistic cynic, but I am so glad I've never been as miserable as he is in this song. 'I just wanna die without you.' I mean, we've all been a bit depressed when someone's gone, maybe even felt physically ill for a couple of days or something, and yes, wanting to roll over and not do anything much for a while, I understand. But something of that measure? Sounds like someone with absolutely no foresight. Or perhaps too much.
See, there? That last bit is the ruddy romantic in me. Wretched little bint, who thinks everything's daisies and sunflowers, and rivers of jasmine tea.
I had a dream last night, that I was Russell Crowe, that I was walking round a sheep ranch, and that some little outback bandit stabbed me in the neck, and it wasn't fatal, but it was fairly annoying, and some quack doctor said that I was going to die over a matter of months.
Which brings me to the next song on my playlist, that is, 'Wild Horses' by the Stones. I do love this song. The fact that Jagger tugged this out of his substance-befuddled brain after writing so many sex, drugs, and rawk'n'roll songs is really admirable. I mean...honestly, now, something as soulful and easy going, and...there.
Anyhow, I'm picky about lyrics. Good ones. The right ones smack you upside the head, without the pain, just a slow, safe realisation that 'holy Mary, this is some good stuff.' The rubbish ones do the same thing, but with a very quick, very unwholesome feeling of 'oh Lord, someone actually had to write this dreck.'
The first time I heard the song 'We Are the World' I had that feeling. 'Someone...a real human being...had to come up with this, and finance it, produce and record it, and all that nonsense.' I was very depressed for about five minutes, after which something better came on, and I felt a little better.
But, to end this nonsense on a happier note, I am going to go inflict upon myself some pain, which I can then languidly enjoy for the next two weeks. Bring on the languor.
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