How to be cool

Tuesday, December 9th, 2003 | Musical Things | 2 Comments

The idea behind a CD-Swap is that one distant person from across the internet sends you a CD full of their musical goodness in exchange for your own magically compiled list of audio heaven.

The trick is, trying to cut your 4,000hour+ playlist into something closer to 74 minutes. On my first shortlist I went through the list constantly thinking “Oh! I’ve just got to send that one!”, “And that one!” or “Just -got- to put that on it, too!”. The result being that over 80% of my playlist made the first cut.

So. I think I need a bit of help.

Do I create a CD full of my standard well-worn background-noise music? Or, would it be better to try and compile a list of music that I think somebody else would appreciate? The hardest part about trying to anticipate somebody else’s choice of music comes down to my own lack of taste.

I cant define what type of music I like. Of late, my tastes have gone just a bit spazzy. My recently aquired music list include songs from bands and people such as: Janis Joplin alive, acoustic and drunk-sounding, The Chipmunks sing christmas carols, Patrick Swazy (yes! He sings!), The Prodigy and acoustic versions of Puddle of Mudd.

To put it quite simply, there’s no rhyme or reason to my musical whims, just a strange little impulse that causes me to crave the strangest sounds at the weirdest possible moment.

So, what am I going to do about this CD?
I have absolutly no idea.

I think I’m just going to take the first 20 songs from my list, bung them into the burner and hope for the best.

Back from OZ

Tuesday, December 9th, 2003 | Travel | No Comments

Well, I’m back…. from out of space.
I just walked in to find you here with all the posts all over the place,
I should have checked my fucking mail,
I should have left a forwarding address,
If I’d have known for just one minute there’d be one hell of a bloody mess…

Australia was awesome. As it always is.

More stories/gossip/memories as jetlag releases control of my brain!

A brief interuption to todays

Thursday, November 20th, 2003 | Uncategorized | No Comments

A brief interuption to todays schedule:

I’M GOING TO AUSTRALIA IN 30 HOURS TIME!!!!

*ahem*

As you were…

Mate!

Wednesday, November 19th, 2003 | Doyle Reviews | 1 Comment

After having a bit of a scan through the local network, I’ve discovered that there’s a huge controversy going on about “Finding Nemo”. It all came as a bit of a shock, but it all revolves around those sodding seagulls.

Here’s a clip, so you can hear for yourself:
Finding Nemo - Seagulls.wav (150kb)

Do they say “Mate!”, or “Mine!”, or “Mike!”???

I’ll tell you what I think.

I guess it all depends on where you live in Australia. I come from western queensland, and the word “Mate” is usually the first word of an infant and the dying words of a centurian. Of course, it’s different in the city, everything is, but the word “mate” is an all-round word that fits all occasions. Australian’s dont tend to use linguistics to convey their thoughts, but the intonations and the stresses placed on the words themselves seem to mean so much more.

“Mate.” - “I’ve forgotten your name, but I love ya anyway.”
“Mate?” - “Are you okay?”
“Maaaaaate!” - “Hello there! It’s great to see you!”

The legend of mateship is what our country is built on. I didn’t realise just how much I said it until I left our shores girt by sea, and arrived in the UK. It’s in our constitution for crying out loud. It’s typically Australian. Just like “Bruce” the shark, and “Sheila” the dentist’s assistant. If you’re an Aussie, tell me just how many people you know called Bruce, or Shiela!

For that very reason, the word ‘Mate’ becomes somewhat cliche in an international movie. It doesn’t seem to matter a damn if we dont say it. It’s an aussie in-joke, ok mate? But then the popular counter argument is, why would Pixar use the word “mate” that’s so typically australian, when it’s an international movie? Why would they include an in-joke for a country other than America, who directed and produced the film?

Despite the film being set in Australia? HA! Let’s not turn this into something international, we are talking about the seagulls, after all. I guess the issue of “Mate” versus “Mike” versus “Mine” is going to linger on a little while longer. But she’ll be right, mate. Hat’s off to Pixar. It’s a bloody great movie!

Fake up

Thursday, November 13th, 2003 | Insanity | No Comments

I’m not a fan of wearing makeup.

While my sisters seem to have enviable talent with paintbrush and mascara wand, I’m artistically challenged to the point where putting on eyeliner is a hazard to my health. I cant seem to stay inside the lines. You can be sure that whenever the “fake-up bag” comes out, there’ll be a lot of colourful language, hissing and swearing on my behalf.

I don’t enjoy it at all, so I cant fathom any of the Cosmo girls. How anybody can spend that much time applying gunk to their face is something I’ll never quite understand.

Another item on the All Time Most Hated list are trains.
I’ve had a few really terrible experiences lately, so lets just say that I’d rather have red hot pokers shoved up my nose, rather than sitting on a smelly, broken down train. Virgin Rail is not my friend. Not even when they give me a 50% discount ticket for running over 135 minutes late. (Yes, 135 minutes!).

Logically, it could then be assumed that having to put makeup on while in a train would be the Granddaddy of pet peeves. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but the time came when there simply wasn’t any time. I needed to be ready for a gig as I stepped off the train. Step onto the train looking bedraggled and forlorn, step off the train looking like a rock star’s girlfriend. Could it be done? Would it be done? Should it even be attempted?

After stumbling and bashing about the small smelly train toilet while changing my clothes, I wasn’t really looking forward to it. Would I survive my two biggest irritations in the world?

You’re damn right I survived.
And I loved every second of it! It’s the best thing in the whole entire world. It’s “Extreme Make-Up”. It should be a televised sport. It’s a magical cross between surfing and art all wrapped into a flurry of noisy excitement.

I could almost hear the commentators:

“Here we go, Rabs. She’s bringing out the eyeliner!”

“haha, yeah, it’s hard to see through Mabeline Khoal.”

Ah har!

As I bounced off one side of the toilet and crashed into the other, I magically applied the best ever eyeliner line you’ve ever seen. Of course, it was difficult to see it while the mirror swayed and shimmied all of the place. But then, I guess it really doesn’t matter. I’ve just found me a hobby!

Extreme Makeup.
Who’da thunk it?

Bus Stop.

Wednesday, November 5th, 2003 | Travel | No Comments

I walk past the bus stop twice a day. Once on my way to work. Once on my way home.

I’ve been doing that every day for almost six months. Every day something different happens at the Bus Stop. Here in London, the bus stop is like a small cosmos all on its own. For some people, their day starts by sitting at a bus stop or a train station waiting for their day to start. The huge monstrous red buses shudder to a halt and then groan into movement once again. The self-loading cargo now standing inside, holding onto the stabilising poles, surfing the movements of the huge bus. Double decker buses so big you think they’d be too heavy for the roads.

They are, in fact, too heavy for the roads. Some bus stops have two ruts on the roads in front of them. Two great tracks where the big red buses are constantly driving. They’re slowly wearing their way through the tarmac and into the dirt. The way the buses lurch and sway as they drive out of the ruts looks alarming until you realise that these are London buses designed to withstand all types of collisions and abuse. They simply rock back and forth, and then carry on as normal. The people inside move with the bus and stay on their feet.

On my way home from work the other night, I watched a handful of kids marking the bus stop with their name. With silver spray paint, they redecorated the plain bus stop in the theme of a war zone. The street light above them flickered. It looked like a scene from a movie.

The day after that the glass had been shattered, leaving small diamonds of broken glass all over the pavement. Nobody bothered to sweep it up. It just got kicked out of the way, under the bench or onto the road. Three days later, the glass had been replaced. There was already a small scratch where somebody had left their mark. Sitting there waiting for their transport, they’d probably grabbed their keys and scratched across the perfect surface.

This morning, there was a pool of dried blood under the bus stop bench. On the bench, the suited business people sat there looking bored. I walked past, trying not to think of the history behind the puddle of red. It was clear that nobody else really cared about it. The blood and broken glass was under the bench, out of sight, out of mind.

Next week, I’m buying a car. I’m going to be adding to the terrible traffic congestion on London roads. After next week, I won’t see that bus stop very often. I can’t really say I’ll be disappointed, either.