Basically, various factions are up in arms that there is only one woman (Cate Blanchett) amongst the ten people selected to head a steering committee for Kevin Rudd’s 2020 summit.
My problem is this; nowhere in this article does it suggest that there are better qualified, or more experienced women who could have taken on the job of one of the steering committees. If that was the case, and we could demonstrate that there were better women for the job whom had simply been overlooked because they were women, I’d be annoyed as well. But I haven’t seen anyone, anywhere able to say that’s the case.
I hate this ratio thing. If 50% of the population is women, we should have equal representation on the steering committee heads, right?
Wrong. We should without a shadow of a doubt have equal opportunity to representation amongst the members of that committee. But I, personally, would want steering those commitees the best person for the job, regardless of gender and how many other woman are amongst the leaders. If we’re going to get anything out of this summit, shouldn’t we have the “best and brightest” as has been suggested, and not just the most politically correct mix? I don’t want token women steering these committees. And that’s what we become if we are selected purely because we are women, and not because of our expertise. If there are better-qualified men, and they don’t get the job because they are men, how is that not sexism too?
If we start choosing people on the basis of sex, race or religion, and engineer these committees to have ratios that we find acceptable in terms of political correctness, it ceases to be a meeting of minds, and becomes a meeting for PR purposes. Simple. If those nine men and one woman are the best for the job, so be it.
That’s all I really have to say today. See the positive; count our blessings, I guess. It will all be fine, I know it. It will, but it’s still… oh, I don’t know. A shock. That’s the only word for it. There aren’t any clever words. I don’t want them, anyway. What the fuck can words do now? Nothing. Actions speak louder. Be positive. Be supportive. They will be, and we owe it to them to follow their excellent, excellent lead.
This won’t make sense to anyone, and that’s fine. I don’t want to say anything about it, but I can’t say nothing about it.
Last nights Interpol concert was fantastic. The sound was good, for once Festy wasn’t so hot I want to rip my own skin off, and the “Concert Wine” wasn’t too bad. It was a damn sight better than the alternative, VB in a can.
The highlight of the night for me was Slow Hands. It had so much energy live, and was just a heap of fun.
The lowlight, song wise I would have to say was The Lighthouse. It just felt overblown to me. But it was a magnificent concert, all in all. Apart from the woman in front of us who asked us to “Go outside if we were going to talk so loudly” Well, love; it wasn’t your lounge room. It was a concert. And we weren’t exactly yelling in your ear. Jebus. Some people are so intolerant.
Another low/highlight was waiting for a tram on Latrobe Street, having only the vaguest idea where Dudley Street was, and watching the Restaurant trams rattle past. For some reason John took agin them, and when we finally conceded defeat and hopped in a cab, at least once through the journey, I heard him mutter at them as we drove past.
But back to the concert. I didn’t catch Youth Group, by design. I could think of nothing worse than watching them play, frankly. So we cheerfully missed the warm up act, and made it inside, after we finally located the door and got asked by a very sharp Security Guard whether I had anything in my pockets. I didn’t have any pockets. Obviously, Festy is where Brain Surgeons go to die.
Anyway, the night was great. Interpol were fantastic, I bothered no one with my singing, but oddly someone with my much quieter talking, and there was a quasi-celebrity spotting in Mick Molloy, who was in line in front of us. For anyone interested, he still hasn’t had a shave.
Anyway, off home now to recover from the late night. I felt very old getting up this morning. One late night and early morning, and I’m ever so-slightly knackered.
If you enter the search term "hate you cut blood myself fee drip sad blogspot", this blog comes up at number four.
Sorry, Emos. You've come to thre wrong place. All I have to say to you is:
Cheer the hell up. You aren't the first person, or in fact generation, to feel "Misunderstood". It's called being a teenager. It doesn't make you any cooler, it just makes the rest of the world think you're a self-indulgent, whiney little shit who needs a good kick up the arse. Oh, and incidentally?
THE WORLD DOESN'T OWE YOU ANY FRICKIN' FAVOURS, OKAY?
Turns out red is the hardest colour to get out of your hair. Masking it with another colour won't do it. Bleaching it will turn it a colour my hairdresser called "Tequila Sunrise" Also, it takes three and a half hours to do anything to my hair. So instead of coming back with my original colour, my hair looks like this:
Still red (or pinkish, depending on the light you're looking at it in), but not the matchbox colour red I had previously:
It's an improvement, and apparently it'll get better each time I go back. Plus, I did get to finish the novel I'm reading Across the Nightingale Floor by Lian Hearn. Highly, highly recommended. If I get a chance, I'll do a review on it.
Word of warning; if, whilst visiting your mother and listening to a Grodscast, you pop on the headphones because your mother is talking baby talk to her "sprogs", you receive a text message on your mobile which is sitting next to said headphones make sure you have health insurance.
Because you'll be whimpering on the floor clutching your head, whilst your life blood trickles from your ears.
And as a testament to why it's a good thing I'm going back to my natural colour (dirty, dirty blonde) tomorrow, it's happened again whilst I'm writing this.
I’m going to talk about religion. Before I do, I would like those who are reading and may, once completed, want to stone me to death, to bear something in mind; - This is an opinion, not me telling you how or what to think. I welcome your opinion, and even a debate, but not pointless and wholesale abuse. For further clarification, simply look at the name of this blog. This is MY truth, tell me YOURS.
This has come about because I was reading the Monty Python biography yesterday, and I saw something that for me, optimised my beliefs – “Jesus preached tolerance, peace, and love, and his followers have spent the last two thousand years doing the very opposite”
I can’t say I disagree. In the name of religion in one guise or another – in the name of religious Ikons, countless wars have been won and lost. Who can say how many villages, towns, cities, and human lives have been obliterated from the face of the earth in the name of one who would have wept at the very thought?
By giving your enemy a religious tag – infidel, savage, heathen – your war becomes a righteous war. You battle becomes a battel in God’s name, for God’s cause. You justify the greed, malice, revenge you must satisfy by calling on the highest authority as a myriad of armies have before you.
Does God forgive those who use his name in these terms? How can using a God who preaches peace and love admit these as his children to heaven and turn away those who don’t believe for some reason, or those who make an error of judgement, or those that die without receiving the Last Rites?
Another issue that bothers me with Religion – and you’ll notice I use the term religion, not belief – is the accumulation of wealth by religious organisations, particularly the Catholic church and organisations like Hillsong.
I’m sure there are many, many organisations with a religious base that use the money donated to them for worthy causes. I know there are, and I donate to quite a few of them myself. But for every one of these, there are a dozen churches that collect those funds to no benefit to those who need it. Now, it’s been a while since I’ve consulted the scriptures in-depth, so I could be wrong, but I don’t recall ‘ol J.C collecting donations for a new pair of sandals, or a Remmington beard trimmer. Okay, your church needs a new roof, your carpet looks a little threadbare – have a bake sale, pass the hat around – whatever. But don’t make your church look like something that makes the Opera House look like a hut in Shanty Town. There’s a church in Wantirna that you can see from four suburbs away – It looks like a fucking concert hall.
And don’t give me your “Monument to God” argument. Wouldn’t a more fitting tribute to the magnificence and generosity of your God be to act a little more generous with the THREE FOURTHS OF THE WORLD who live in poverty? How about the Vatican giving away some of it’s exceptionally high pile of Lira to the children in Africa who are so hungry they don’t have the energy to pray?
Basically, I guess, what I’m saying is, follow the example of the man you claim to idolise. Put on your thinking wimple and have a good, hard look outside the monastery walls at the world around you. The blood you’ve shed in God’s name will not be washed from your hands, and the money you store in the bank vault won’t buy your way into heaven. Did you see Jesus commissioning painters to make the chapels look magnificent? My guess he was too busy hanging out with the poor, the sick, the neglected that have always existed, and always will - if we don’t have a look at the way we treat our communities. I’m guessing the homeless on the street don’t give a flying fuck about the mural on the wall when they don’t have any around them at night. I’m guessing that all the innocent victims of “Holy” Wars weren’t all money grubbing capitalists. How fucking stupid are you going to look when your knocking on heavens door, and St. Peter gets out the tally list and looks at the ledger and the blood of the innocent drips from the pages?
How about a Holy War on poverty? How about a Holy War on hate? How about a Holy War on something that makes a damn difference at the end of the day? When you look back on your life from your deathbed, would you rather you had adorned your church with yet another painting, or adorned a thousand poor children with some clothes to wear, and some food to eat?
I know how pedantic this is going to make me look. I know that people will shake their collective heads and sigh “Man. She talks about concerts and comedy, but she’s really just sitting there picking apart ads” (Also, about two paragraphs in, this changes from being annoyed about the ad to a detailed discussion about non-weddings)
I know all this. Which is why I’ve sat on this, and not mentioned it to anyone, even thought it’s burning a hole in my tongue. But I can’t take it anymore.
So here it is. You know that AAMI ad where the women is in a Jewellery store and talks about how with the money you could save from switching to AAMI “Who knows what you could buy” and she’s playing a bridal waltz?
Every time I see it, I can’t help but think that if I was proposed to with a ring that cost $307 dollars (The amount the ad says you could save) because you’d switched insurance companies, if that was your motivation for getting down on one knee, you’d be getting a no.
Also, it pisses me off that this ad portrays women as desperate, to the point of carrying a tape of the bridal waltz, for gods sake, around with them and finding any excuse at all for trapping their poor man into marriage. And that if they do manage to trap them, that money is a huge factor.
Men, honestly, we’re not all like this. I’m not. For a start, I’m not sure I believe that marriage is all it’s cracked up to be. I’d rather spend the $20k it’s going to cost you (For a small ceremony) on an excellent party and then just go on holiday with the rest of the cash. The only bit missing would be the ridiculously priced flowers, dress, hair etc, and is that anyone’s favourite bit of a wedding? Yeah, we can all go “ooooh” at the wedding dress, and the hair, and Doesn’t-She-Look-Beautiful, but I hate the thought of walking down an aisle of people scrutinising my appearance and staring at me. I could, frankly, think of nothing worse. I like the idea of dressing up, but I don’t need to get married to do that, do I? Realistically, with it being so easy to walk away from a marriage these days, does it matter? Plus, white is really not my colour. I’m pale enough as it is without having a matching dress as a handy comparison.
Also, I want someone else to be the centre of attention. Or, at the very least, distractions on stand-by. I want giant balloons ready at strategic intervals when I want to just get away from it all. There’ll be a balloon tamer just outside the door and at my signal, one is released. Then I could just say to the person talking to me “Hey! Look! A giant penguin!” and move away or go to the bar in the moments during the distraction. Also, my mother had indoor fireworks at her wedding, and I think that would be excellent as a distraction tool as well.
Additionally, I’ve always lamented the fact that now I’m no longer a child, it’s no longer appropriate to get really excited by the idea of going on a bouncy castle. Something about bouncing around like an idiot, and trying to walk towards someone and ending upside down sends me into fits of giggles. Some things about being a child, I just don’t want to give up. This is one of them. So, there will be a bouncy castle. This also has the advantage of being able to dispatch errant children for bouncy, supervised fun if they get too much to handle with all the non-wedding cake and red cordial.
What was I on about again? Oh, yes. The AAMI ad. Basically, every time I see it, I sit there for probably ten minutes with the above running through my head. Okay, the ad has done its job if I’m thinking about it that much, but it isn’t likely to make me switch to AAMI. AND I miss ten minutes of whatever show I’m watching staring off into the middle distance thinking about giant penguins and bouncy castles. Which annoys me.
It’s nearly as bad as the RACV ad where a tree has fallen on a house, and the tarpaulin protecting the roof is under the tree.
I am not booking tickets for Henry Rollins this afternoon. Tickets go on sale on Monday. Should probably have checked that before spending the best part of ten minutes on hold and talking to a lady at Ticketek who was so familiar with the god of Spoken Word that she made me spell Rollins.
However, I am booking Comedy Festival tickets. So far I’ve got the following on my list of things I Must See And Must Book Now Before I Forget And Miss Out For Another Year;-
Stephen K Amos Ross Noble Jason Byrne Mark Watson
I’m assuming that this years line-up is finalised, which makes me a bit sad, as usually there’s at least a dozen acts I really want to see. I haven’t gone through the online guide with a fine tooth comb by any means, but usually I have to whittle my list down by at least three times to get a number approaching a reasonable one. This year, there are just too many acts I could take or leave. And two of the above acts? I’ve seen at least twice before (If you’re bored, try and guess which two, without looking in my archives)
Anyone got any recommendations on acts I’ve possibly not considered that I should see? I figure this is the last year I’ll gorge on Comedy, and from now on I’ll try and limit myself, so go crazy!
Much fixage going on at the moment. I’ve had my two front teeth fixed up (For those who know me – you know how they were both chipped and kind of ridgy? Well, I’ve had them fixed up. They’re smooth and un-chipped and shiny)
In other fixage news, I’m going to have a mole cut out of my arm next month. Not for cosmetic reasons, since I’d have no skin left if I got every freckle/mole thing removed, but because I have a Keratosis thing. He also referred to it as a “Barnacle” which I found a bit insulting. It doesn’t look like a barnacle, it doesn’t feel like a barnacle. It’s an odd mole, that’s all. No big deal, but the doctor wants to check it out, and hacking part or all of it out seems to be the way to go.
Also, as of this Saturday, I’m moving away from red hair. I’ve had red hair since last May (I got my hair cut short and coloured from blonde to red the day after the Break Up. How predictable) and it’s getting a little old now. Currently, it’s the fetching red you see in the new profile picture.
But you should see it in the sun. It’s so red. And I’m done with red, I think. I think it’s time for something that’s a bit subtler. I think it probably would have been a good idea to decide that three weeks ago when I got it coloured last (Courtesy of my very obliging Stepmother) but anyhow. I’m going back to blonde, something approaching my own colour, with a bit of warmth thrown in. So Saturday will see me at the hairdressers/best friend of my mothers for “At least a few hours”
Friday will in all probability see me either at the Telstra Dome or in front of a TV, watching my Boys take on some barky little rabble (I reserve the right to edit this post in the event we lose. And to ignore any reference made to it)
And Monday is the Interpol concert at Festival hall, and barring a hot day, it should be fantastic. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a good week.
I asked in a post a few days ago what kind of person rings at 3am four months after they first meet you. I now have a few more questions to add.
What kind of person, after a few days of conversation, slips in “Do you have any cheeky pics to show me?”
For the record, no I don’t. Sorry, but I’m not learning the hard way on this one. It’s not even about the person receiving it forwarding them on, it’s about someone picking up your phone, browsing through and all of a sudden I’m on a website I can’t access at work.
And today’s message was “How are ya naughty naughty girl.”
Lacking a question mark, for a start. Nothing in any of my very few, brief conversations with Saturday Night Caller has suggested in any way that I am a naughty girl, or the kind of girl likely to engage in SMS dirty talk porn. Whether I am or not, he wouldn’t know. I haven’t so much as shaken this mans hand. He’s a friend of a friend I met, with other friends in tow on the way home on Grand Final day. I have no idea where this is coming from. The few conversations we’ve had certainly haven’t indicated that this was on the way. Although the call at 3am did put me off, I must admit.
I know that this isn’t exactly filthy stuff, but this is how it starts. I’ve had this happen before with someone I’d known for years. It started off innocently enough and all of a sudden even I was shocked.
There are only two conclusions I can reach at this point, I think. Firstly, he hasn’t had sex in a very, very long time. Either that, or he’s been in a relationship for a very long time, and has forgotten that there’s usually a gap between meeting someone and sending those kinds of messages. Like figuring out whether they want to receive them or not. Just a question. Am I being too harsh by thinking that this guy is going to end up being some sleazy perv?
I’m in a music-y mood, so I thought I’d do a quick review of an album that’s getting a fair bit of play on Mr. Pink, my I-Pod. So, without much further ado, here’s my review of Rufus Wainwrights Release the Stars
Track 1. Do I Disappoint You?
Starts off a little folksy. Then the backing chorus kicks in. All of a sudden, we’ve got something quite different on our hands here. It soars all over the place, and there’s orchestral work going on. It’s still quite a simple tune, until the last thirty seconds, when all heaven breaks loose. Okay, Mr. Wainwright, that’s an opener.
Track 2. Going to a Town.
Again, we’re starting off fairly simply, with piano, a beautiful voice and some drums. Can’t argue with the sentiment either. Then we get the backing again, but this time it stays pretty mellow. He’s letting his voice and the lyrics do the show-casing this time, and I remember the first time I saw this on Rage, I sat up and took notice. Took notice, jotted down the name, got the laptop and downloaded the song. At 3am. It’s that damn good. And how handy was it having my own laptop with wireless net access? Very.
Track 3. Tiergarten
As close to the traditional love song as Rufus is going to get. The only way I can describe this song is jaunty. It’s jaunty. With some great lyrics. I just love the line “I have suffered shipwreck against your dark brown eyes. I have run aground against your broken down smiles” And always that restraint.
Track 4. Nobody’s off the Hook
This is, I must admit, a track I usually skip if Mr. Pink is close to hand. Not because I don’t like it, but because it’s faintly melancholy, or has this longing about it that I don’t usually go in for. It’s not for me. There’s some beautiful strings, some haunting piano melodies, but it just doesn’t grab me. Maybe on a sad day.
Track 5. Between My Legs
I must confess, the lyrics of this song baffle and disturb me. For instance “When you were here I missed you, now that you’re away I’m out there without you and I shed a tear, Between My Legs” Now, it doesn’t take a genius, but…. What? Why? And then there’s the end. There’s a Welsh actress whom I don’t know (Fairly sure the first name is Sian) reading out a very stirring (hammy) monologue as Rufus sings the same words. Which are “There’s a river underneath the city, that only I know all about. On which from this city, we can flee” Now it’s the “On which from this city” that got me. It’s odd, the first time you hear it. Then it grows on you.
Track 6. Rules & Regulations
I find this song curiously annoying. I don’t know why, there’s not really a reason. It just kind of rubs me up the wrong way. If there were a 25 least played songs on Mr. Pink, this would be amongst them. There’s nothing wrong with it, per se, I just find it a bit bla compared to some of the other songs on here.
Track 7. Not Ready to Love
Not so much an anti-ballad as a You-deserve-better-than-this-I’m-all-screwed-up ballad. Nice and chilled out, pretty laid back for Rufus. Very peaceful, and therefore gets a play at home at night and never at work. The only thing that I don’t like about this song is that there’s a touch too much vibrato happening for mine.
Track 8. Slideshow
I usually skip this song because I know the next song is coming up, and I get impatient. There’s nothing to complain about with this song. You have to listen to the lyrics to get the gist. It sounds like a ballad, and then you hear “I’d better be prominently mentioned in your next slideshow. Cause I paid a lot of money to get you over here, you know” It’s hard to place this song, and that’s probably why I skip it.
Track 9. Tulsa
I’m not sure if I’m coloured by the fact that I know this song is about the lead singer of the Killers, Brandon Flowers. It also beautifully showcases his voice, there’s strings and piano happening and it ends on the line “This is just a reminder of the antique shop that I want to go back and visit when it’s open in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Just in case you don’t appreciate this song about you” and he makes it sound like an opera.
Track 10. Leaving for Paris No. 2
It’s just too slow even for me. That’s all I can really say.
Track 11. Sanssouci
Catchy as all get out. This is another one where you really need to listen to the lyrics to appreciate it. It’s happy, and probably the poppiest tune on the album. One of those songs where you could listen to it over and over again and find another layer to it.
Track 12. Release the Stars And apt ending. It’s the perfect blend of ragtime, show tune and opera that I think is the essence of Rufus Wainwright. Well, that’s what I think, anyway. There’s a lot to like about this song, and it’s probably the things I like about the album in general. Rufus has the most restrained voice I’ve ever listened. He’s a baritone who only lets it go at the perfect times. And when he does, it’s a pure joy to listen to. And this song is the perfect example of it.
Yes, I have discovered who the mystery Saturday Night Caller is.
After a brief triumph on Monday when I got my Step-sister to listen to both the message and a recording I had on my phone, we were convinced we knew who it was.
I thought I’d listen to the message one more time just to see if there was anything I might have missed. And that’s when it hit me. I may have lived here for the best part of seventeen years, but I still occasionally have problems with Australians saying 0 and 8.
I tried switching the numbers – and lo and behold! Turns out Saturday Night Caller is someone I met at the pool hall I used to play at. Four months ago. On Grand Final day, to be specific.
So, we talked for a while, and though I remember the T-Shirt he was wearing, I don’t remember much else. I mean, give me a break. It was four months ago, and we had the briefest of brief conversations whilst his mate chatted to my mate, and that was it (Apart from me betting him $10 he wouldn’t call me)
In the meantime, we’ve been talking and texting, and he doesn’t seem any freakier that any other guy I’ve met. And yes, boys, you are all freaks. In one way or another, you all have something very odd about you. I have no idea where this is going, other than to say I now at least know whom the call was from.
Begs the question though. What kind of person rings someone they met four months ago at 3am? Any ideas apart from the obvious?
(Oh, and the T-Shirt was one that said "Cheer up, Emo Kid")
Some people think Valentines Day is a crock. They think it’s a commercial event orchestrated to make us spend as much as possible. Some think it’s a romantic day where you get to show your love to your partner.
I’m somewhere in the middle. I know for some it’s about spending as much money as possible and that bit I can do without. Something small would do me. It’s not about how much you spend; it’s about the effort you put in.
I like getting presents. I like getting them from someone I care about. I love shopping for other people. I love the fact that I can shop guilt free. I love that feeling when you give someone a present. And, frankly, I like having the excuse for it. That’s not terribly romantic, but it’s the way I am.
On the other hand, when The Boy and I first started going out, he used to send me bouquets of Roses when I was least expecting them. And I loved that far more. The fact that he had gone out of his way to do so meant more to me.
This year is the first year in four that I won’t have someone to buy for. That actually struck me far more forcibly than the fact that no one will get me anything. And it struck me even more forcibly that I don’t actually care. I don’t care that there will be no knock on the door. I don’t care that if I buy something this year, it will be for myself. Actually, the idea actually appeals to me. I like the idea of not having to worry about it.
And as I finished that sentence, a friend sent me an e-mail wishing me a happy Valentines Day. And what more could a girl want? A message of love from someone who doesn’t have to say it, but wants to anyway.
Happy Valentines Day to all those who love it, and Happy Thursday to those who don't.
Is there a rumour going around that I don’t sleep? That I’m some sort of vampire? How the hell do people out there know that I always leave my phone on at night and am unable to ignore it?
To get (almost) straight to the point, why in the name of all that is holy are people calling me in the fifteen minutes after 3am?
The first call came at 3.04am on Friday morning. There was some static, then someone asking if it was Keri. Yes, says I, and hang up. I firmly believe that there is a limited amount of patience in the world, and that I am allotted none of it at that time of the morning. I didn’t know who the caller was, and nor did I care. I wanted them to know that they had the right number, and that I didn't want to talk to them at that insane hour.
They called back. I was just drifting off to sleep and didn’t quite get the phone to my ear in time, so they got through to my voicemail. Being nosey as hell, I listened to the message straight away. It went along the lines of;-
“Hi it’s . Call me back on the mobile. It’s about ” or "Your place")
Dude. First, say your name in a manner where I can understand it, Secondly, if I don’t know who you are (And I definitely haven’t spoken to this person before. I would know the voice. Vaguely ethnic and very mouth-full-of-marbles. ) Then how the hell can I call you back when you didn’t leave your number? And I don’t have any current trouble with either the Police or my place.
Saturday night I was at my stepfather’s birthday party. I stayed the night, and my mobile battery ran out, as it is want to do after its trip to the bath a few months ago. I plug it into the charger and see I have a voicemail message.
It was received at 3.14am. From a totally different person. From a different number. And the message went along the lines of:-
“Hey. Get back to us. 04whatever. Thanks.”
No name left. The voice sounds very familiar. I know it, yet I can’t place it. I’d swear I’ve spoken to this person before, but I cannot for the life of me place the voice. I rang the number back, and got the “This Vodafone has incoming call restrictions try again later” spiel.
It’s driving me round the bend. The first caller I’m assuming is someone I have met at some stage and has somehow gotten my name and number. There’s no mystery there. The second call is the one that bugs me.
Who is it? I know the voice, I’m sure I do. I just can’t place it. My full name is on my voicemail message, so it’s unlikely to be a wrong number. But presumably I know this person well enough that they don’t think to leave their name when they call me. I’ve racked my brains and I’m coming up with nothing.
There are only two possible solutions, apart from co-incidence. The first is that someone I know has lost his or her mobile. Then the person who finds it starts ringing numbers in the phone. Then the person who lost it puts call restrictions on the phone.
The second is that I’ve pissed someone off and they are getting different people to ring me at stupid hours of the morning. But who that I know has that much time and that little imagination?
So, people who read this blog, are you then one that calls me at 3am and knows me well enough to not leave a name but have to leave your number? And if you are, can you call me back (At a more reasonable time) and put me out of my misery?
I’ve got a renewed obsession with my I-Pod. And as there’s nothing else really to post about, I thought I’d put the songs that I’m listening to the most on here. Here’s the top 26 (25 most listened to and one I couldn’t leave out)
Alcohol – Barenaked Ladies – Fun, and disturbing if you listen to the lyrics for long enough.
Alibi – David Gray – The man is a genius.
An End has a Start – Editors – Still not sick of it.
Broken City – Audioslave – Cookie cutter rock, but sometimes that’s what you want.
Bulimic Beats – Catatonia – Oh for that voice.
Comfort Eagle – Cake – I’ve seen them do this live, and it’s a treat.
Corpus Christi Carol – Jeff Buckley – Makes no sense until you listen to the lyrics. And even then, you’d need to know the legend of the Fisher King. And I’m talking the Arthurian legend, not the movie.
Dazed, Beautiful and Bruised – Catatonia – And haven’t we all been there?
Dimbran – Catatonia – Yes, it’s in another language.
Electrical Storm – U2 – Tingles. That’s all I have to say.
Heinrich Manoeuvre – Interpol – And guess who has tickets?
Starlight – Muse – Apparently this is the Muse song I listen to the most. I wouldn’t have picked it.
Imaginary Friend – The middle of this song kicks arse.
Maybe Tomorrow – Stereophonics – Yep, got a bit of a Welsh theme going here, haven’t I?
Mushaboom – Feist – Where most women are singing about how Fabulous their life is, Feist sings about a house in the country with an old dirt road.
Nos Da Cariad – David Gray – It’s actually in English, this one. The title, if memory serves, means Good Night, Sweetheart.
Not like the other Girls – Rasmus. Great album, actually that one. Remember that song In the Shadows? Nowhere near the best song on this album.
One Evening – Feist – She’s good. Very, very good.
Sanssouci – Rufus Wainwright. Any man who sings about the “Boys who made me lose my blues and then my eyesight” in such an upbeat way is alright by me.
She’s a Millionaire – Catatonia – Jesus. Going through quite a Cerys phase here, aren’t I?
This Heart Attack – Faker – Still haven’t got around to listening to the album, and it’s been on my shelf for a month. For shame!
Ta Douleur – Camille – I know the title means Your Pain, but that’s as much as I can understand of this song and I don’t care.
The Curse Stops Here – Whitlams – I was there the first time he played this song live. I defy you to have been there and not cried.
Never you mind – Semisonic – Another fantastic album where the best known song is nowhere near the best song.
Tout Doucement – How is it that there’s three songs on this list in other languages?
Tulsa – Rufus Wainwright – A song about the Killers lead singer. I love the way this song ends “ This is just a reminder about that antique shop that I want to go visit when it’s open when I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, just in case ya don’t appreciate this song about you”
I cannot believe it's February already. It seems absurd that a whole month has past in this New Year already.
Plans are proceeding apace for my mothers 50th birthday, including getting the obligatory photos for the photo-board I’m putting together for her. It was nice to go through the photos with her and pick out which ones she wanted to use. God only knows how it will turn out, but I’ll do my best.
There really isn’t much to update about at the moment. In response to an almost weekly question I’m getting asked, I still haven’t heard from B since the day after the debacle that was New Years Eve, and nor do I expect to. I think there are some break-ups that you can walk away from still being on good terms, and it’s more than possible this isn’t one of them. From his side, anyway. I don't do grudges. And apart from the whole not being entirely honest or making up his mind, I have no personal injuries to resent (Bonus geek points if you can tell me what novel I've butchered that from) I'm sure I've been guilty of far worse in the past.
It's a shame, really. He has my sheet music of Space and Cerys Matthews “The Ballad of Tom Jones” It took me years to track that down. Cost me a whole six dollars, too.
Anyway, in other news, Essendon’s inter-club match is this Saturday, and A and myself will be heading along to get our long-overdue fix of red and black. I’m hoping for good signs, a moderately warm day, and a good night at my stepfathers birthday afterwards.
More posts upcoming, and I promise I’ll get around to compiling and completing that list of my favourite books. Soon. Ish.
Born in Wales, exported to Australia, lived here for fifteen years. Not good at talking about myself except on a blog. Making it my goal to reach the 1200 character limit, but failing miserably, because I keep getting distracted by the fake tan I'm experimenting with on the back of my hands.