October 2002 Archives
From Popbitch: "Soulwax are recording an album of their own material with uber-engineer Flood." Potentially interesting. Flood's done Depeche Mode, Cave, U2, Virgin Prunes, NIN.
Just spent two Amazon gift certificates on: "My Fair Lady (1956 Original Broadway Cast)" and "Dr. Dolittle: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack" (both originals of which I have on vinyl... awfully scratched), and "The Sound of Music (1965 Film Soundtrack)". For sappy days.
Conceptual Metaphor Home Page... interesting, must explore.
I've been "weblogging" at prolific.org for 3 years this month as you can see in these old archives. It feels more like 7.
I had a second 'omigod' moment today that I can't say too much about. In vague terms: two friends of mine lost something valuable that they made in 1988. They knew someone who should have a copy of it, but lost touch with them. Two years ago, I located this person (quite easily, to be honest) and with some gentle prompting over the last two years, it's paid off. Today, I found the lost item in my mailbox. It'll make a great Christmas present.
Omigod omigod, I just burned 450 mb to a CD-R in about 2 minutes 50 seconds. *dances around like mad woman*. Yes, I know this is all old hat to you all, but when you've had a faulty burner for about 2 years and have NEVER been able to burn a proper disc, this is like the second coming. *runs off to try it again* Wheeeee, worked again. Happy now.
For two years I've been stuck with an external (USB) HP burner that doesn't work (9 out of 10 discs fail). I need one for the book I'm writing, as I have to listen to a lot of concert recordings and cannot store them on my (too small) hard discs. Being unemployed means I cannot afford buying a new computer (which is what I really need) so today I forked out 70 Euro for an AOpen CRW 4048 burner. Powers that be... please, let the thing work for me. (After I figure out how to install it... cause this booklet doesn't really tell me anything.)
"I didn't like the heat, didn't like the dust, didn't like the accents, didn't like the outdoor lifestyle, didn't like the fact there was no telly." Swish Cottage on moving to South Africa and coming back, briefly touching upon the 'what if' scenario.
One of my favourite shows loses its face. I can't imagine HIGNFY without Angus Deayton, but vote for Stephen Fry to replace him. Also, I want to shout "hypocrites", but that would mean I'd have to formulate an opinion and my higher brain functions don't seem to be... functioning.
Irish band The Frames seem to be breaking Holland at the moment. They've been around a good while. I've got a copy of the album they brought out when they were signed to Island in 1991, and this is my favourite song from that album: Before You Go. You'll hear a little bit of that Irish "nyaaah" in it. Bless em, they've put the entire album, "Another Love Song" on line.
Time wasting: searching Kazaa for Tuesday Blue, Light a big fire, Blue in Heaven, the Subterraneans, The Gorehounds, A House...
Direct Connect... why doesn't anybody tell me there's a new peer to peer file sharing thingy around?
I saw my very first episode of "Dark Angel" (the series that got cancelled in favour of Firefly) on Dutch TV. It was pretty bad... and exactly the kind of thing I loved watching in my tweens. Now it just makes me laugh, but I'd probably still watch it, if I still hung out in front of the box a lot with oceans of time to kill.
{1977 - click to enlarge}
Left or right, wherever I look, I see faces I recognise. Most often, they don't recognise me, or only vaguely. I thought I stood out, at the time, but my best friend from those days is greeted more enthusiastically than I am.
Unless they are teachers. The minute I walk into the old school building, I hear my name and my old Dutch teacher kisses me on the cheeks. All evening they approach me and need no prompting for my name.
Are teachers supposed to kiss ex-pupils? We were a strict, protestant, school. Not strict enough to prevent me from hugging my biology teacher - a popular man with the women. He's resplendent in soft pink shirt and lambswool slipover, camp as a door now that he's come out with a big fat two fingers up to the school's hard core Reformed board.
We make our way to our designated classroom, immediately bumping into a few other members of our old clique. "Hey, how've you been, what'cher up to?" Lives and loves exchanged, I stay a little on the fringe of things. Nothing's changed there.
Everybody looks like mums and they're waving images of offspring around. Home bred and adopted, pictures of Dutch and exotic health.
Most of the cool kids still are cool, most of the nerds have grown into their once awkward skins, most of the teachers have gone bald and most of all I realise I never did grow roots in this place, seven years notwithstanding.
"Hey did you ever write that book? Didn't you want to write?" says someone whose name I don't remember. I'd no idea that had been on my mind in school.
The thing I remember being on my mind mostly is said to be hanging out on the first floor. With an enthusiasm I remember from my teenage years I bolt down the stairs to find him.
When I finally spot him, walking behind me, I lose my bottle and continue to eye him from a distance. Just like the teenage stalker that I was, 25 years ago. He doesn't seem to recognise me, or perhaps he doesn't want to. I wouldn't be surprised.
He hasn't changed a bit. A little older, true.
"Go talk to him," my friend says, but I refuse to. "Don't be stupid," she pulls me towards him, but I keep refusing until she gives up.
I'm not sure what keeps me from talking to him, or it has to be my great embarrassment at having subjected him to five years of my ridiculous - some called it morbid - obsession.
Or perhaps knowing that it would happen all over again. One look was enough to make me realise he hasn't lost that "thing", his actor looks, the walk, the arrogance.
Or maybe I'm just too afraid he'd say: "I'm sorry, I don't remember."
We don't hold back when we are younger, do we? We love like zealots, with an intensity we'll never be able to conjure up again for the rest of our adult lives. We hurt more and we scar more easily. Our first loves, however unrequited, stay with us in that little place inside us where we keep the moments of our lives that shape us.
I wasn't alone in my obsession. There were two of us, friends because we couldn't help but recognise a fellow stalker. We hounded the poor man wherever he went. We knew his schedule by heart, knew where and when to be at any given time to catch a glimpse of him. We hid in bushes, stood on street corners, went to church if he went, took pictures, tried to switch classes... you name it, we did it. We had so much fun, some of our other friends joined in just for the thrill.
I think I'm afraid he does remember.
"Ok, but I never want to hear a word about it, ever again," she says, obviously disgusted with my cowardice.
She drags me along to another face she recognises. "You fancied him, too," she says and I've no memory of it at all until we're in the middle of our quite pleasant conversation with him. "I remember now," I blurt out, "You used to bully me!"
He did. Relentlessly, he used to call me names around the tennis court. I still thought he was cool, with the expensive Head tennis gear, the monty coat, the little moped he used to ride. He's rather lovely now and not in the least contrite about his past mistakes.
We all gather for the Year photos, class of '82, the largest group shot that day. I have another drink, munch on the frozen canapes and quite frankly, can't wait to go home.
Just before closing time, I muster up some courage and sweep the first and second floor in search of my teenage crush.
Too late. He's left.
Never to be mentioned again. Ever.
{ 2002 }
See Harris on Parky? So impressive.
And all the while I'm blissfully unaware we're suffering the worst storm in 12 years, apparently some people have died, there's an emergency situation in Utrecht and the situation here in Amsterdam's life threatening. Part of Central Station's roof's collapsed and trees are toppling left and right. There's no public transport. Police suggest we all stay indoors. The windows were rattling in the afternoon, but mostly I've noticed very little. My dad rang to see if I was allright, I had to check some news sites to see what was going on. Windforce 11, 130km/h. I'm hearing sirens now.
Don't know why? Stormy Weather, Judy Garland.
Lovely Eric Gill prints, via Kookymojo.
Tried to get BlogAmp to work a few months ago, but it just crashed WinAmp. Encouraged by Hg's success I tried again. Results further down the page on your right. Bit messy still.
Anyone else having strange time/date problems with Blogger?
My music collection, in a nifty text file. (sigh, lots of doubles in there)
The Streets hit America. It's not really Sunday morning music, but feck it, I'll put it on anyway.
This is good. (but it's in Dutch, sorry)
What I want for Christmas, if that wasn't obvious already: The Fellowship of the Ring [Extended Version] - Four Disc Set
I don't know any of the artists on this CD: POPNEWS 2002 -compilation-, but one. Must have it.
Kara Ben Nemsi! In a 'my dagger's bigger than yours' moment. It really is all very pre-Captain Kirk. Who, of course, was another crush.
I don't think the "Winnetou and Old Shatterhand" phenomenon is known outside of Europe. Two "wild west" characters created by a juvenile delinquent German writer (Karl May, he got done for scraping candle wax drippings!) who'd never set foot outside Germany. In his books a German bloke travels to the States, surveying for a train company. He befriends the local Apache tribe's Chief's son, they become bloodbrothers, he gets the nickname "Old Shatterhand" and the two have many exciting adventures involving tons of quirky characters. The tearjerker end of it all is Winnetou dies, proclaiming his undying love for our German hero. Sniff. Who promptly fucks off to North Africa and becomes Kara ben Nemsi, hero of the desert! I think he picks up an Arab servant too. It's all very un-PC, in no less than 50 lovely books. Delicious. Yes, read most of them, no don't remember much, it's been a while.
And... again, here with Old Shatterhand, Karl May's HoYayHeroes on an anti-racism poster. Shatterhand was played by good old Lex Barker (another fine thing), who used to be Tarzan. Also crushable.
There's so much out there... Winnetou.tv.
I'm having a hard time remembering my crushes. I mentioned Sean Connery on Meg's site. Digging deeper in my murky memories I am ashamed to find David Soul. Then there was Paul Newman. And for a brief, very brief time, Paul Simon. I seem to have had a thing for Jewish blokes. Ah... also: Peter O'Toole and that blonde Italian actor who did comedy westerns with a fat bloke sidekick. Can't think of his name. Way before that, when I was even liddler, I think Pierre Bryce. Was that his name? The bloke who played Winnetou in the Karl May westerns. And, of course, Dutch readers, there was Sindala.
Heh, I like that: "Home is where the heart is broken".
Kind of bugs me the kids are going to remember the man for his work in that piece of crap, Harry Potter. Farewell, Mr Harris.
Blogger hacked. Not good. Crap acting class. Not good. Two day migraine (the full works, bluuurgh). Not. good.
... also, from AtS S4, two tunes by our favourite green demon, Lorne. Move over Ms Labelle and Mr Frog.
Don't download this if you want to be squeaky clean for Buffy S7. It's a song Joss Whedon wrote while he was working on the Firefly premiere. He wrote it in one evening. Don't you just hate that guy.
"Winter is cold and bitter..." I think that's Sarah McLachlan. I simply refuse to turn on the heater just yet. Must. endure. temperature. I'm hoping tonight's acting lessons will 1. warm me up and 2. take this funk off me. I should feel a lot brighter than I actually do. Instead, there's this sense of impending dread.
Hey, Zeldman's redesigning. My eyes hurt, but he promises future colour changing switch.
Today I finally put things in motion regarding the U2 book I'll be working on for the next 5 months. Set up a mailing list and a blog (soon to go live under U2book.com, can you believe that was still available?). I feel like a bit of a cheat since I'm going about things so totally different from how the book's original writer did it, but that was then, this is now, and we haven't exactly got bucketloads of time to do it all. Technology is definitely our friend these days. Now if you'll all excuse me, I've got 200+ concerts to listen to.
All hail Chris (do you feel loved?) for tipping me off on this Felix da Housecat remix cd: Madame Hollywood / Silver Screen Remixes. It just came in in a way too large box from Amazon, I'm on track ONE and I'm already digging this. Just what the doctor ordered.
If you like the movies and believe in the magic of Hollywood, don't read Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex-Drugs-and-Rock 'n' Roll Generation Saved Hollywood. It gets rave reviews on Amazon and on the book's sleeve, but I don't see how anyone would want to read about Francis Ford Coppola's rutting or any of the other celeb directors and writers' appallingly sordid lives. If you have Raging Bull, Taxi Driver, Apocalypse Now, The Last Picture Show on your favourite movie list and if you respect the likes of George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Marty Scorcese and Robert Altman... avoid at all cost.
Paul Simon said it right: "Gee, but it's great to be back home."
Back on Monday, darlings. I will be well and truly nowhere near a computer for the next three days for the first time since... I don't want to know when. Unless I give my 'rents the slip, of course, and find the island's net cafe.
I just watched T'Pol, Archer, Sato AND Porthos gel each other up in a dream sequence decon scene in Enterprise -- "A Night In Sickbay". Disturbing.
UK readers... if you happen to be in a newsagent and come across the November edition of Buffy magazine (UK), give us a shout - would really like a copy of this.
The end of the Suede article on your left is badly written. I promise I'll rewrite it. (Update: done. Better. A bit.)
Added two pictures to The Mirror Project: 1, 2.
Dutch cabinet's about to fall. Prol scratches belly and yawns as country falls apart and turns into Italy. Perhaps the food will be better now.
I must hear this album: Sugababes covering "Killer" and David McAlmont singing "Back for Good"!
It's not that I've nothing to write about. I mean, come on, a school reunion, old friends, an old flame, a meeting with my publisher, a new deadline, the fucking awful weather... thing is I'm consumed by coughing fits. Ridiculous, painful, inhuman sounding coughing fits that are triggered by breathing. So if I can just stop breathing for a while, I'm fine.
They That Go Down To The Sea In Ships: "I wonder how they were set adrift, how their families had dissipated and their photographs, once precious mementoes of loved ones, had been consigned to the postcard box at the flea market." A website devoted to a collection of old photographs of sailors from the early 20th century.
"We all believe in Amsterdam
Paris and Spain and Vietnam
No one believed you when you said your heart was blue"
A few weeks ago, a friend and I discussed Bowie's latest over the phone. "I'm disappointed with "Heathen"", he said, "It sounds like... Suede, or something."
I grinned. But I like Suede. Even if I go to their concerts with a bundle of snark in the back pocket.
I like Suede even if Brett's looking more and more like a tired rentboy in his tight little t shirt and 501's covering his bony knees. The pale bare flesh on his arms trembles like cold jello on a plate. Thank god he doesn't twist his arse around like some demented dog anymore. He's 35, he's off god knows what he used to ingest, inhale, inject. Or so he says.
"Speed," says J., looking at the man, convinced. Brett IS grotesque, every movement larger than life as if he's playing Wembley Stadium, not this tired old club in Amsterdam. We all laugh, but I know frontmen don't need drugs on stage to be like this. Their own body works up a cocktail of secretions potent enough to kill an elephant. Time, up there, moves different, out of synch with the strangers in front of them. Singers waste energy trying to get us to catch up.
He's perched on top of one of the monitors, being a lad. A poofy lad. He's an odd one, that Brett, remember him gasping for headlines with his Bowiesque proclamations. "I'm a bisexual who's never had a homosexual experience." Load of toss.
"Pants off!" I say not loud enough for anyone but my friends to hear. In Dutch. It's "a thing".
Mid concert a friend's girlfriend spots us and comes over all hugs and kisses. "I'll tell G. you are here!" she yells in my ear. G. appears somewhat later, drink in hand, somewhat past it already. Stretching on tip toes I spot another friend where I knew she'd be. Up front taking photographs.
For a second the concert takes the backseat as I contemplate how grounded I feel, how much at home I am, here with my mates in my city, still doing what we were always doing. See gigs, drink beer, talk crap. Trust me to get maudlin when everybody's jumping up and down to Brett's directions.
Behind me S. and J. are discussing the one friend who would have been here, should have been here, but isn't. Suede launch into "The Wild Ones".
"There's a song playing on the radio
Sky high in the airwaves on the morning show
And there's a lifeline slipping as the record plays
And as I open the blinds in my mind I'm believing that you could stay"
But he didn't, did he? I get ready for my tears, but Brett ruins it in his ridiculous quest for community singing. He runs along the edge of the stage, encouraging fans to sing and clap, to be the perfect audience, to be what he wants. I wish he'd concentrate on his songs and let us be, let the concert be. Suede have forgotten how to be subtle live, if ever they were. They were. I remember time suspended, love, life and everything bursting within while listening to the Autobahn thrum of 'Europe is our playground'.
Perhaps it's fear, perhaps that's why he treats the audience as one entity. If he saw us as individuals, people with urban stories to tell much like the ones in his own songs, perhaps then he'd find that connection he doesn't know he craves. Focus on that one person swaying to your song, not the indistinguishable mass of hands raised up by your command.
Still, after the snark, the fact remains: we like Suede. It's something we share, something that isn't the size of a planet, like U2. Something that is just about the size of us.
"now planes write your name up in the sky
flowers died for your suicide
trains stopped in vain and the pain stopped for you"
Guilty Pleasure: Swedish metal band "The Leather Nun" covering Abba's Gimme Gimme Gimme. Also... their "Desolation Avenue" (Real Audio).
Black velvet 'comin atcha' on a Saturday night, spikes the brain, makes everything all right.
Hugs and Puppies -- Feeling the Buffy Love (I posted as 'eachman')
My dad turns 69 this month and myself and the rents are going on a weekend trip to the island of Ameland (off the north coast of the Netherlands) to celebrate. This fills me with 1. Horror. I haven't been on holiday with parents in 20 years. 2.Annoyance: I will be off line for four days. 3. FOUR days. With my parents. It's like purgatory. Without the central heating. 4. Excitement: I'm thinking 'photo opportunities!' Plus, I've never been to Ameland before.
I'm having lunch with my publisher on Friday. (Oh, indulge me for a second, it just sounds good and I need the little boost.) He's flying in from London and we're picking him up from Schiphol Airport. "We don't know what we look like," he said and I answered: "Oh, just look for the two fat chinese/indonesian looking people." He laughed. "You're not vain then, eh? OK, I'll look for the... well built people."
Annoying things parents say, part I: "You're crap at it because you're useless". "Ofcourse you're good at it, it's a family thing!"
You can stuff yourself with Antigrippine, paracetamol and codeine, suck on disgusting vitamin C and Zinc lozenges, gargle cough syrup, dress up warmly, but having a bad cold just means you're going to hack up, cough, puke, shiver and just be plain exhausted from lack of sleep until you're better. Which is not now.
Just heard an old muso friend of mine delivered his new baby on a towel on his bathroom floor, the ambulance was late. Mother, child and heroic father are doing fine.
So, Beck. Sea Change is his new album and I'd never bought any of his stuff before because it didn't interest me and god how I hated 'I'm a loser'. I did appreciate him as a maverick artist, it just wasn't my cup of tea. But when himself recommends things, I tend to take it seriously. I've read various reviews of this album and they go from 'masterpiece' to 'load of old bollocks' and 'he can't sing'. I'm enjoying it a fair bit, I think he *can* sing, it's got lovely orchestrations courtesy of Beck Sr, and some U2-esque spacey effects. I do enjoy break-up albums.
Shift.com - profile - DEREK POWAZEK: "I think we're all walking around with stories to tell, if only someone would ask."
You don't have to live on a hellmouth to become the green eyed monster.
Currently sampling Interpol's album "Turn on the Bright Lights", which reminds me very strongly of the "Whipping Boy" from Ireland, even if the press says they sound like Joy Division, Velvet Underground, The Smiths and Television. It's terribly unoriginal, but sounds quite convincing. More about this NY band on their record label's website.
Many thanks to MrHg for sending me all of SFU's S2. I think that show has the best leader (or whatever it's called) ever. Anyway, SFU marathon coming up.
Unexpectedly picked up Sinead O'Connor's new album Sean-Nos Nua from the shops today. I didn't expect much of this collection of Irish standards, I rather hear her sing her own tunes, and I was therefor not too disappointed as I listened to her dull (to dull... is that even a verb? If not, it should be) through the first half of the album, with predictably pedestrian arrangements. I much prefer to hear these songs sung by the rasping, shaking untrained voices of locals in a pub down the West of Ireland. Then 'Paddy's Lament' starts and buying this CD is completely vindicated. She taps into the timeless, ghostly roots of that tune and actively channels centuries of Irish diaspora, then manages to hold on to that emotion in the next tune 'The Moorlough Shore'. For anyone who's desperate for of the Sinead you first encountered on The Lion and the Cobra, there's a bit, just a little bit, that comes through here. Full marks for going off the beaten track, by the way, covering songs that are not too familiar to the general public or even the half knowledgeable, such as myself. Still, nobody does Oro se do bheatha bhaile better than the Dubliners, dear, shouldn't have touched that and perhaps Van's got dibs on My Lagan Love. Also, Baidin Fheilimi sounds nothing like the way I was taught it. (Apologies to any speakers for leaving out the fadas in the titles, I'm a little lazy today.) And finally.. Christy? Shut. yer. breathy. gob.
I've been to Ireland 40 times but have very few photographs to document this fact... I'm shite at holiday snaps. Sakaame does better.
The Art of James Bond. File away for a rainy day.
The Photography of Andrew Macpherson: check "fashion" for some fab shots of Quentin Crisp impersonating Vivienne Westwood.
Some of the excercises in my acting class are meant to teach you to deal with the pressures of standing in front of an audience. ("focus on the job") But this, for me, is the easiest part. I'm a show off and a braggart by nature. I try to surpress it, but it's in there. When I played tennis as a kid, I couldn't win a match without an audience, in fact I could barely hit a ball without one. I feel quite liberated in my class and the socialising afterwards. I'm not great, but I'm not struggling either and afterwards I feel just like I did after playing sports. In one exercise we were asked to convey 5 different emotions. No text, no story, just the reaction. The fifth one was 'scared' and I got it right, in fact I think I nailed it because I felt genuinely scared. And it felt great to be able to deliver that, create something out of nothing. Hello, endorphine junkie.
Richard Ashcroft on his new single: "It’s like a prayer from an agnostic who’s caught in the crossfire. Until the fantasy of the World Cup started, I thought we were staring down the barrel of World War Three. People may want to call me crass for saying ‘my mind’s meditating on love’ but I don’t give a fuck".
Slightly worse for wear I get into a taxi on Leidseplein.
Taxi drivers used to wear suits, speak Dutch, know where they were going. I'm talking 1967. Things have changed. I think sometimes I like to preserve the image I have of this country, forever frozen in the innocent late Sixties. There's something to be said for blinkers.
My driver is Hindustani, I estimate. He can't pronounce the street I live on. I have to describe to him in great detail where to go. I have no problem with that, but it happens every time I get a taxi.
As he tries to leave his bay, another taxi driver, who is very obviously trying to make a turn, crosses his prospected path. He hits the brakes hard and flings a hand in the air in a gesture of disgust.
The other driver stops his car and makes a similar gesture.
Uh oh.
Both drivers roll down their windows.
"Oi!"
"Oi!"
"Whatyoudoman!"
"What? WHAT? Eh?"
"WHATYOUDOMAN!! YOUCUTME!"
Youpakistanfilth!
"Imnopakistan... you... dirtymoroccan!!"
"EH?"
"DIRTYFAGMOROCCAN!"
"What... goddam... YOUMOTHER!"
"DIRTYFAGMOROCCAN!"
"YOUMOTHER!"
"NOYOUMOTHER!!"
Manoeuvering his car out of the way, my driver pulls up but is chased by the other taxi.
"He cut me!", my driver says to me, outraged.
"Um, no," I think, and "that would be 'cut you OFF', but I say: "Uh... yeah..."
The other car's caught up with us.
Once more the windows come down and the cussing continues ("YOUMOTHER!") until our ways split at a cross roads.
My driver asks me again to tell him where I live and then continues without speaking.
Not a word. No apologies.
Motherfucker.
Tom mentions Fame Academy and singles out Ainslie. I watched the whole sorry thing too and every time I saw Ainslie, I thought 'It's Tom'. Isn't that odd? My favourites? I didn't think any of them were particularly wonderful, but based on looks... Chris, possibly. Based on talent... Lemar and Camilla. Also... the phone in? Are the public insane? Did the entire Republic of Ireland pick up the phone? Surely, that lovely Scottish fellow (David?) was the best?
I got chills... Richard Ashcroft just sang his new single on TOTP. 's almost an R&B song, and it hasn't got the greatest lyrics, but fuck me - that voice goes right through ya. Must investigate (solo album?). [ update: downloaded album, it's brill, will buy]
I had a fucking great day and I just thought I'd mention that because I honestly can't remember the last time I had a fucking great day. Possibly late 2001.
"When you whisper my name in silence, it will always stop my heart with violence." Soft Cell's first album in 18 years, Cruelty Without Beauty rises above the masses of currently fashionable nouveau electronica, courtesy of its humanity. Dave Ball's soundscapes are thick and lush and warm. Stripped of his sometimes annoyingly plastic stage persona, Almond sounds more convincing than he did when I saw them live at the Paradiso. Love the production on this album, very punchy. Cheese, camp, grandeur, nostalgia, Euro pomp and memorabilia. One of the few 'reunions' that makes sense. Kazaa for "Together Alone" if you must. You could, you know, buy it, too.
Second acquisition today: Peter Gabriel's Up. I take it he called it that because it's such a lighthearted record. It starts out with "I'm scared of swimming in the sea, dark shapes moving under me" (and WHAT is the obsession with swimming this year?), and ends "one by one they're going out you watch them dim". Toss in a new version of "I Grieve" and it's a right bundle of laughs. Not that I mind, happy records are boring (d'ya hear me, k.d.lang?) I have never seen Peter Gabriel live. This irks me.
Suede's A New Morning's playing on my stereo. It's "classic" Suede, they're a band that neither progress nor regress much, frozen in a time that's certainly not now. Brett's voice is a little raspier than before, a good thing, and the mood's just a tinge more 'up'. I like the album's more reflective second half. Will be seeing them live later this month.
A few years back I sold my entire U2 collection of bootleg tapes. Hundreds of tapes. I started regretting it soon after. I have 'em all back now, and more through inheritance. They're sitting here in my room, in boxes and crates, taking up precious space. Today someone had a question about this 1985 gig, so I dug it out and put it on. I wish I'd seen U2 in them days. They sound on fire with the heat of 1000 suns.
9 years online and I'm finally in love with Usenet.
Everybody's getting married or breaking up. Time is folding in on itself and people are making new starts and big decisions left, right and centre. I don't know anybody who feels 'fine', we're all either miserable or insanely happy. Last night myself and friend concluded the world has post traumatic stress disorder.
If you're not watching Buffy this season (that's S7), you're missing out on a whole lot of goodness. It's quite strange, really... because I live in Holland and wouldn't be able to see S7 till... well, till EVER, I have to get my kicks some other way. Last season, I'd download episodes using Kazaa, usually two or three days after they aired in America. This season, I made the effort to find out about IRC and Usenet distribution. This means I now download and watch the episodes a day BEFORE they air. Anyway... we're two episodes into S7 and both of them were better than anything that went on in S6. It's all good with the fun, the snark, the scary and the broken hearts. Want proof? "Dawn rocks!" I NEVER thought I'd say that.
There's music on the hi fi and he turns it down before I place it. He loves the quiet.
"I'm writing, not bleeding," he chuckles, "you know what I mean?"
I do. I see a boy hunched over a table, clutching a pen, pressing meaning on paper. Tip of the tongue between the teeth, tasting air. I think back on a summer en Provence, the dry heat, cool swim, scorched earth, lemon ice cream type of holiday. The two images don't blend.
"You're taller, better looking and you've got better hair," I say. Smooth as butter and mostly true.
"Absolutely," he says.
Mistral winds, purple hues of lavender. Pitching your tent in the middle of the arid, scratchy bushes of wild oregano and sariette. Eyeing French lads, two per moped.
He's sucking on his cigarette, tiny, tiny sounds of satisfaction. The butt so small the fingers touch the lips.
Insists I should swim. But my skin rebels. "There's cream," he says, "for when you get a rash... "
I'm sure there is.
"... she used to get them after swimming. Get that."
Too much information. I hear water, a single splash. Must be the pool. Lying on a lounger, drinks 'n' sweets. Factor 40 and a hat. Twenty tens nearby.
We used to do the shopping before noon, markets were like heaven. Heaps of swollen pomodores, capped tanned weathered fishermen offering glistening shell food. Olives and pistachios. We'd drink wine from glass Danone yoghurt cups and cook pasta à la camping gaz.
He'll never know the mouldy rubbery smell of our ancient canvas tent, the gentle tap tap tap on rainy days. Not there, not swimming in the sound, not living in a rich man's world.
"Talk soon. Bye bye."
Days pass, the smells and sounds remain. The single splash resounds. Again. Again.
And then it dawns. The quiet hollow slap of water and flesh reflected between tub and tiles.
The smile on my face is so wide my eyes start to tear.
Very subtle Star Trek Enterprise site. This to avoid the wrath of Paramount?
Seen: Shrek. Completely put off by both Myers and Murphy. The donkey looked cute. Stopped watching after 5 minutes.