This fruit is liable to snap.
Elizabeth! Your career may not be dead!!
Olympic moments #2: team synchronized swimming! Dance movements dreamt up by epileptics! Jello in their hair! Which is pulled back so tight as to provide insta-facelifts! Glitter! Make-up that's not so much dabbed on as it is applied via the back of a shovel! Waterproof to boot, and indeed looking like it would never come off even if you turn a high-powered hose on them! Which I would like to! Schnozzers pug-pinched with noseclips! Glitter! Creepy plastered on perma-smiles! It's just like Showgirls, except in water!
Wait. Showgirls was in water. There was dolphin sex and everything.
It's exactly like Showgirls!! (*Jazzhands*)
Every dog has its day.
An email (or the gist of it anyway) from Heather's dad:
"Heather had such a ruff, ruff weekend. First of all, she spent all day Saturday avoiding the evil vacuum cleaner, since I was on a mission to clean the house.
"After her traumatic day with the vacuum cleaner, she got a bath before bed. Then when we got up the next morning, we went out to T. and S.'s for the day to help them with their garden. Plus S. really wanted to see Heather. ["That man is unhealthily obsessed with Heather. And I'm one to talk." -- Ed.] When we arrived, we went to a local nursery, with Heather looking all pretty, and smelling really sweet. Lots of pets and scratches, therefore.
"After an hour of walking around the nursery, she seemed thirsty, so we walked her over to a pond to get a drink. She was so enthusiastic that she just ran headlong into the pond and fell in. I grabbed her and pulled her out, but she was then covered with black pond scum and smelled like poo. ["Good thing you really intended for her to drink out of the pond, then." -- Ed.] She looked like she had some sort of disease, and I'm sure people thought I was, like, an abusive dog owner. ["Cough." -- Ed.]
"I went to one of the workers and got a hose to spray her down. Well, she didn't enjoy that either. So now she's dripping wet and NOT HAPPY. We had to wait around until she dried and then returned to T. and S.'s house.
"She still smelled like shit, though, so we prepared to leave. But Heather was so anxious that she tried jumping into the car before the door was all the way open, and bumped her noggin loudly on the door. Once in the car, she laid in the back seat and looked very embarrassed.
"When we got home she got another bath. I gave her one of her treats but she was only slightly interested. She jumped up on the back of the couch ["Heather's favorite spot." -- Ed.] and stayed there the rest of the evening staring at me. Yeah, like it's my fault.
"She seemed fine the next morning. Plus she has a nice surprise waiting in store for her -- Tyson ["Heather's best friend, an impossibly happy, licky dog that Heather enjoys torturing." -- Ed.] arrives this week for a visit. Hopefully, this will make her forget her weekend of trauma."
Dare to dream, young men.
I conducted a meeting today at which I floated an idea for something we could do that would be pretty much completely new. I say again: completely new. Sure, it would be related to some of the stuff that we are doing, or have done before, but for the most part it would be something that we could invent from scratch.
The reactions were of the "Wait, how could we do this given the way we currently do things now?" variety. Um, because we could do it differently? Indeed, that we would have to do it differently since this is -- have I said this already? -- something different?
I don't know if "lack of vision" would be a fair way to describe the situation, but that's what I'm going with for the moment. And yes, I'm sorry I sound like a motivation calendar (when I would much rather sound like one of these products). But just allow me the moment, won't you?
Listening post.
I haven't written about music in forever, so I thought I would do a straightforward post about some of the things I've been listening to the past month or so (ever since I exhausted my stash from the summer). Also, it's Monday.
1. Kings of Convenience, Riot on an Empty Street. I found their previous studio album a little twee, but this one is...still twee, but it's really good: more slickly produced, Erlend's voice and the harmonies more crystalline than ever, the songs stronger. The lyric of "Homesick" fair brings a tear to me eye, and "The Build-Up" and especially "Know-How" uses Leslie Feist's voice to great effect: when the music stops and she sings, "Oh oh oh, what is there to know? Oh, this is what it is. Oh oh oh, you and me alone. Sheer simplicity," it's pretty close to sublime.
2. Bebel Gilberto, Bebel Gilberto. More in common with Kings of Convenience than might first appear: an obscure first album, followed by a successful international album and then a remix album, and now this. And like Kings, Bebel's second disc is better -- to me anyway. Most reviewers seem more excited by Tanto Tempo, and while that was indeed more spirited, this latest disc has an understated, subtle charm. Or maybe I'm just getting old and more easily than ever charmed by melancholic, stark songs of heartbreak that sometimes seem, even by the standards of bossa nova, practically whispered ("Next to you," "Every day you've been away," "Simplesmente").
3. Delays, Faded Seaside Glamour. "Long time coming"? Soaring vocals! Handclaps! Ignoring the slightly down lyric, this is like the joyous-est song of the...half-year, at least. The rest of the album doesn't quite come up to that lofty height, but it's still a Britpop album full of jangly goodness.
4. Feist, Let It Die. Probably my fave of the last few months. I was led here by Feist's work with Kings of Convenience, and this has in turn led me to hunting down Feist's rare first album, Monarch. That one's pretty raw and meh, but Let It Die is a lush, string-filled, jazzy, folky, torchy disc of originals and covers, English and French ditties. (I vaguely want to write a comparison of Feist and A Girl Called Eddy, the other recent album in this vein, and my dilemma about which album is better.) The fact that every other note sounds as if it is on the verge of going off-key -- especially on "Now at last" and "Amourissima" -- is part of its allure.
5. Emma Bunton, Free Me. The decision to reinvent Baby Spice as a 60s Emma Peelish, Bridget Bardotesque singer who croons Bondish ballads and Brazilian numbers was a stroke of genius. Simon Fuller, take your bow; meanwhile, I'll try to forget that you creepily schtupped her. Of course, the album does include some clunkers, which not coincidentally are the tracks that only sound like the 60s in vague, generic ways: "Amazing" (horribly schmaltzy) and "Who the hell are you" (sounds like warmed over Spice Girls ass). But "Crickets Sing for Anamaria" is brilliant despite -- or because -- it's quite a faithful cover. I don't know, by the way, why people say that the lyric is "fairly nonsense" (just because it's sung at breakneck speed?); it's obviously about a pregnant girl. Anyway, given what a stomper the "Crickets Sing for Anamaria" single is, with its complete adherence to samba/bossa nova (the mash-up [hee!] of "Crickets" and "Tequila" on that CD is irresistible fun), one can only fantasize about how much stronger the album could have been. Well, "fantasize," or "reburn the CD." Actually, the real fantasy would be if Saint Etienne wrote and produced Emma's next disc.
6. Kylie Minogue, Body Language Extras. Speaking of "reburning," this disc, a compilation of official b-sides and official mixes from the Body Language era, is released on the Brittle Lemon label. It also confirms that, brilliant b-side "Soul on fire" and rare but good Synth City mix of "Slow" aside, this era is -- or hopefully "was" -- Kylie's lamest for a while.
7. Beach House 04.04. This is always my favorite Hedkandi house series (as opposed to the downtempo Winter Chill). While that's still true this year -- this volume craps over this year's Disco Kandi and Twisted -- 04.04 isn't as stellar as, um, (in descending order) "04.03," "Volume 2," "04.02," but is a little better than "Volume 1." The tracks on -- 0101010, 00101001110, 00101010100010101011111010. Hey! It's fun to speak in numbers!
8. Mylo, Destroy Rock & Roll. The first track is called "Valley of the dolls." Sadly, it doesn't sample any of Neely's lines, but the rest of the album does swipe from Kim Carnes and Judy Tzuke. Next best thing, really. It's being talked up as this year's Royskopp or Daft Punk, but that's really just to say that it's 2004's fun, accessible dance album. Well, as long as it's not this year's Moby.
There's one perfect fit, and sugar, this one is it.
I had gotten a phone call and an email from out of the blue, and so before I knew it I was at dinner, last night, with some old friends from school. Like, three schools ago. As is often the case, the impetus was that someone who isn't normally in the country was. This time, it was actually two people: Sin, who has been living a life of leisure in Korea but soon heading to Shanghai, plus Commandant, who was back from Jakarta for the evening. But also at dinner was, among others, Editrix, Duckie, Feedback, Yen: people who I hadn't seen in ages (in the case of the last, for maybe fifteen years).
We all played catch-up, and it was sort of pleasant in a disconcerting way. At occasions like this, I always find myself unsure of how to respond to the "You haven't changed a bit!" exclamation. I mean, should I be disturbed to be told that I have apparently not developed an iota in the past few decades? Or be flattered that I allegedly have some essential core that resists the passage of time?
No doubt I'm overthinking it (hey, I haven't changed a bit!). Certainly, the specific contexts in which that exclamation came up -- it seems, for instance, as if I still have the same dry, deadpan sense of humor, according to Sin, who indeed remains the one who always comments on such things -- were complimentary enough. Still. I will at least need to train my face to respond in a less confused manner the next time I'm told that I am, essentially, immutable.
He's got a great forehand stroke. (Oh yes I did go there too.)
Olympic moments #1: I'm hardly the biggest sports fan, but even I have to love watching (or accidentally catching) the men's doubles table tennis match between Sweden and Denmark. Especially the moment between sets, when a sort-of cute Swedish player went off to the side of the court, laid down on his stomach, and pulled the back of his shorts down, thereby exposing his ass crack for millions around the world to see, so that I coul -- so that his trainer could give him a lower-back massage. The camera had no idea where to look.
The name of the player, according to the back of his jersey, was J-O Waldner. His Danish opponent was M. Tugwell. J-O vs. Tugwell. I try so hard not to be twelve, but really, come on now.
Worse than a poke in the eye.
To my esteemed colleague: look, you've got. To. Stop. With. The. Fucking. Winking.
First of all, it's almost inherently creepy and smarmy. You, "my good man" -- "my good man" being exactly the kind of creepy, smarmy expression that you, in your imaginarily infinite Britishness, would use without irony -- are already creepy and smarmy. You don't need any more help in that department. Trust me on this.
Furthermore, you may not have gotten the memo, but during the 5% of the time when winking is not creepy, it's all come-hither. Few people do this well, but I've had some experience of winks used to devastating effect. Please don't ruin the memories for me. You have no such talent, AND I really, really don't want to even contemplate you having such talent. Some of us at work, you might be interested to know, have played the "Death Is Not An Option" game, and you have never, ever been an option. If the idea that you are winking for the sake of sexiness even crosses my mind, I will have to poke MY eyes out.
Unintended consequences aside, I'm ashamed to say that I know what exactly you're thinking and doing. You use your wink as some sort of gesture of affiliation. When we are sitting around in meetings, and you start looking around the room and winking like you've got shit in your eye -- entirely possible, since you're so full of it that it's probably pouring out of every available orifice -- I know you are doing this to draw lines in the room. I'm winking at you! You and I are on the same side! These others are fools! We are brothers bonded in our ocular disorders!
Er, no, asshole. I seldom agree with the nonsense you sprout. Really, I'll never be on your side, not least of all because your huge ass leaves no room on your side. I also don't think it's an accident that you do most of your winking when it's a woman speaking. Sure, Czarina was going on a little, but you could try listening and responding to her points instead of sticking your spastic eyeball in everyone else's face in your pathetic attempt to form some sort of old boys' club that won't allow women into your treehouse to play.
So, really, stop it now. I've got a pencil and I'm increasingly unafraid to use it.
I may also have won a million dollars.
Damn it. Apparently my computer's clock may not be accurate.
I can't wait for google's pop-up killer to be Mac-compatible.
Woofer twofer.
This restaurant I was in a few days ago had, like, the best idea ever. One bun: two hotdogs. Genius! Why did mankind take so long to come up with that? Once we invented double cheeseburgers, two scoops of ice cream in one cone, and...um...club sandwiches, this really should have been a logical next step at a much earlier point of human evolution. Still, better late than never.
Even more genius than the actual concept and execution -- although I am only guessing about the latter, because oddly none of us, though excited, actually ordered the double treat -- is how the restaurant chose to market it: with this cute little hand-drawn illustration. The dog was the only one honored with a doodle on the menu. I kind of wanted more drawings in that vein (for the lambchops, say?), but I guess it was more special this way.
So I loved it, and made Sprockets take a pic with her cameraphone. Lana, on the other hand, wasn't a big fan of the wavy lines; they made the dish seem, she said, "like a steaming pile of turd." But, lady, it would be two piles of turd! What's not to like?
Born yesterday.
First things first: a very happy belated birthday to Leo, who became wiser yesterday. Apparently she didn't get one of the gifts she wanted; held up in delivery. Sorry.
Being born yesterday means that Leo is a, um, Leo. She's pretty into all that star sign shit; me, not so much. Not that I can avoid stumbling, every now and then, on a horoscope. A few weeks ago, my daily forecast on excite.com called for scattered showers, and also informed me that I need to "keep my eyes out" because I was likely to meet "someone special" that day. Great. Got it. Unfortunately, I only read the blurb at the end of the day, so it really wasn't so much predictive astrology as it was a retrospective taunt.
And then there's this, my horoscope for the week:
To hint at the potentials of the coming week, I'll appropriate the words of avant-garde music composer and author, John Cage. In describing his work, he once said, "I have nothing to say/ and I am saying it/ and that is poetry." Here's an altered version, created specially to suit your current astrological needs: You have nothing to do/ and you are doing it/ and that's your genius.
WTF? Seriously, now: WTF? Is that supposed to be flattering? I do nothing...but I do it well? And that, of all places, is where my genius lies? My friend Lana tried to convince me that it's a marvellous horoscope -- she says it's something to do with my being Zen-like -- and I just don't know it. Well, that would fit, since apparently I do and know nothing. Given that I have a job, which has kept me plenty busy recently, it's a little hard to see how doing nothing well is a good thing. Hell, it's hard to imagine that characterization being a positive one for anybody. Well, maybe Paris Hilton.
Talking of birthdays, today is also the big day for this glorious nation. I so don't care. Wait, that's not completely true: we have the day off as a result, so I care a little bit. In a while the grand national day parade will begin; judging by billboards all over this city's busstops, the parade is partly sponsored by Tiger Beer, which I find very disturbing. Especially because the ads show a can of beer being popped open, and then these huge-ass fireworks explode out of the can. I'm thinking that would be a bit of a rude shock even for the most drunken of us.
But the worst thing about National Day here -- and there are so many things to choose from -- is that the airwaves get saturated with patriotic national songs. There's a whole line-up of them, accumulated over the years, and each year they battle to get into the rotation. This year they're at least bringing back one of the better ones, called "Home." It has an okay melody, a lyric that only makes you want to spew vomit instead of blood (my fave line: "This is home, Shirley"), and was even originally sung by a local singer who I think is quite talented.
Sadly, however, they couldn't leave well enough alone. They've shot a new ad for the song, in which said talented singer has been replaced by a group of children. Cause children are the future! Teach them well and let them lead the way! Heavily featured in the spot is a little girl, who starts the song before all the other litle angels join in. And Spawn sings the song completely off-key, because that's cute! It is! We all know this, because we've had so many experiences where off-key singing by children is cute, and not at all coyingly grating! Because childhood innocence is all about the inability to tell the difference between C-sharp and B-flat! (Feeling masochistic? Download the Linda Blair-voiced version from here.)
Come here, little girl. I've got several ways to help you hit the right notes, and don't worry if all of them involve my hands around your throat.
Feline groovy.
For a minute I thought I had become a father. I was heading to my parents' for dinner, and passing by the void deck of their apartment building -- yes, the same void deck where people often hold weddings and funerals -- I heard a loud bawling. It sounded exactly -- exactly, exactly like a baby's crying. So naturally I thought someone had abandoned a newborn child, in a handbag, or something. I was quite ready to claim it as my own; there are, after all, worse ways to become a parent. Such as giving birth.
The source of the sound turned out to be weirder. It was coming from a cat, who was engaged in a contest of wills with another. They were staring each other down, no doubt in a territorial fight. The more aggressive of the cats was just letting loose with that crying baby sound. It was really kind of unnerving. Indeed, after being hypnotized by them for a good few minutes -- throughout which the bawling continued, without the cat even needing to take a breath -- I finally had to walk up to the cats to scuttle them and stop the madness.
The breath control of cats, as most of their owners know, can be pretty amazing, not to mention their wide repertory of sounds. Having lived -- more or less, when it pleased him to do so -- with Fox, the flopped-ear cat for several years in Boston, I grew very adept at distinguishing between meows: the meow that says "scratch my throat, please" is very different from the one that means "let me out now, fucker." Still, every now and then, Fox, nothing if not full of surprises, would let out a sound that would have been previously unheard. My favorite occurred when I returned after a long time away, and Fox came running up from some distance to me, all the while letting out a very, very loooonnng meow of pleasure. I almost burst into tears, and I would so love to hear that meow again some day.
Meanwhile, I found out today that my niece's hamsters had babies -- seven of them at the beginning of dinner at my parents', six at the end when my niece coincidentally called. Their dad has been banished to a different cage to prevent him from eating his own babies, and, after a week, the kids have finally opened their eyes. The very picture of a happy family.
Hotheaded.
Why is it that, even after furtively looking around the public restroom a few times to make sure that no one is around before you try to remedy the fact that your hair somehow got wet, someone has to walk in the second you stick your entire head under the hand dryer?
