Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Ah, Denmark.
The smell of hops and barley and some sort of cooked meat. Spuds in all shapes and sizes. Utterly well-dressed people who nevertheless manage to look pretty much the same. Practical footwear.
I'm going back home this afternoon, which is most enjoyable. I'm already fantasising about log fires, copious amounts of food, presents, live candles and the return of my sanity.
I am also anticipating trundling up and down my childhood's high street for last minute buys, a couple of beers at my local and several discussions relating to 'immigrants' who, supposedly, are all thieves, rapists, quite lazy, bit silly and generally looked down upon.
*Sigh*
Perhaps I'll just stay at my parents' house and not open a paper, turn on the telly or answer the phone for a week.
Merry Christmas!
The smell of hops and barley and some sort of cooked meat. Spuds in all shapes and sizes. Utterly well-dressed people who nevertheless manage to look pretty much the same. Practical footwear.
I'm going back home this afternoon, which is most enjoyable. I'm already fantasising about log fires, copious amounts of food, presents, live candles and the return of my sanity.
I am also anticipating trundling up and down my childhood's high street for last minute buys, a couple of beers at my local and several discussions relating to 'immigrants' who, supposedly, are all thieves, rapists, quite lazy, bit silly and generally looked down upon.
*Sigh*
Perhaps I'll just stay at my parents' house and not open a paper, turn on the telly or answer the phone for a week.
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Sometimes the BBC will actually give you something for your licence money. Last night it was Stage Beauty, released only this year and famous for allegedly instigating 'Billy-gate' (one actor, two actresses, one of whom pregnant).
The only thing is, it's not that good a film. The acting is flawless but somehow it seems the film cannot decide whether it is a comedy, a drama, a historical account, a sociological exploration, a comi-socio-account or a drama-histo-exploration. The result is something oddly cold and disengaging, in spite of the obviously gorgeous Crudup. And Samuel Pepys, one must not forget, was not just kindness and light, as portrayed by the otherwise wonderful Hugh Bonneville, but was, remember, a man who beshat himself regularly.
This afternoon I've got tickets for a preview of The Aviator, which I am looking forward to with equal parts dread and joy. I just really, really want it to be a good film, mainly because of Scorsese and Di Caprio (Beckinsale reminds me of Blackpool and comparing her to Ava Gardner does make me slightly queasy) but suspect something rather overlong, overglitzy and just as disengaging as Gangs of New York - and Stage Beauty.
Update:
Yes, too long, but really rather wonderful.
Beginning: newsreel-like manner does nothing for depth but plenty for style.
Middle: a lot of talking.
End: definitely not as soppy as could easily have been although perhaps a bit unsatisfactory. Or not, as it did make me want to find out more about Howard.
I think Leo is lovely and a superbly gifted actor. I don't know why people dislike him so much.
And Blackpool: glitzy on the surface but quite superficial.
The only thing is, it's not that good a film. The acting is flawless but somehow it seems the film cannot decide whether it is a comedy, a drama, a historical account, a sociological exploration, a comi-socio-account or a drama-histo-exploration. The result is something oddly cold and disengaging, in spite of the obviously gorgeous Crudup. And Samuel Pepys, one must not forget, was not just kindness and light, as portrayed by the otherwise wonderful Hugh Bonneville, but was, remember, a man who beshat himself regularly.
This afternoon I've got tickets for a preview of The Aviator, which I am looking forward to with equal parts dread and joy. I just really, really want it to be a good film, mainly because of Scorsese and Di Caprio (Beckinsale reminds me of Blackpool and comparing her to Ava Gardner does make me slightly queasy) but suspect something rather overlong, overglitzy and just as disengaging as Gangs of New York - and Stage Beauty.
Update:
Yes, too long, but really rather wonderful.
Beginning: newsreel-like manner does nothing for depth but plenty for style.
Middle: a lot of talking.
End: definitely not as soppy as could easily have been although perhaps a bit unsatisfactory. Or not, as it did make me want to find out more about Howard.
I think Leo is lovely and a superbly gifted actor. I don't know why people dislike him so much.
And Blackpool: glitzy on the surface but quite superficial.
Monday, December 13, 2004
Went to see Garden State which cheered me up considerably. It's always nice to be reminded that many people have it worse than I do, fictional or not.
Zach Braff is a lovely actor and has a way with dialogue that I really, really like.
He's got his own Garden State blog (not sure if it is actually his, but I daresay it's pretty likely) and my only real complaint is the fact that he seems to be a Keane fan. (Someone at the Guardian said that Keane sounds as if their music is made in a place that otherwise makes office supplies, which is an absolutely brilliant image.)
And then I found this useful little bugger, so things are slowly lightening up.
Zach Braff is a lovely actor and has a way with dialogue that I really, really like.
He's got his own Garden State blog (not sure if it is actually his, but I daresay it's pretty likely) and my only real complaint is the fact that he seems to be a Keane fan. (Someone at the Guardian said that Keane sounds as if their music is made in a place that otherwise makes office supplies, which is an absolutely brilliant image.)
And then I found this useful little bugger, so things are slowly lightening up.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Aha!
At the moment I'm being f***** over by Hotmail AND Blogger (not to mention WORK) and is off-line not merely by choice.
I'm also loosing property, such as:
1 bright red Tatty Devine lobster brooch with black beady eyes
2 Danish designer pixies
If anyone can help...?
Anyway, I don't actually have much to say, except that I have gotten my promotion, but this could very well turn into a curse more than a gift and, trust me, Christmas cannot come soon enough. I'll be going to Denmark, which will be nice.
At the moment I'm being f***** over by Hotmail AND Blogger (not to mention WORK) and is off-line not merely by choice.
I'm also loosing property, such as:
1 bright red Tatty Devine lobster brooch with black beady eyes
2 Danish designer pixies
If anyone can help...?
Anyway, I don't actually have much to say, except that I have gotten my promotion, but this could very well turn into a curse more than a gift and, trust me, Christmas cannot come soon enough. I'll be going to Denmark, which will be nice.
Friday, December 03, 2004
Tabloid journalists.
They look like real people. They move like real people. Some of them could even be considered smart (but not clever).
They do, in actual fact, resemble what would be the hideous off-spring of Christine Hamilton and Alastair Campbell over an infidelity with Jeffrey Archer.
(Melanie Phillips, do me a favour and never, ever speak of adopted children again. Or to them, for that matter. Or to anyone else. Of anything else.)
They look like real people. They move like real people. Some of them could even be considered smart (but not clever).
They do, in actual fact, resemble what would be the hideous off-spring of Christine Hamilton and Alastair Campbell over an infidelity with Jeffrey Archer.
(Melanie Phillips, do me a favour and never, ever speak of adopted children again. Or to them, for that matter. Or to anyone else. Of anything else.)
I am sorry and aware of the lack of activity on this blog.
All I can say is that my place of work is in turmoil; I may be changing my job (albeit within the same company), the hysterically neurotic woman is leaving (thank God!) and I am in turns annoyed, exhilarated, exhausted, desperate, in despair and in love (but that's at home and has nothing to do with work).
I'll be back.
All I can say is that my place of work is in turmoil; I may be changing my job (albeit within the same company), the hysterically neurotic woman is leaving (thank God!) and I am in turns annoyed, exhilarated, exhausted, desperate, in despair and in love (but that's at home and has nothing to do with work).
I'll be back.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
On World AIDS Day it's discouraging to see that not only is it a question of money, but also still a question of ignorance.
A fifth of the UK public agreed that: "It is people's own fault if they get HIV/Aids".
Once I read a agony doctor's column in a local magazine (Denmark) and the question was this: 'I am worried that I may get AIDS. Should I worry?'
The answer was: 'If you are not an intra-venous drug-user or a homosexual, no, you shouldn't.'
Would that be one of the reasons why there are now 53,000 people in Britain diagnosed with AIDS, out of which 58% are heterosexual?
These web-sites are worth checking out:
Avert
Marie Stopes
Terrence Higgins Trust
And there's a couple of events if you are free tonight.
A fifth of the UK public agreed that: "It is people's own fault if they get HIV/Aids".
Once I read a agony doctor's column in a local magazine (Denmark) and the question was this: 'I am worried that I may get AIDS. Should I worry?'
The answer was: 'If you are not an intra-venous drug-user or a homosexual, no, you shouldn't.'
Would that be one of the reasons why there are now 53,000 people in Britain diagnosed with AIDS, out of which 58% are heterosexual?
These web-sites are worth checking out:
Avert
Marie Stopes
Terrence Higgins Trust
And there's a couple of events if you are free tonight.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
And thousands of women rejoiced: "for she is back and I am she".
The Bridget Jones phenomenon always annoyed me. Women everywhere "identified" because she is so "sweet" and "haven't we all been there after all"?
Ehm, no.
I'm sure that many people have the experience of being invited as the only single person to a party otherwise entirely populated by smug couples and agreed; not on my top 1000 of things to do.
But other than that?
"But it's great the way Bridget obsesses over her weight, just like we do".
No. We obsess over our weight, because films like this tell us that it is the norm. If Bridget was chubby and never obsessed over her weight - that's where we want to be!
And ultimately, the film perpetuates the notion that we all want a man. 'Singletons' (oh ye hideous, hideous word) all over the world may have rejoiced, but is it perhaps more in the sense that if she can, we can and ohmigod if only I would be pursued by Hugh Grant and Colin Firth that is so well done and almost impossible and then they could fight over me and I could be fiercely independent and yet approachable and why do women have to cook anyway and what's all this political correctness I'll smoke if I want to and cook blue soup 'cause who says a woman is a good cook just because she's a woman?
Who says a woman shouldn't be able to cook? Reclaim the cooking! I say. Not only 50's housewives know how to cook.
And how come a woman who is slightly on the 'thick' side of things and furthermore a pain in the arse, manages to pull not one but two appealing suitors? How many of you out there are doing that ongoingly?
Some people like being in relationships.
Some people like being single.
I have no problem with either. I have a problem with the world's most dissatisfied singleton being proclaimed as role-model and mouthpiece for single women everywhere.
(And for those who ask: read the first book, saw the first film - don't want to
revisit ever again).
On another note: saw a wildly romantic film last night and talk about girl power: far sexier and lovelier and more heartwarming than the sorry Bridget-affair.
The Bridget Jones phenomenon always annoyed me. Women everywhere "identified" because she is so "sweet" and "haven't we all been there after all"?
Ehm, no.
I'm sure that many people have the experience of being invited as the only single person to a party otherwise entirely populated by smug couples and agreed; not on my top 1000 of things to do.
But other than that?
"But it's great the way Bridget obsesses over her weight, just like we do".
No. We obsess over our weight, because films like this tell us that it is the norm. If Bridget was chubby and never obsessed over her weight - that's where we want to be!
And ultimately, the film perpetuates the notion that we all want a man. 'Singletons' (oh ye hideous, hideous word) all over the world may have rejoiced, but is it perhaps more in the sense that if she can, we can and ohmigod if only I would be pursued by Hugh Grant and Colin Firth that is so well done and almost impossible and then they could fight over me and I could be fiercely independent and yet approachable and why do women have to cook anyway and what's all this political correctness I'll smoke if I want to and cook blue soup 'cause who says a woman is a good cook just because she's a woman?
Who says a woman shouldn't be able to cook? Reclaim the cooking! I say. Not only 50's housewives know how to cook.
And how come a woman who is slightly on the 'thick' side of things and furthermore a pain in the arse, manages to pull not one but two appealing suitors? How many of you out there are doing that ongoingly?
Some people like being in relationships.
Some people like being single.
I have no problem with either. I have a problem with the world's most dissatisfied singleton being proclaimed as role-model and mouthpiece for single women everywhere.
(And for those who ask: read the first book, saw the first film - don't want to
revisit ever again).
On another note: saw a wildly romantic film last night and talk about girl power: far sexier and lovelier and more heartwarming than the sorry Bridget-affair.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Sacrilege!
Girls Aloud - you should be ashamed of yourselves!
Westlife - oh, just wither and die, will you?!
Make new music! Make new music!
(*Tears out hair*)
Girls Aloud - you should be ashamed of yourselves!
Westlife - oh, just wither and die, will you?!
Make new music! Make new music!
(*Tears out hair*)
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Mainly due to a free ticket, I went today to see this year's Turner Prize exhibition, as usual wildly and widely criticised.
And rightly so.
It is boring.
And mostly pointless.
There is a sense in which artists have moved from an interest and starting point in the self to a social indignity and a kind of journalism , which art cannot (and should not) embrace. As much as art is often political, political correctness disguised as awareness when the artist in actual fact doesn't seem to have much to say, is just dull.
I don't really want to criticise the Turner Prize, especially since Kim Howell's very public and inappropriate outburst in 2002, but the show really wasn't very interesting. I refuse to blame the Tate though, because I have a feeling that it did pick the cream of the crop - it's just that the crop isn't up to anything exciting at the moment.
That said, if Yinka Shonibare doesn't win there is no justice in this world.
And rightly so.
It is boring.
And mostly pointless.
There is a sense in which artists have moved from an interest and starting point in the self to a social indignity and a kind of journalism , which art cannot (and should not) embrace. As much as art is often political, political correctness disguised as awareness when the artist in actual fact doesn't seem to have much to say, is just dull.
I don't really want to criticise the Turner Prize, especially since Kim Howell's very public and inappropriate outburst in 2002, but the show really wasn't very interesting. I refuse to blame the Tate though, because I have a feeling that it did pick the cream of the crop - it's just that the crop isn't up to anything exciting at the moment.
That said, if Yinka Shonibare doesn't win there is no justice in this world.
Friday, November 19, 2004
First gig ever, where I have not been able to see anything - until the encore, that is.
But I'm jumping ahead already.
It's a known fact that Mean Fiddler is the shitstain on London venues. Formerly known as LA2, it is like a smaller version of Astoria, without the G.A.Y. nights and the girls in cages. It is also a maze (fire hazard! Fire hazard!)that will have you running around in circles in order to find the loos. Loos which, by the way, employ a woman to spritz you with perfume and wipe your brow when you chuck. I have no problem whatsoever with women who are employed to display an array of scents and squirt handcream on your hardly wiped hands, but it just seems so...inappropriate. If you voluntarily enter into this building you will not have the slightest interest in personal grooming. At least not at that time.
Anyway.
Boyfriend is ever so excited, since his 15 minutes took place during a dEUS videoshoot - I have seen said video, and frankly, a bald head bopping up and down could be anyone. But he claims it is he. Doesn't have any proof though. Isn't even bald anymore.
So we want to be close to the action without actually being killed and take a stand next to the mixing desk. A camp Fleming is make some kind of electronic noise, alledgedly wearing red dancing shoes and incorporating 4 shirt changes into a half hour set. In the end he is topless. He is also surprisingly amusing, although already at this point do I realise that I am too short for this kind of thing. But the strobe lighting is nice.
Main act comes on - I still cannot see a dickiebird. Music is great, but it is interesting how much the visual means, even though I'm alledgedly there for the music. The guys behind me keep screaming "wheeeeeeeh" every 30 seconds. After having been squashed and moved and banged on the head by other people's elbows/jackets/breaths, the people behind stand so close to me that I can suddenly feel something which can only be described as someone's, erm, manhood - on me. No one I know. It's not even sexual. At which point I throw in the towel and let boyfriend be boyfriend and leave him in the crowd.
From the 1st floor I can actually manage to see the tops of the band's heads and enjoy a brief encore, before it is all over.
And then I go home. And that was that.
But I'm jumping ahead already.
It's a known fact that Mean Fiddler is the shitstain on London venues. Formerly known as LA2, it is like a smaller version of Astoria, without the G.A.Y. nights and the girls in cages. It is also a maze (fire hazard! Fire hazard!)that will have you running around in circles in order to find the loos. Loos which, by the way, employ a woman to spritz you with perfume and wipe your brow when you chuck. I have no problem whatsoever with women who are employed to display an array of scents and squirt handcream on your hardly wiped hands, but it just seems so...inappropriate. If you voluntarily enter into this building you will not have the slightest interest in personal grooming. At least not at that time.
Anyway.
Boyfriend is ever so excited, since his 15 minutes took place during a dEUS videoshoot - I have seen said video, and frankly, a bald head bopping up and down could be anyone. But he claims it is he. Doesn't have any proof though. Isn't even bald anymore.
So we want to be close to the action without actually being killed and take a stand next to the mixing desk. A camp Fleming is make some kind of electronic noise, alledgedly wearing red dancing shoes and incorporating 4 shirt changes into a half hour set. In the end he is topless. He is also surprisingly amusing, although already at this point do I realise that I am too short for this kind of thing. But the strobe lighting is nice.
Main act comes on - I still cannot see a dickiebird. Music is great, but it is interesting how much the visual means, even though I'm alledgedly there for the music. The guys behind me keep screaming "wheeeeeeeh" every 30 seconds. After having been squashed and moved and banged on the head by other people's elbows/jackets/breaths, the people behind stand so close to me that I can suddenly feel something which can only be described as someone's, erm, manhood - on me. No one I know. It's not even sexual. At which point I throw in the towel and let boyfriend be boyfriend and leave him in the crowd.
From the 1st floor I can actually manage to see the tops of the band's heads and enjoy a brief encore, before it is all over.
And then I go home. And that was that.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Violence on television only affects children whose parents act like television personalities
And this is very sweet (from Roy's)
And this is very sweet (from Roy's)
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Ewan's coming to London. At the Donmar, no less. Should one get tickets?
London Libraries have published a list of great reads that have inspired films. As I am working, I have decided to bold the ones I have read, italicise the ones I've seen and CAPITALISE the ones I actually like.
FORSTER, E M: A ROOM WITH A VIEW
Mann, Thomas: Death in Venice
STEINBECK, JOHN: EAST OF EDEN
CONROAD JOSEPH: HEART OF DARKNESS
Smith, Dodie: I Capture the Castle
PAGNOL, MARCEL: JEAN DE FLORETTE
O'Brian, Patrick: Master and Commander
Shute, Neville: On the Beach
KESEY, KEN: ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST
Greene, Graham: The End of the Affair
Thackeray, W. M.: Vanity Fair
Waugh, Evelyn: Vile Bodies
Lehane, Dennis: Mystic River
Lewis, Ted: Get Carter
ELLROY, JAMES: L A CONFIDENTIAL
Harris, Thomas: Red Dragon (if we're talking Michael Mann version, then a definite thumbs up, otherwise...)
Grisham, John: The Firm (hideous, no matter how you approach it)
Highsmith, Patricia: The Talented Mr Ripley
Topor, Roland: The Tenant
Rice, Anne: Interview with the Vampire
KING, STEPHEN: THE SHINING
Hines, Barry: A Kestrel for a Knave
Hornby, Nick: About a Boy
Syal, Meera: Anita and Me
Morrison, Toni: Beloved
Harris, Joanne: Chocolat
Frazier, Charles: Cold Mountain (I truly contemplated murder whilst sitting through this)
Wells, Rebecca: Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
PALAHNIUK, CHUCK: FIGHT CLUB
Flagg, Fannie: Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Chevalier, Tracy: Girl with a Pearl Earring
Swift, Graham: Last Orders
Tyler, Anne: The Accidental Tourist
Garland, Alex: The Beach
Walker, Alice: The Color Purple
ONDAATJE, MICHAEL: THE ENGLISH PATIENT
King, John: The Football Factory
Evans, Nicholas: The Horse Whisperer
Allende, Isabel: The House of the Spirits
Proulx, Annie: The Shipping News (oh god, I attempted to read this. Really.)
Welsh, Irvine: Trainspotting
Clarke, Arthur C.: 2001: A Space Odyssey (not so much a question of not liking, more a question of not understanding. Especially because I was introduced to the film through a brief lecture on the comparisons and likenesses between this film and Joyce's Ulysses.)
BURGESS, ANTHONY: A CLOCKWORK ORANGE
DICK, PHILIP K: DO ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP?
Asimov, Isaac: I, Robot
Wyndham, John: The Day of the Triffids
BALLARD, J G: EMPIRE OF THE SUN
Harris, Robert: Enigma
Barker, Pat: Regeneration
Dugain, Marc: The Officers' Ward
I need to get a life.
London Libraries have published a list of great reads that have inspired films. As I am working, I have decided to bold the ones I have read, italicise the ones I've seen and CAPITALISE the ones I actually like.
FORSTER, E M: A ROOM WITH A VIEW
Mann, Thomas: Death in Venice
STEINBECK, JOHN: EAST OF EDEN
CONROAD JOSEPH: HEART OF DARKNESS
Smith, Dodie: I Capture the Castle
PAGNOL, MARCEL: JEAN DE FLORETTE
O'Brian, Patrick: Master and Commander
Shute, Neville: On the Beach
KESEY, KEN: ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST
Greene, Graham: The End of the Affair
Thackeray, W. M.: Vanity Fair
Waugh, Evelyn: Vile Bodies
Lehane, Dennis: Mystic River
Lewis, Ted: Get Carter
ELLROY, JAMES: L A CONFIDENTIAL
Harris, Thomas: Red Dragon (if we're talking Michael Mann version, then a definite thumbs up, otherwise...)
Grisham, John: The Firm (hideous, no matter how you approach it)
Highsmith, Patricia: The Talented Mr Ripley
Topor, Roland: The Tenant
Rice, Anne: Interview with the Vampire
KING, STEPHEN: THE SHINING
Hines, Barry: A Kestrel for a Knave
Hornby, Nick: About a Boy
Syal, Meera: Anita and Me
Morrison, Toni: Beloved
Harris, Joanne: Chocolat
Frazier, Charles: Cold Mountain (I truly contemplated murder whilst sitting through this)
Wells, Rebecca: Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
PALAHNIUK, CHUCK: FIGHT CLUB
Flagg, Fannie: Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe
Chevalier, Tracy: Girl with a Pearl Earring
Swift, Graham: Last Orders
Tyler, Anne: The Accidental Tourist
Garland, Alex: The Beach
Walker, Alice: The Color Purple
ONDAATJE, MICHAEL: THE ENGLISH PATIENT
King, John: The Football Factory
Evans, Nicholas: The Horse Whisperer
Allende, Isabel: The House of the Spirits
Proulx, Annie: The Shipping News (oh god, I attempted to read this. Really.)
Welsh, Irvine: Trainspotting
Clarke, Arthur C.: 2001: A Space Odyssey (not so much a question of not liking, more a question of not understanding. Especially because I was introduced to the film through a brief lecture on the comparisons and likenesses between this film and Joyce's Ulysses.)
BURGESS, ANTHONY: A CLOCKWORK ORANGE
DICK, PHILIP K: DO ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP?
Asimov, Isaac: I, Robot
Wyndham, John: The Day of the Triffids
BALLARD, J G: EMPIRE OF THE SUN
Harris, Robert: Enigma
Barker, Pat: Regeneration
Dugain, Marc: The Officers' Ward
I need to get a life.
Monday, November 08, 2004
In a whiff of folly, I decided to enrich the world with the music that makes me go 'hmm'
This list will probably change quite often, become largely ignored, and ultimately forgotten about and left to wither and die. I am fickle.
I've spent most of my morning at work making this list which I believe says more about my work than about my passion for music.
This list will probably change quite often, become largely ignored, and ultimately forgotten about and left to wither and die. I am fickle.
I've spent most of my morning at work making this list which I believe says more about my work than about my passion for music.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
This weekend:
An all-too-brief cuppa cha with Tinka (well, actually, it was coffee),
a shopping expedition that turned into a spree - so much so that my bank, after a couple of hours, declined further card transactions, because the kind folk thought my card had been stolen due to a vast amount of money being withdrawn -
too much food which means I'm now left with a tummy ache
and
still no news on my LRB subscription which, frankly, pisses me off.
Sifting through my bookmarks:
UCL website for any interesting free lunch hour lectures,
Becoming a member at The Other Cinema (which I'm not, but it seems like a perfect birthday present for Other Cinema fanatic colleague)
and
It is to my incredible annoyance that I had to decline to participate in this event (as audience, mind you, not on stage!). I have another engagement, as they say, but would just love to go. One of my goals in life is to touch Seamus Heaney, dontchaknow?
An all-too-brief cuppa cha with Tinka (well, actually, it was coffee),
a shopping expedition that turned into a spree - so much so that my bank, after a couple of hours, declined further card transactions, because the kind folk thought my card had been stolen due to a vast amount of money being withdrawn -
too much food which means I'm now left with a tummy ache
and
still no news on my LRB subscription which, frankly, pisses me off.
Sifting through my bookmarks:
UCL website for any interesting free lunch hour lectures,
Becoming a member at The Other Cinema (which I'm not, but it seems like a perfect birthday present for Other Cinema fanatic colleague)
and
It is to my incredible annoyance that I had to decline to participate in this event (as audience, mind you, not on stage!). I have another engagement, as they say, but would just love to go. One of my goals in life is to touch Seamus Heaney, dontchaknow?
Friday, November 05, 2004
I guess you can choose to sulk for four years, and worry, and make life miserable for yourself.
You can, however, also choose to do something: the resistance lives!
(Canadians only, terms and conditions apply)
You can, however, also choose to do something: the resistance lives!
(Canadians only, terms and conditions apply)
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
I'm feeling sick.
And utterly, utterly depressed.
Not only is the outcome hideous, but the manner in which this so-called voting system works, the corruption of the campaigns (and yes, I'm talking about all implicated) - what is this all about?
And utterly, utterly depressed.
Not only is the outcome hideous, but the manner in which this so-called voting system works, the corruption of the campaigns (and yes, I'm talking about all implicated) - what is this all about?
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
As the film festival is drawing to a close (Thursday night, to be exact), a tiny bit of linkage:
Sideways the Surprise Film - great reviews, I liked Election (a lot) - but really? Sour grapes, perhaps, because I didn't book tickets...
Rockumentary debate live online
Interviews with Kevin Bacon, Wong Kar-Wai and John Heder.
Mike got excited about 2046
Only another year until next time...
Sideways the Surprise Film - great reviews, I liked Election (a lot) - but really? Sour grapes, perhaps, because I didn't book tickets...
Rockumentary debate live online
Interviews with Kevin Bacon, Wong Kar-Wai and John Heder.
Mike got excited about 2046
Only another year until next time...
Monday, November 01, 2004
So here's me, running gauntlet between autograph-hunters, bodyguards and people-carriers. Flashlights go off, I turn and wave, dignified and yet bemused over the commotion.
The crowd ignores me wholeheartedly.
I'm at the UK premiere of The Woodsman and it is a moving and though-provoking film. I want to take this film and show it to the bloodhounds, self-righteous and wicked, who'd rather take the law upon themselves in eye-for-an-eye fashion. I want to demonstrate, through this film, that life and the human mind is not that simple, that we all agree that paedofiles are dangerous, but that the manner in which we engage with them and with the subject must be considered. I do not believe that paedofile registers should ever be released to the general public.
Juxtaposed with this sober subject matter, is the joviality and general sunny disposition exuded by Kevin Bacon & Kyra Sedgwick. There is a certain sense of Hollywood having come to town, but our Kev is from Philly, and NYC, and has a sense of humour.
The following day there is no paparazzi, no actors, and no introductory speeches. Tony Takitani is a film about aloneness and loneliness, beautifully filmed and scored. Extraordinarily literary and very, very stylish (and stylised), if nothing else, this film has made me want to go and read the books of Haruki Murakami.
The crowd ignores me wholeheartedly.
I'm at the UK premiere of The Woodsman and it is a moving and though-provoking film. I want to take this film and show it to the bloodhounds, self-righteous and wicked, who'd rather take the law upon themselves in eye-for-an-eye fashion. I want to demonstrate, through this film, that life and the human mind is not that simple, that we all agree that paedofiles are dangerous, but that the manner in which we engage with them and with the subject must be considered. I do not believe that paedofile registers should ever be released to the general public.
Juxtaposed with this sober subject matter, is the joviality and general sunny disposition exuded by Kevin Bacon & Kyra Sedgwick. There is a certain sense of Hollywood having come to town, but our Kev is from Philly, and NYC, and has a sense of humour.
The following day there is no paparazzi, no actors, and no introductory speeches. Tony Takitani is a film about aloneness and loneliness, beautifully filmed and scored. Extraordinarily literary and very, very stylish (and stylised), if nothing else, this film has made me want to go and read the books of Haruki Murakami.
Friday, October 29, 2004
It was a great night for the sexual. Metrosexual, retrosexual, even the bi-curious had fun.
The kids got a bit hysterical.
It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work when we need the money
Warm-up was some bloke in a studded, blue spandex jumpsuit, who was wearing a fighter-pilot helmet and who played some sort of hybrid between blues and redneck-guitar-uhm-stuff. Boobs flying everywhere. If you were there, you'd know what I mean.
And then The Kills, who should get off the PJ Harvey/Siouxie Sioux-diet that they are clearly on, and get a life. And off the stage.
The boys were gorgeous, belting out songs about lust and colour in a most dramatic fashion. Collars up. Tongues in cheeks. And the Ian Curtis movements down to a T.
The kids got a bit hysterical.
It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work when we need the money
Warm-up was some bloke in a studded, blue spandex jumpsuit, who was wearing a fighter-pilot helmet and who played some sort of hybrid between blues and redneck-guitar-uhm-stuff. Boobs flying everywhere. If you were there, you'd know what I mean.
And then The Kills, who should get off the PJ Harvey/Siouxie Sioux-diet that they are clearly on, and get a life. And off the stage.
The boys were gorgeous, belting out songs about lust and colour in a most dramatic fashion. Collars up. Tongues in cheeks. And the Ian Curtis movements down to a T.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
I am a pacifist.
I am pro-abortion, environmentally friendly, uncorrupt (!) and pro-freedom of speech.
More importantly, even if I were none of the above, the mere fact that I am a woman would make it impossible for me to ever vote for Bush. Or the Republican party in general.
There's another week until the election and plenty of time of research and decide who to vote for. Do vote, and do vote Kerry and turn USA into a 21st century country, a country equal for all, respectful to all.
I am pro-abortion, environmentally friendly, uncorrupt (!) and pro-freedom of speech.
More importantly, even if I were none of the above, the mere fact that I am a woman would make it impossible for me to ever vote for Bush. Or the Republican party in general.
There's another week until the election and plenty of time of research and decide who to vote for. Do vote, and do vote Kerry and turn USA into a 21st century country, a country equal for all, respectful to all.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Guardian poetry moodmatcher gave me this:
Light-winged smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the Gods to pardon this clear flame.
Not a bad match, really (though other comparisons with Henry David may make me queasy).
Try other games on the Guardian website - so far I'm quite stylish and well into music, but haven't got a clue about tennis. Well, I know that.
Alternatively you can submit a topical haiku - I got stuck on "Clinton" and gave up almost immediately.
YES - it's a grim, rainy day and I've got time to spare. So got me a subscription to London Review of Books. Not quite sure why, but hopefully it won't let me down.
Alas! Tomorrow is another working day and I'm knackered by the mere thought. Not sure if I'll be around these shores much next week. (Got a date with Alex Kapranos Thursday night.)
Light-winged smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the Gods to pardon this clear flame.
Not a bad match, really (though other comparisons with Henry David may make me queasy).
Try other games on the Guardian website - so far I'm quite stylish and well into music, but haven't got a clue about tennis. Well, I know that.
Alternatively you can submit a topical haiku - I got stuck on "Clinton" and gave up almost immediately.
YES - it's a grim, rainy day and I've got time to spare. So got me a subscription to London Review of Books. Not quite sure why, but hopefully it won't let me down.
Alas! Tomorrow is another working day and I'm knackered by the mere thought. Not sure if I'll be around these shores much next week. (Got a date with Alex Kapranos Thursday night.)
Thursday, October 21, 2004
I am reading Roland Barthes' A Lover's Discourse. In his introduction he writes: '...the lover's discourse is today of an extreme solitude. This discourse is spoken, perhaps, by thousands of subjects (who knows?), but warranted by no one (...). Once a discourse is thus driven by its own momentum into the backwater of the "unreal", exiled from all gregarity, it has no recourse but to become the site, however exiguous, of an affirmation.'
I was thinking about this as I, a couple of nights ago, was re-watching The Dead and apart from the fact that, given a choice, one should always readThe Dead, this is a lovely film and ever so faithful to the text.
That said, Joyce's characters (in their own streams of consciousness) never love passionately - they lust, they doubt. Perhaps this doubt, this lust, is not a symbol of lack of love, but a symbol of its presence? Perhaps the loneliness and alienation of Gabriel Conroy is not a sign that he never loved Gretta, but merely a sign that he is less passionate a lover than Michael Furey?
Do I have a point?
No. I've spent the day being taught how to change a fluent, fruity language into something antiseptic and neutered. And so I'm off to cut out my tongue, so I can neither write nor speak.
However:
Dubliners gave me the will to read.
Ulysses gave me the will to study.
But that is an entirely different story.
I was thinking about this as I, a couple of nights ago, was re-watching The Dead and apart from the fact that, given a choice, one should always readThe Dead, this is a lovely film and ever so faithful to the text.
That said, Joyce's characters (in their own streams of consciousness) never love passionately - they lust, they doubt. Perhaps this doubt, this lust, is not a symbol of lack of love, but a symbol of its presence? Perhaps the loneliness and alienation of Gabriel Conroy is not a sign that he never loved Gretta, but merely a sign that he is less passionate a lover than Michael Furey?
Do I have a point?
No. I've spent the day being taught how to change a fluent, fruity language into something antiseptic and neutered. And so I'm off to cut out my tongue, so I can neither write nor speak.
However:
Dubliners gave me the will to read.
Ulysses gave me the will to study.
But that is an entirely different story.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Note to self: Post something tomorrow on current reading and revisiting.
(Note to self 2: In the future, don't ever drink before dinner. Please.)
(Note to self 2: In the future, don't ever drink before dinner. Please.)
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
And the winner is...
Only one of the Booker prize nominated books has really ever interested me. Colm Toibin's 'The Master' seems interesting, literary, clever and well worth a read. (Note to self: buy book, read).
Only possibly the Woodward book has otherwise managed to interest me slightly.
But, of course, now I have to reconsider.
In theory, the Hollinghurst is right up my street. The 80's; Thatcher, HIV, The Smiths. But somehow, somewhere, it seems cold and middle-of-the-road and, well, boring.
Anyway, congratulations Alan Hollinghurst, on winning the Man Booker prize 2004. May you be worthy.
Only one of the Booker prize nominated books has really ever interested me. Colm Toibin's 'The Master' seems interesting, literary, clever and well worth a read. (Note to self: buy book, read).
Only possibly the Woodward book has otherwise managed to interest me slightly.
But, of course, now I have to reconsider.
In theory, the Hollinghurst is right up my street. The 80's; Thatcher, HIV, The Smiths. But somehow, somewhere, it seems cold and middle-of-the-road and, well, boring.
Anyway, congratulations Alan Hollinghurst, on winning the Man Booker prize 2004. May you be worthy.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
'As I trundle dutifully round with my list, saucer-eyed shoppers cloaked in Nightclub Fug buy 900 tubs of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food, then sculpt the whole lot into an effigy of Shiva in the car park.'
Jacques Peretti has been late-night shopping.
'Round where I live, we have a 24-hour Tesco (although what exactly constitutes 24 hours for the dear Tesco people, I do not know, as the shop actually closes early on Sunday afternoon).
Rarely, admittedly, have I shopped late, mainly because I prefer to actually do interesting stuff (such as sleeping) at night, but when I have, it is as interesting an experience as Perettis, albeit not quite as, it seems, fun.
We don't have that many clubbers, mainly, I believe because we a) don't have any clubs in the area and b) chavs prefer to go to pubs, hang in the streets, and stab innocent people.
What we do have is the odd nutter, you know the kind, unwashed male who mutters to himself whilst staring at you wildly in the frozen foods section, because you may just steal the last pack of breaded fish fingers from under his nose. Alternatively, you may bump into unwashed female, size XXX, who will strike up a conversation with you about the price of spam, moving on to regeneration of the area, the government, and finally homosexuality (and the unacceptability thereof), all the while seemingly friendly, but you just know that she would take your eye out in a second if you let down your guard.
As Peretti rightly observes, you can never find the things you actually want to buy. (Not that I can ever find the things I want to buy in the daytime.) Even basics such as carrots will only be available in packs of seven, of which two have been taken out of the vacuum pack and probably munched by a greasy nutter (see above).
This being England, you cannot buy any booze after 11. This is obviously incredibly stupid, given that the majority of people who shop past midnight will inevitably want to get (even more) pissed.
'It's clear that late-night shopping has little to offer the normal consumer, ie who isn't squatting, Italian or off their tits on drugs. So why on earth do it? Well, I believe that a nocturnal visit to the supermarket offers a crack in the space-time continuum. Basically, it's an opportunity to pursue consumerism into the exotic dimension of night, embarking on what pseudy French philosophers call a voyage of dissonance.'
In spite of all this, in a weird way I kind of enjoy late night supermarket shopping. It is as if time stops and allows you to lose all kind of inhibition - do you want to play with the giant teddy? Fine! The miniature tea-set that has been torn out of its wrapping by an over-eager child? Go for it! Do you want to munch on a bunch of half-mouldy grapes (the only ones left) and not care if anyone sees? You can! Want to run naked down the aisles, whilst slapping yourself with a week-dead fish, singing your national anthem? Good!
It is so quiet and the staff so disengaged that once a man ran amok with an axe in Sainbury's in New Cross and no person was harmed. He did kill a half eaten apple and the top shelves full of toilet paper, though.
Jacques Peretti has been late-night shopping.
'Round where I live, we have a 24-hour Tesco (although what exactly constitutes 24 hours for the dear Tesco people, I do not know, as the shop actually closes early on Sunday afternoon).
Rarely, admittedly, have I shopped late, mainly because I prefer to actually do interesting stuff (such as sleeping) at night, but when I have, it is as interesting an experience as Perettis, albeit not quite as, it seems, fun.
We don't have that many clubbers, mainly, I believe because we a) don't have any clubs in the area and b) chavs prefer to go to pubs, hang in the streets, and stab innocent people.
What we do have is the odd nutter, you know the kind, unwashed male who mutters to himself whilst staring at you wildly in the frozen foods section, because you may just steal the last pack of breaded fish fingers from under his nose. Alternatively, you may bump into unwashed female, size XXX, who will strike up a conversation with you about the price of spam, moving on to regeneration of the area, the government, and finally homosexuality (and the unacceptability thereof), all the while seemingly friendly, but you just know that she would take your eye out in a second if you let down your guard.
As Peretti rightly observes, you can never find the things you actually want to buy. (Not that I can ever find the things I want to buy in the daytime.) Even basics such as carrots will only be available in packs of seven, of which two have been taken out of the vacuum pack and probably munched by a greasy nutter (see above).
This being England, you cannot buy any booze after 11. This is obviously incredibly stupid, given that the majority of people who shop past midnight will inevitably want to get (even more) pissed.
'It's clear that late-night shopping has little to offer the normal consumer, ie who isn't squatting, Italian or off their tits on drugs. So why on earth do it? Well, I believe that a nocturnal visit to the supermarket offers a crack in the space-time continuum. Basically, it's an opportunity to pursue consumerism into the exotic dimension of night, embarking on what pseudy French philosophers call a voyage of dissonance.'
In spite of all this, in a weird way I kind of enjoy late night supermarket shopping. It is as if time stops and allows you to lose all kind of inhibition - do you want to play with the giant teddy? Fine! The miniature tea-set that has been torn out of its wrapping by an over-eager child? Go for it! Do you want to munch on a bunch of half-mouldy grapes (the only ones left) and not care if anyone sees? You can! Want to run naked down the aisles, whilst slapping yourself with a week-dead fish, singing your national anthem? Good!
It is so quiet and the staff so disengaged that once a man ran amok with an axe in Sainbury's in New Cross and no person was harmed. He did kill a half eaten apple and the top shelves full of toilet paper, though.
Friday, October 15, 2004
/rant/
Unable to log on to Blogger, unable to get to my email...a conspiracy to keep me away from the world???
/end rant/
/breathe/
but now everything seems to be back to normal - this looks more and more like a weekend of soup and tea and pyjama bottoms and DVDs - the weather sucks and the light has gone and central heating has been turned on
Unable to log on to Blogger, unable to get to my email...a conspiracy to keep me away from the world???
/end rant/
/breathe/
but now everything seems to be back to normal - this looks more and more like a weekend of soup and tea and pyjama bottoms and DVDs - the weather sucks and the light has gone and central heating has been turned on
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Life is a bit tiresome at the moment - I feel like the only sane in the asylum.
A bit of linkage to save the day, perhaps, bookmarks to (possibly) reveal my state of mind:
Yoga at The Drill Hall: to de-stress.
Wedding preparation in Danish: to get into the lingo for the invites.
A list of famous cemeteries: because cemeteries are beautiful peaceful places; good for walking, browsing, eating lunch and hanging out.
And a lovely poem by e e cummings:
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon)
Oh, and my email server is all over the place - or rather, nowhere to be found.
Grrr! My only lifeline! Damn you all!
A bit of linkage to save the day, perhaps, bookmarks to (possibly) reveal my state of mind:
Yoga at The Drill Hall: to de-stress.
Wedding preparation in Danish: to get into the lingo for the invites.
A list of famous cemeteries: because cemeteries are beautiful peaceful places; good for walking, browsing, eating lunch and hanging out.
And a lovely poem by e e cummings:
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon)
Oh, and my email server is all over the place - or rather, nowhere to be found.
Grrr! My only lifeline! Damn you all!
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Maggie Cheung knows how to smoke a cigarette. It is not clumsily stuck between her lips, cheeks desperately sucked in, in search of the great hit. Maggie Cheung determinedly puts the cigarette between her teeth in one, swift movement, closing her lips around the filter in a perfect match.
Some actors are very good at smoking. De Niro. Penn.
Some actors, you can tell, don't smoke but pretend to.
Some actors, you can tell, smoke, but pretend to be people who don't and then do.
And some actors not only smoke convincingly, but ever so attractively. One of these actors is Maggie Cheung.
Clean is not a bad film. But it doesn't know what it wants and how it wants to do it - what's the point of Tricky? Having him in the film, 'playing' himself is neither tongue-in-cheek nor does it enhance the film in any way.
Nick Nolte is obviously brilliant - I guess that's what he does - and the storyline with Cheung, Nolte and the boy is very, very good - I wish they would have explored that more, and celebrity cameos less.
Anyway - Mike writes about these things much better than I, so check out what he has to say about Raindance and LFF over at Cinema Minima.
Some actors are very good at smoking. De Niro. Penn.
Some actors, you can tell, don't smoke but pretend to.
Some actors, you can tell, smoke, but pretend to be people who don't and then do.
And some actors not only smoke convincingly, but ever so attractively. One of these actors is Maggie Cheung.
Clean is not a bad film. But it doesn't know what it wants and how it wants to do it - what's the point of Tricky? Having him in the film, 'playing' himself is neither tongue-in-cheek nor does it enhance the film in any way.
Nick Nolte is obviously brilliant - I guess that's what he does - and the storyline with Cheung, Nolte and the boy is very, very good - I wish they would have explored that more, and celebrity cameos less.
Anyway - Mike writes about these things much better than I, so check out what he has to say about Raindance and LFF over at Cinema Minima.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Horror movie? Comedy (black)? Badly concealed Jesus-analogy? Meditation on the Father, the Son & the Holy Spirit? Theatre of the absurd?
Calvaire is all of the above, yet none completely. Raindance is almost over, but for me it started yesterday with a film that I, as a non-horror buff, found in equal parts funny, confusing and disturbing (and a bit long, but, you know, whatever). Amid bestiality, buggery, cruxifictions and the most amusing/just plain odd bar scene I have seen in a long time, there is a story of loneliness and loss and I just really liked it (although I am still feeling weird).
I shall never, I tell you, never, live in the south of Belgium.
And last night, just past midnight, I saw a fox in the parking lot. He looked me right in the eye and quickly ran away.
I like that we have foxes here, a sign of the leafy area we live in, reminding us that there is still a purity in nature that you don't have to get outside zone 2 to find.
Calvaire is all of the above, yet none completely. Raindance is almost over, but for me it started yesterday with a film that I, as a non-horror buff, found in equal parts funny, confusing and disturbing (and a bit long, but, you know, whatever). Amid bestiality, buggery, cruxifictions and the most amusing/just plain odd bar scene I have seen in a long time, there is a story of loneliness and loss and I just really liked it (although I am still feeling weird).
I shall never, I tell you, never, live in the south of Belgium.
And last night, just past midnight, I saw a fox in the parking lot. He looked me right in the eye and quickly ran away.
I like that we have foxes here, a sign of the leafy area we live in, reminding us that there is still a purity in nature that you don't have to get outside zone 2 to find.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Quite a while ago I went to see Dodgeball, lusting for something non-intellectual, non-polically correct to delve into. After having seen the film (which was quite sweet), my cinema-companion expressed surprise that this game actually exists, and not only in the sick minds of American film-makers. I duly found the International Dodge Ball Federation's web-site, which maps out a long tradition of human beings (grown-up and children, male and female alike) slamming balls into each others' body parts. Last week (I believe, or was it the week before?) the film premiered in Denmark and I read a Danish review of the film.
And suddenly it struck me!
In Danish it's called høvdingebold! And I have been exposed to this many a time in school, being forced onto the court, being (inevitably) picked last, after the asthmatic, bespectacled girl and the really short guy, who cried if he forgot his lunch box. Then I'd be pelted with orange, foamy balls (at least we didn't use basket balls), while my team makes would bemoan my lack of aim, dedication and forcefulness.
And this is why, to this day, I hate ball games.
I do not just not enjoy them, or would not just rather do without, nay, I hate them. Hate them, hate them, hate them.
They remind me of smelly feet and sour gym-floors, or rippled asphalt and boyish elbows which, since I'm rather short, would end up in my face. They remind me of the mysterious virus, the prettiest girls always would end up with, just when the games were about to begin, and the sheer stupidity of teenage boys in gym shorts. Overzealous teachers in sweatpants.
The only types of sports I can deal with these days (actively, I mean, I can watch all sorts of sport without breaking into a sweat) are badminton (God knows why), er...and that's pretty much it. Sometimes I go for a run (last time, 2002) and a swim (preferably in an outside pool somewhere tropical), but other than that -
I can see the functionality of sports; they keep you fit, they're good for you. But I guess I just don't have that killer mentality. And I partly blame dodgeball.
And suddenly it struck me!
In Danish it's called høvdingebold! And I have been exposed to this many a time in school, being forced onto the court, being (inevitably) picked last, after the asthmatic, bespectacled girl and the really short guy, who cried if he forgot his lunch box. Then I'd be pelted with orange, foamy balls (at least we didn't use basket balls), while my team makes would bemoan my lack of aim, dedication and forcefulness.
And this is why, to this day, I hate ball games.
I do not just not enjoy them, or would not just rather do without, nay, I hate them. Hate them, hate them, hate them.
They remind me of smelly feet and sour gym-floors, or rippled asphalt and boyish elbows which, since I'm rather short, would end up in my face. They remind me of the mysterious virus, the prettiest girls always would end up with, just when the games were about to begin, and the sheer stupidity of teenage boys in gym shorts. Overzealous teachers in sweatpants.
The only types of sports I can deal with these days (actively, I mean, I can watch all sorts of sport without breaking into a sweat) are badminton (God knows why), er...and that's pretty much it. Sometimes I go for a run (last time, 2002) and a swim (preferably in an outside pool somewhere tropical), but other than that -
I can see the functionality of sports; they keep you fit, they're good for you. But I guess I just don't have that killer mentality. And I partly blame dodgeball.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
What is wrong with people's taste?
So, Empire's 100 Sexiest Movie Stars Of All Time-poll is out and the winner is (da-da-da-daaa)....
Keira Knightley.
Keira Knightley?
Please. The look of a woman too young to remember Miami Vice, too smooth to have had any experiences what-so-ever (apart from kissing Chiwetel Ejiofor, which, admittedly, is not so bad) - perfectly cute, but the sexiest movie star of all time??? I thinketh not.
Ohmigod.
I've become one of those people.
If someone bumps into a life that seems to be mine, can you please tell it to return to me shortly? I really, really need it.
(Pssst. Just one more thing. I am so bored with Orlando Bloom. So bored. And probably too old to appreciate his, ehm, strenghts.)
So, Empire's 100 Sexiest Movie Stars Of All Time-poll is out and the winner is (da-da-da-daaa)....
Keira Knightley.
Keira Knightley?
Please. The look of a woman too young to remember Miami Vice, too smooth to have had any experiences what-so-ever (apart from kissing Chiwetel Ejiofor, which, admittedly, is not so bad) - perfectly cute, but the sexiest movie star of all time??? I thinketh not.
Ohmigod.
I've become one of those people.
If someone bumps into a life that seems to be mine, can you please tell it to return to me shortly? I really, really need it.
(Pssst. Just one more thing. I am so bored with Orlando Bloom. So bored. And probably too old to appreciate his, ehm, strenghts.)
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Cool Brandleaders list out today:
Does anyone else find it suspicious that half of the judges seem to be somehow connected to Dazed & Confused?
Otherwise, the usual suspects; Selfridges, Top Shop, Diesel &, of course, my old alma mater: Goldsmiths.
And really? - Stella? Land Rover? David Beckham? Lenny K? Peter-friggin'-Jackson?
Does anyone else find it suspicious that half of the judges seem to be somehow connected to Dazed & Confused?
Otherwise, the usual suspects; Selfridges, Top Shop, Diesel &, of course, my old alma mater: Goldsmiths.
And really? - Stella? Land Rover? David Beckham? Lenny K? Peter-friggin'-Jackson?
Monday, September 27, 2004
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Now, why is it, that every time an item is dropped on the floor, regardless of how large an area this floor covers, one is ultimately bound to step on this item at any given time, and thereby injuring one's foot?
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Briefly on the new Danish canon, which is already being criticised; not enough writers of children's literature, it is said. What critics forget, is that there is not automatically a democratic inclusion of every writer, that the majority enjoy reading. What they also forget is that it is still possible, in Danish lessons, to allow pupils to read other writers than the canonised. And that this canon has not been made solely for the purpose of Danish primary school education.
Friday, September 24, 2004
My eyes are killing me.
I have somehow managed to get permission to work from home, in a job in which this is strictly speaking not possible.
However, I also have a project which needs to be delived Monday - this means that I actually have to WORK FROM HOME. Appalling.
Fortunately I am in a position where at least I can gaze out the window once in a while, play loud music, drink tea and go get kneaded by an experienced beautician later on this afternoon. So all is not bad.
I have somehow managed to get permission to work from home, in a job in which this is strictly speaking not possible.
However, I also have a project which needs to be delived Monday - this means that I actually have to WORK FROM HOME. Appalling.
Fortunately I am in a position where at least I can gaze out the window once in a while, play loud music, drink tea and go get kneaded by an experienced beautician later on this afternoon. So all is not bad.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Back from Denmark, where things somehow always stay the same. Spent two days at the beach which is one of my favorite places to be.
The North Sea is kind of magical, kind of exciting - many beaches are nicer; much more beautiful, the water clearer, the sand cleaner - but the atmosphere is almost Gothic, in the Poe kind of way. There is a great sense of solitude, especially when summer's gone, a few people in wellies looking for amber, deserted holiday houses, the foamy edge of the water telling stories of waves and wind.
Got drunk on Danish beer, stuffed myself with Swedish pea-soup, raved about the babies and sang songs relating to times gone by.
And then there's the break-up of a marriage of which I will say nothing else but that it didn't take long for the semi-racist jokes to appear, now, did it?! Which just goes to show that as long as there's some kind of attachment to Danes (through marriage, adoption or celebrity) 'foreigners' (of the darker-skinned kind) can be welcomed to the country. The minute this attachment vanishes it's open season. Shame, really.
The North Sea is kind of magical, kind of exciting - many beaches are nicer; much more beautiful, the water clearer, the sand cleaner - but the atmosphere is almost Gothic, in the Poe kind of way. There is a great sense of solitude, especially when summer's gone, a few people in wellies looking for amber, deserted holiday houses, the foamy edge of the water telling stories of waves and wind.
Got drunk on Danish beer, stuffed myself with Swedish pea-soup, raved about the babies and sang songs relating to times gone by.
And then there's the break-up of a marriage of which I will say nothing else but that it didn't take long for the semi-racist jokes to appear, now, did it?! Which just goes to show that as long as there's some kind of attachment to Danes (through marriage, adoption or celebrity) 'foreigners' (of the darker-skinned kind) can be welcomed to the country. The minute this attachment vanishes it's open season. Shame, really.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Right then.
Pre-midlife crisis it is.
Exhibit A:
Vince Vaughn obsession. Not common for thirty-something otherwise intelligent individual.
Exhibit B:
California obsession. Just a bit silly really.
Exhibit C:
Utter boredom when performing most tasks which may be mundane but otherwise quite acceptable.
Etc:
Forgetfulness. Not just the odd phone-number, but of the 'where are my pants?'-variety. This is not due to old age but to an attention span the size of a pea.
Etc:
A sudden fondness for big cars, loud noises and 'happy' colours.
Etc:
Meditations on the joys of sex, drugs & rock'n roll.
Pre-midlife crisis it is.
Exhibit A:
Vince Vaughn obsession. Not common for thirty-something otherwise intelligent individual.
Exhibit B:
California obsession. Just a bit silly really.
Exhibit C:
Utter boredom when performing most tasks which may be mundane but otherwise quite acceptable.
Etc:
Forgetfulness. Not just the odd phone-number, but of the 'where are my pants?'-variety. This is not due to old age but to an attention span the size of a pea.
Etc:
A sudden fondness for big cars, loud noises and 'happy' colours.
Etc:
Meditations on the joys of sex, drugs & rock'n roll.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Hehehehe
Charlie Brooker's description of Kate Thornton in yesterday's Guide ('the straight human equivalent of a scarcely detectable kitten's fart') had me in stitches the entire day. So mean and yet so true.
Re. recent California-obsession: A place in which Roger Avery has a dermatologist has got to be worth visiting.
Tonight at 7: Pet Shop Boys do Eisenstein. I won't be there, but I know I should be.
Charlie Brooker's description of Kate Thornton in yesterday's Guide ('the straight human equivalent of a scarcely detectable kitten's fart') had me in stitches the entire day. So mean and yet so true.
Re. recent California-obsession: A place in which Roger Avery has a dermatologist has got to be worth visiting.
Tonight at 7: Pet Shop Boys do Eisenstein. I won't be there, but I know I should be.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Check out BetaVote and vote for your choice of US president!
Coughs *Kerry*
In entertainment news: Franz Ferdinand scooped the Mercury award - not sure how I feel about that; the album is very, very good, but hardly innovative. (Except perhaps for people who have never, ever heard of the 70'ies!)
I am dying to see Anchorman, thus continuing my voyage into the rude, crude and rather macho world of American unsophisticated comedy. I don't know why these things appeal to me so much other than a possible overload of testosterone. Then again, I was never very keen on girly stuff, such as dusty pink, feathers, chick-lit and Titanic - I was always more fond of bodily functions and entertainment that hits where it hurts. In so many ways.
Coughs *Kerry*
In entertainment news: Franz Ferdinand scooped the Mercury award - not sure how I feel about that; the album is very, very good, but hardly innovative. (Except perhaps for people who have never, ever heard of the 70'ies!)
I am dying to see Anchorman, thus continuing my voyage into the rude, crude and rather macho world of American unsophisticated comedy. I don't know why these things appeal to me so much other than a possible overload of testosterone. Then again, I was never very keen on girly stuff, such as dusty pink, feathers, chick-lit and Titanic - I was always more fond of bodily functions and entertainment that hits where it hurts. In so many ways.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Italians:
* Drive like mad
* Make gorgeous liquorice ice cream
Next:
Must go to California. There must be something about a place that inspires songs.
* Drive like mad
* Make gorgeous liquorice ice cream
Next:
Must go to California. There must be something about a place that inspires songs.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
And a big, booming voice said: 'And there shall be light!'
'Light', saith she, 'hmm...'
'And there shall be at least seven days and seven nights!'
'Okay', saith she, 'more than a week then...'
'And there shall be a beach...'
'Super!'
'...and a swimming pool...and ice cream bars and splendid food and peaches dripping with juices...'
'I know, I know!' said I (fore it was I), 'especially if there may also be goats and honey and gangs shooting handguns, while drunken, at night?'
'There may', saith the voice generously.
'That's it'! said I: 'I'm going to Sardinia!'
I'll be back soon.
'Light', saith she, 'hmm...'
'And there shall be at least seven days and seven nights!'
'Okay', saith she, 'more than a week then...'
'And there shall be a beach...'
'Super!'
'...and a swimming pool...and ice cream bars and splendid food and peaches dripping with juices...'
'I know, I know!' said I (fore it was I), 'especially if there may also be goats and honey and gangs shooting handguns, while drunken, at night?'
'There may', saith the voice generously.
'That's it'! said I: 'I'm going to Sardinia!'
I'll be back soon.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
I mostly prefer going to museums on my own. Then I can stay for as long or as short as I like, spending hours in front of Rothko and seconds in front of Constable. What is lovely is not only the art itself, and the frames in which it hangs - interesting becomes also the space in which art has been hung, the correspondence between artwork, viewer and room itself. The noises it makes when feet wearing different foot-wear move across the floors. Children laughing and children whining, bored. Snippets of conversations; some outraged by the (lack of) content of a piece of art, some celebratory, gushing, some analysing at great lenght. People jotting down notes or sketching, concentrating on the task at hand.
Tate Modern is splendid. Not only do they have great shows on, you can turn from a Pollock and see the Lobster Telephone and turn again and enjoy the spectacular view of the Millenium Bridge and St. Paul's. And when you exit you can see the waves and the boats and hear the birdmen whistling.
The Edward Hopper show is full of great paintings and within these paintings great spaces. Hopper himself apparently declared that his paintings were not about loneliness but about aloneness, people (or buildings) being alone in a moment but not feeling lonely. There is a beauty of everyday life in his paintings, not so much questions and rebellions as statements or even an acceptance (not to be confused with resignation) of life, in that moment, in that place. Reality and idealisation is juxtaposed, but again, Hopper not so much questions as investigates.
I fell in love with Hopper about 10 or so years ago when I was introduced to his works at Louisiana, outside Copenhagen. That was an amazing show, kicking the Tate's ass times five, but Tate's is still informative, riveting, interesting. Now, of course, Hopper is almost perceived as art lite, like Monet, but that does not detract from the fact that above it all, many of the paintings still stand as testimonies to a great narrator of life.
Tate Modern is splendid. Not only do they have great shows on, you can turn from a Pollock and see the Lobster Telephone and turn again and enjoy the spectacular view of the Millenium Bridge and St. Paul's. And when you exit you can see the waves and the boats and hear the birdmen whistling.
The Edward Hopper show is full of great paintings and within these paintings great spaces. Hopper himself apparently declared that his paintings were not about loneliness but about aloneness, people (or buildings) being alone in a moment but not feeling lonely. There is a beauty of everyday life in his paintings, not so much questions and rebellions as statements or even an acceptance (not to be confused with resignation) of life, in that moment, in that place. Reality and idealisation is juxtaposed, but again, Hopper not so much questions as investigates.
I fell in love with Hopper about 10 or so years ago when I was introduced to his works at Louisiana, outside Copenhagen. That was an amazing show, kicking the Tate's ass times five, but Tate's is still informative, riveting, interesting. Now, of course, Hopper is almost perceived as art lite, like Monet, but that does not detract from the fact that above it all, many of the paintings still stand as testimonies to a great narrator of life.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
So what can we learn from looking at the current state of this website?
1. My taste in film changes according to mood: at the moment I'm into big, loud, colourful American movies, insulting on many levels, intelligent on few. Corresponds to how I feel, really: insulting many, showing intelligence to few.
2. I'm reading porn. Won't go into deeper into that. Boyfriend reads the blog, don'tchaknow.
3. I like men. Semi-famous men. Like this one, this one and, oh, that one.
4. Mood is not good, body lazy. Mind shut down. Started doing quizzes again. Says it all, really.
5. I'm getting sloppy. Links-wise, getting titles right, spelling and grammar. I'm tired.
6. Could it possibly be that I need a new job?
Guilty pleasures at present:
Dude, Where's My Car? (I don't care! It makes me laugh!)
In Style magazine (I don't care! The fashion is fabulous, darling!)
1,000 Places To See Before You Die (I don't care! I like lists! And I'm not an outdoor person! I need a book to tell me how to shit in the woods and still look gorgeous!)
Everything Ben Stiller-related. (I don't care! He's cute, he's funny and utterly, utterly ridiculous!)
TopShop (oh, whatever, have you ever been there?)
Sugababes (so minging they're almost cute. Almost.)
Will Young (I think he's loverly)
Dawson's Creek (don't...)
And no, I'm not 17, I thought I had a life and I do consider myself a grown up.
Most of the time.
1. My taste in film changes according to mood: at the moment I'm into big, loud, colourful American movies, insulting on many levels, intelligent on few. Corresponds to how I feel, really: insulting many, showing intelligence to few.
2. I'm reading porn. Won't go into deeper into that. Boyfriend reads the blog, don'tchaknow.
3. I like men. Semi-famous men. Like this one, this one and, oh, that one.
4. Mood is not good, body lazy. Mind shut down. Started doing quizzes again. Says it all, really.
5. I'm getting sloppy. Links-wise, getting titles right, spelling and grammar. I'm tired.
6. Could it possibly be that I need a new job?
Guilty pleasures at present:
Dude, Where's My Car? (I don't care! It makes me laugh!)
In Style magazine (I don't care! The fashion is fabulous, darling!)
1,000 Places To See Before You Die (I don't care! I like lists! And I'm not an outdoor person! I need a book to tell me how to shit in the woods and still look gorgeous!)
Everything Ben Stiller-related. (I don't care! He's cute, he's funny and utterly, utterly ridiculous!)
TopShop (oh, whatever, have you ever been there?)
Sugababes (so minging they're almost cute. Almost.)
Will Young (I think he's loverly)
Dawson's Creek (don't...)
And no, I'm not 17, I thought I had a life and I do consider myself a grown up.
Most of the time.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Well, not big and not clever, and so predictable that it almost becomes unpredictable, but good fun. It is so unpolitically correct that it doesn't insult - no one goes free and yet it is extremely friendly.
Try the game here.
I like tall men. Ooh Vince - still so money, baby.
(Trailer for Anchorman is a hoot - and Wimbledon looks, if not exactly interesting, then very appealing - aah, Paul Bettany. - Diary of Wimbledon-extra here.
Should the decline in my film taste worry me? I guess that's an altogether different discussion which I'll save for a rainy day.)
Try the game here.
I like tall men. Ooh Vince - still so money, baby.
(Trailer for Anchorman is a hoot - and Wimbledon looks, if not exactly interesting, then very appealing - aah, Paul Bettany. - Diary of Wimbledon-extra here.
Should the decline in my film taste worry me? I guess that's an altogether different discussion which I'll save for a rainy day.)
Okay, okay, so it's The Incredibles. Sorry, folks at Pixar.
And I'm tired, 'cause it seems that everyone around me are hypocondriacs/mentally frail/psychologically twisted/nuts. Am considering a potential viewing of Dodgeball tonight just to lift spirits and forget about, well, thinking.
That, and succombing to the charms of Vince Vaughn.
And I'm tired, 'cause it seems that everyone around me are hypocondriacs/mentally frail/psychologically twisted/nuts. Am considering a potential viewing of Dodgeball tonight just to lift spirits and forget about, well, thinking.
That, and succombing to the charms of Vince Vaughn.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Danish Olympic sailor kills...erm...someone...
It seems that no one can confirm who this person is, according to the Danish papers he was Jamaican, according to the British, he is, well, British. Tourist or touristguide? Caterer? The British papers take this quite seriously and seem put off by Nicklas Holm's apparently defensive stance. Danish papers, on the other hand, have moved onto more interesting things at hand, such as the Minister for Culture, who is taking his clothes off.
Hideous.
It seems that no one can confirm who this person is, according to the Danish papers he was Jamaican, according to the British, he is, well, British. Tourist or touristguide? Caterer? The British papers take this quite seriously and seem put off by Nicklas Holm's apparently defensive stance. Danish papers, on the other hand, have moved onto more interesting things at hand, such as the Minister for Culture, who is taking his clothes off.
Hideous.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
I've never been too interested in superheroes. I was mildly keen on the first couple of Batman-films, mainly because of the gorgeous art direction. I have an awareness of the existence of certain comic books/films/etc. Other than that, I've never really been into these things. Three films have now caught my eye:
Spiderman
Spiderman 2
The Invincibles
To start with the latter: just try to catch the trailer, will you?!
As for Spiderman...
He shoots!
He swings!
He packs a punch!
He is a nerd who is also a hero, the underdog as topdog, the meek inheriting the earth.
I AM SPIDERMAN!!!
Doc Ock is a splendid villain, chemistry between leads sizzles and flying through a city never looked lovelier. Is the first better than the second? The films better than the comic books?
Oh, who cares, when it's all just this much fun!
In celebration of my Spidey-obsession, I give you the quiz:
http://www.liquidgeneration.com/quiz/images/powerfist.jpg
Spiderman
Spiderman 2
The Invincibles
To start with the latter: just try to catch the trailer, will you?!
As for Spiderman...
He shoots!
He swings!
He packs a punch!
He is a nerd who is also a hero, the underdog as topdog, the meek inheriting the earth.
I AM SPIDERMAN!!!
Doc Ock is a splendid villain, chemistry between leads sizzles and flying through a city never looked lovelier. Is the first better than the second? The films better than the comic books?
Oh, who cares, when it's all just this much fun!
In celebration of my Spidey-obsession, I give you the quiz:
http://www.liquidgeneration.com/quiz/images/powerfist.jpg
Friday, August 13, 2004
As the rain is absolutely pouring down, I'm pondering the way in which I buy books. I guess some people go to the same shops all the time. My partner prefers buying books (as well as CD's, software and pretty much everything else) on the internet. Some people will instinctively primarily go to Borders or some such high street chain.
For academic books, Waterstone's in Gower Street usually suffices, especially the second hand bit in the back.
Amazon is good if you are buying books for eg a reading list.
Otherwise I shop where I am; do I pass by Unsworths in Bloomsbury I will pop in, am I strolling the South Bank, the second hand market outside NFT is lovely.
Museum shops are useful. High street chain are perfectly capable unless you are looking for academic rareties. Book Warehouse is great to browse, if you have the time and patience - both these shops and the £2.00 shops are a bit hit and miss.
In Cambridge & Oxford, the University Presses must be visited - just for the hell of it.
British Library.
Daunt in Marylebone High Street for travel books. Book for Cooks...well...
The little, almost invisible bookshop opposite Farringdon station.
There's a bookshop for every occasion, for every mood, for every genre - London is great for books, everybody reads everywhere and somehow there seems to be great respect for books. Which is great. (Except perhaps for the quality of the English book - not the text, but the book - as opposed to the American?)
In other news:
Disgusting.
Exhilarating?
And just plain weird.
For academic books, Waterstone's in Gower Street usually suffices, especially the second hand bit in the back.
Amazon is good if you are buying books for eg a reading list.
Otherwise I shop where I am; do I pass by Unsworths in Bloomsbury I will pop in, am I strolling the South Bank, the second hand market outside NFT is lovely.
Museum shops are useful. High street chain are perfectly capable unless you are looking for academic rareties. Book Warehouse is great to browse, if you have the time and patience - both these shops and the £2.00 shops are a bit hit and miss.
In Cambridge & Oxford, the University Presses must be visited - just for the hell of it.
British Library.
Daunt in Marylebone High Street for travel books. Book for Cooks...well...
The little, almost invisible bookshop opposite Farringdon station.
There's a bookshop for every occasion, for every mood, for every genre - London is great for books, everybody reads everywhere and somehow there seems to be great respect for books. Which is great. (Except perhaps for the quality of the English book - not the text, but the book - as opposed to the American?)
In other news:
Disgusting.
Exhilarating?
And just plain weird.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
The act of reading (and by reading I mean reading, not dissecting or translating, say, a sign) is, for me, surrounded by rituals:
I find it difficult to read books on airplanes. Magazines are perfect, because they don't demand any kind of attention span. My mind is usually on other things when I travel.
Reading in cars and buses makes me motion sick.
In the morning, on the tube, I am unable to read a book - too tired. On the way home at night, on the other hand, I read very well.
Chick-lit I prefer not to read at all. And anything by Tony Parsons.
- Magazines can be read pretty much anywhere, anytime. Non-fiction likewise.
- Poetry must be studied, preferably in a quiet atmosphere, best done seated upright, possibly with pen in hand, to scribble notes in the margin. Literary criticism likewise.
- Fiction can be read in most places, according to genre.
- Something drinkable must be present, preferably tea.
- Rain is good, or some kind of greyness, or the darkness of night - alternatively sunshine outdoors is good, but heat and humidity is a killer.
- Stomach must be pleasantly full, but not overstuffed, and it is recommended to have some kind of snack (of the bagged or wrapped variety) at hand. Nothing too sticky, though, as it must be possible to devour this snack with one hand, eyes not leaving the page.
- Other people's noises must be dealt with in a swift manner - make them go away, or at least into the other room.
I find it difficult to read books on airplanes. Magazines are perfect, because they don't demand any kind of attention span. My mind is usually on other things when I travel.
Reading in cars and buses makes me motion sick.
In the morning, on the tube, I am unable to read a book - too tired. On the way home at night, on the other hand, I read very well.
Chick-lit I prefer not to read at all. And anything by Tony Parsons.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Do you have the patience (and eyesight!) to read a book on your phone? Outside the Fortress Besieged is being converted into 4200 characters.
The thought of reading a book, however chopped and changed, on my phone, fills me with dread. I was always apprehensive of mobile phones, just as I was of email addresses and CD players. I'm (un)naturally suspicious - of things I don't know, I guess - and generally uncomfortable around technology. I do like buttons, though, and things that do things when you do things, and so quickly embraced the notion of email and internet.
I really like my phone, it's quite small and nifty and not the same boring old thing as most people have, so I'm quite pleased with the look of it, and the fact that I can check my email while I'm waiting for the bus. I also enjoy the privilege of being able to ring people to say that I'm late, or to be able to send a quick text message when I can't be bothered to talk. But being in a constant text conversation throughout a day bores me no end. So the thought of receiving text after text after text in order for me to finish reading a story makes me feel sick rather than elated. Somehow it doesn't appeal to me to sit down on my sofa, rain pouring down, with a cup of tea and my, er, mobile phone.
Oh, btw charlotte street looks interesting. Nothing to do with the name, I promise!
The thought of reading a book, however chopped and changed, on my phone, fills me with dread. I was always apprehensive of mobile phones, just as I was of email addresses and CD players. I'm (un)naturally suspicious - of things I don't know, I guess - and generally uncomfortable around technology. I do like buttons, though, and things that do things when you do things, and so quickly embraced the notion of email and internet.
I really like my phone, it's quite small and nifty and not the same boring old thing as most people have, so I'm quite pleased with the look of it, and the fact that I can check my email while I'm waiting for the bus. I also enjoy the privilege of being able to ring people to say that I'm late, or to be able to send a quick text message when I can't be bothered to talk. But being in a constant text conversation throughout a day bores me no end. So the thought of receiving text after text after text in order for me to finish reading a story makes me feel sick rather than elated. Somehow it doesn't appeal to me to sit down on my sofa, rain pouring down, with a cup of tea and my, er, mobile phone.
Oh, btw charlotte street looks interesting. Nothing to do with the name, I promise!
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
We've got 'round about 800 CDs.
'But how many of them do you ever listen to'? asked the woman, raising her eyebrows to the sky in horror. The waste of money, the waste of space!
But I find it difficult to part with CD's, even the horrid ones that make my skin crawl. 'Cause once upon a time they meant something to me and some of them still make me feel. The only CD's I ever get rid of are the once that never were.
At my parents' house I've still got old vinyl, locked away in a cupboard. One day I'll buy a turntable and get back to the roots and the riots.
I may only listen to most of my CDs once a year the most, but that one time will make me happy. Which I think brings some value in itself.
Anyway I've stayed in Verlaine's Batignolles, touched Epstein's angel at Pere Lachaise, marvelled over Manet's Olympia in Musee D'Orsay and watched Paris from Sacre Coeur. I'm knackered.
'But how many of them do you ever listen to'? asked the woman, raising her eyebrows to the sky in horror. The waste of money, the waste of space!
But I find it difficult to part with CD's, even the horrid ones that make my skin crawl. 'Cause once upon a time they meant something to me and some of them still make me feel. The only CD's I ever get rid of are the once that never were.
At my parents' house I've still got old vinyl, locked away in a cupboard. One day I'll buy a turntable and get back to the roots and the riots.
I may only listen to most of my CDs once a year the most, but that one time will make me happy. Which I think brings some value in itself.
Anyway I've stayed in Verlaine's Batignolles, touched Epstein's angel at Pere Lachaise, marvelled over Manet's Olympia in Musee D'Orsay and watched Paris from Sacre Coeur. I'm knackered.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Someone asked me the other day if I thought I was a snob, thinly disguising the fact that she thinks I am.
In certain ways I think I am too.
Not in the sense of coveting gold and Versace and a big house and an au pair (although I wouldn't say no to Marc Jacobs), but in terms of demanding a certain level of intelligence/taste/reasonability from my surroundings.
I don't care if people like Kelly Clarkson/Helen Fielding/Titanic, but I assert my right to utter derogatory comments about these things. Not people, but the things people like. Does that mean that I am making barely concealed comments about people, through their taste? Probably. The same way as people are allowed to hate what I like. My snobbery is not socially determinded, but intellectually (does that in itself make me sound far, far up my own ...?).
I find that most people are snobs, one way or the other. Inverted snobs, you may say, if not actual. I mean, look at this definition:
snob [ snob ] (plural snobs)
noun
1. somebody who looks down on others: somebody who admires and cultivates relationships with those considered socially superior, and disdains those considered inferior
2. somebody who feels superior: somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or tastes
[Mid-19th century. Origin unknown.]
Ad. 2: Somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or taste. Don't we all believe ourselves to be:
a. right
and
b. have good taste?
I do not like people just because they are rich. Or possess a so-called higher status in life. I like people because I like them. Some people have an inherent determination that I, because I am interested in art, art history, architecture, theatre and the like, is a superior-feeling, self-centered, patronising snob. This is a stereotype that I cannot be much bothered with. It is patronising my intelligence. I suspect that the British class-system strikes again and that the middle classes will always look down upon the upper classes (while still coveting what they have). But please feel free to hate my taste as long as you don't make assumptions about me based solely on it.
In certain ways I think I am too.
Not in the sense of coveting gold and Versace and a big house and an au pair (although I wouldn't say no to Marc Jacobs), but in terms of demanding a certain level of intelligence/taste/reasonability from my surroundings.
I don't care if people like Kelly Clarkson/Helen Fielding/Titanic, but I assert my right to utter derogatory comments about these things. Not people, but the things people like. Does that mean that I am making barely concealed comments about people, through their taste? Probably. The same way as people are allowed to hate what I like. My snobbery is not socially determinded, but intellectually (does that in itself make me sound far, far up my own ...?).
I find that most people are snobs, one way or the other. Inverted snobs, you may say, if not actual. I mean, look at this definition:
snob [ snob ] (plural snobs)
noun
1. somebody who looks down on others: somebody who admires and cultivates relationships with those considered socially superior, and disdains those considered inferior
2. somebody who feels superior: somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or tastes
[Mid-19th century. Origin unknown.]
Ad. 2: Somebody who looks down on people considered to have inferior knowledge or taste. Don't we all believe ourselves to be:
a. right
and
b. have good taste?
I do not like people just because they are rich. Or possess a so-called higher status in life. I like people because I like them. Some people have an inherent determination that I, because I am interested in art, art history, architecture, theatre and the like, is a superior-feeling, self-centered, patronising snob. This is a stereotype that I cannot be much bothered with. It is patronising my intelligence. I suspect that the British class-system strikes again and that the middle classes will always look down upon the upper classes (while still coveting what they have). But please feel free to hate my taste as long as you don't make assumptions about me based solely on it.
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Matthew Modine's Full Metal Jacket-diary. What starts as a landscape description in best Beat-style, quickly continues into something almost bizarre and very amusing. Heh.
Friday, July 23, 2004
I loose the ability to think, when it's hot outside. I cannot read, cannot sleep, and even worse, cannot speak English, cannot write - is stumblingly incoherent.
The four phases of English to a foreigner in old Blighty:
1. New kid on the block.
English not that good, natives must speak slowly, no accent to speak of (only the neutral sound of English school-teachers elocuting letters like "h" as "eitch" and not "heitch")
2. My way?
An oddly-shaped accent appears, depending on the company kept, this can either be posh, east end or Portsmouth over Galway and Scarborough. No particular difficulties understanding the language (except of course from Scottish, which is a bitch at the best of times). Phone calls can be made in a relatively smooth fashion. (It is also at this point one stops calculating Pounds into Danish Kroner in order to find out whether or not an item is expensive)
3. Been there, done that.
A certain tiredness kicks in. One does not worry about sounding authentic anymore and therefore loses all sign of accent and reverts back to English as spoken in Danish primary schools. English can be spoken, listened to and read at all times. (One no longer thinks in Danish and dreams only in Danish at appropriate times).
4. Being boring.
One becomes English, which includes wearing football shirts at all times and eating only chips on holidays abroad, preferably in English 'restaurants'.
The four phases of English to a foreigner in old Blighty:
1. New kid on the block.
English not that good, natives must speak slowly, no accent to speak of (only the neutral sound of English school-teachers elocuting letters like "h" as "eitch" and not "heitch")
2. My way?
An oddly-shaped accent appears, depending on the company kept, this can either be posh, east end or Portsmouth over Galway and Scarborough. No particular difficulties understanding the language (except of course from Scottish, which is a bitch at the best of times). Phone calls can be made in a relatively smooth fashion. (It is also at this point one stops calculating Pounds into Danish Kroner in order to find out whether or not an item is expensive)
3. Been there, done that.
A certain tiredness kicks in. One does not worry about sounding authentic anymore and therefore loses all sign of accent and reverts back to English as spoken in Danish primary schools. English can be spoken, listened to and read at all times. (One no longer thinks in Danish and dreams only in Danish at appropriate times).
4. Being boring.
One becomes English, which includes wearing football shirts at all times and eating only chips on holidays abroad, preferably in English 'restaurants'.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
I am sorry, but I've just read an article in a Danish newspaper, in which it is stated that the Danish Integration minister is considering a proposition from the national party (I'm sorry, People's Party) of asking every Iraqi immigrant in Denmark if they would please piss off back to Iraq.
And people wonder why I stay in London???
And people wonder why I stay in London???
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Weekend sleb-spots:
Bill Nighy, Simon Amstell.
Gina McKee, Helen McCrory, Jeremy Northam, both during and after. Paparazzi outside the stage-door. A small Portuguese cafe. The whistling roller-bladers.
Summer's back.
Bill Nighy, Simon Amstell.
Gina McKee, Helen McCrory, Jeremy Northam, both during and after. Paparazzi outside the stage-door. A small Portuguese cafe. The whistling roller-bladers.
Summer's back.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea.
Behind her is the river, in front the big city, above seagulls are circling the courtyard. Inbetween her voice is sweet like honey and hard as ice.
Summer is turning out lovely.
(As it is, the man in my life is not entirely happy, thinking the whole affair a bit sterile. I don't mind, I think she's just grown up a bit, had the edges removed, or rather, turned into something else. She is girly in a way she didn't used to be, but the voice still remains (has gotten even better?), and the back catalogue, and the way around a good story. Can you fall in love with a man and remain unscathed?)
Behind her is the river, in front the big city, above seagulls are circling the courtyard. Inbetween her voice is sweet like honey and hard as ice.
Summer is turning out lovely.
(As it is, the man in my life is not entirely happy, thinking the whole affair a bit sterile. I don't mind, I think she's just grown up a bit, had the edges removed, or rather, turned into something else. She is girly in a way she didn't used to be, but the voice still remains (has gotten even better?), and the back catalogue, and the way around a good story. Can you fall in love with a man and remain unscathed?)
Monday, July 12, 2004
/rant/
I do not want to sit in a circle, I do not want to hold hands, I do not want to discuss me and my childhood and how I came to be what I am.
I do not want to dicuss literature, if literature is all Helen Fielding and no Beckett, then I'd rather talk about Quentin Tarantino and Manga films.
I will not accept that Busted is the norm and that fat-arsed girls who drink Chardonnay are not semi-born from chick-lit and that chick-lit is not a crap term and an even crapper genre. I will not under any circumstances discuss Tony Parsons at all.
/end rant/
I do not want to sit in a circle, I do not want to hold hands, I do not want to discuss me and my childhood and how I came to be what I am.
I do not want to dicuss literature, if literature is all Helen Fielding and no Beckett, then I'd rather talk about Quentin Tarantino and Manga films.
I will not accept that Busted is the norm and that fat-arsed girls who drink Chardonnay are not semi-born from chick-lit and that chick-lit is not a crap term and an even crapper genre. I will not under any circumstances discuss Tony Parsons at all.
/end rant/
Saturday, July 10, 2004
A privileged view of National Gallery after hours. Accompanied only by the faint sound of classical music and heels on wooden floor, we slowly wander and momentarily pause, in front of Holbein's two ambassadors, a couple of Rubens', a bit of Gainsborough.
And at the Portrait Gallery I found items (especially the mask) that I am sure a certain blogger would appreciate.
And at the Portrait Gallery I found items (especially the mask) that I am sure a certain blogger would appreciate.
Thursday, July 08, 2004
The little man enters in usual fashion, looking busy, yet pleased with himself. He doesn't utter a word, but fiddles with a couple of videotapes and a DVD of Meshes of the Afternoon. A woman asks a question which he ignores, whilst still looking introspect. When complete silence finally ensues, he looks up - pause - and bids his welcome.
The woman in front, right, has brought smelly cheese pops and hot chocolate. The woman behind, right, is half asleep. The man, back centre, keeps popping out to the loo, carrying his rucksack. When he is present he continually speaks, leading some to believe he has been doing his bit with the old charlie. He also speak in a strange faux posh accent, about Gene Hackman and Anne Bancroft and UCI as if it was the most alternative cinema(chain) ever seen.
Clips from Fahrenheit 911 are shown. The little man is very excited about this, as it is an important film, which tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
(One interesting point that came across was that Michael Moore seems to deliberately have dumbed down/sentimentalised his language in order to accommodate an American viewer.)
Discussion ensues. People seem to agree.It is an important film that tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The little man is pleased with himself. Suddenly a person, a Swedish person, no less, dares to imply that this is not an informed objective discussion, but rather a perpetuation of agreement, a back-slapping, vomit-inducing, self-congratulary, didactic affair, given that none of those present have ever seen the entire film, the little man included. A near-riot. Uproar. How dares she. We are the righteous, with common sense and Michael Moore on our side, better people than the entire Bush administration (but equally democratic). This is the point where the girl, middle row right, gets up and leaves. She probably should have raised her voice and lent backup to the poor Swede, but life is too short and liberation is at hand.
After The Book Group and The Smoking Room and The Office, The Evening Class should be next in line.
The woman in front, right, has brought smelly cheese pops and hot chocolate. The woman behind, right, is half asleep. The man, back centre, keeps popping out to the loo, carrying his rucksack. When he is present he continually speaks, leading some to believe he has been doing his bit with the old charlie. He also speak in a strange faux posh accent, about Gene Hackman and Anne Bancroft and UCI as if it was the most alternative cinema(chain) ever seen.
Clips from Fahrenheit 911 are shown. The little man is very excited about this, as it is an important film, which tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
(One interesting point that came across was that Michael Moore seems to deliberately have dumbed down/sentimentalised his language in order to accommodate an American viewer.)
Discussion ensues. People seem to agree.It is an important film that tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The little man is pleased with himself. Suddenly a person, a Swedish person, no less, dares to imply that this is not an informed objective discussion, but rather a perpetuation of agreement, a back-slapping, vomit-inducing, self-congratulary, didactic affair, given that none of those present have ever seen the entire film, the little man included. A near-riot. Uproar. How dares she. We are the righteous, with common sense and Michael Moore on our side, better people than the entire Bush administration (but equally democratic). This is the point where the girl, middle row right, gets up and leaves. She probably should have raised her voice and lent backup to the poor Swede, but life is too short and liberation is at hand.
After The Book Group and The Smoking Room and The Office, The Evening Class should be next in line.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
I can go for very long without reading a book. Reading a book does not relax me, it makes me think and feel and leaves me exhausted. When I'm busy I can't really read books.
I can't even say that I'm addicted to words. Wordlessness can be as gorgeous as words aplenty. And then again, I love language. Different meanings in different contexts. Sentence-structure. The unsaid, as important in language as what is said. That by choosing to change one single word in a sentence I can control and shift and alter meaning.
I love stories. Stories in books, yes (resounding), but also in films, in magazines, newsprogrammes, signs, everywhere, everywhere, a good story to read.
And so I went to the House of Lords yesterday "on business" (if you knew me, you'd laugh) and as much as that institution stands for a fairly grim class division and perpetuation of tradition, the building itself is full of stories. Lovely.
Am also nursing a serious Sims addiction. That it should ever happen to me!
In other news:
Last night the computer started smelling burned. And then I turned the bastard off. And so the smeling slowly vanished. I am now officially afraid of technology.
I can't even say that I'm addicted to words. Wordlessness can be as gorgeous as words aplenty. And then again, I love language. Different meanings in different contexts. Sentence-structure. The unsaid, as important in language as what is said. That by choosing to change one single word in a sentence I can control and shift and alter meaning.
I love stories. Stories in books, yes (resounding), but also in films, in magazines, newsprogrammes, signs, everywhere, everywhere, a good story to read.
And so I went to the House of Lords yesterday "on business" (if you knew me, you'd laugh) and as much as that institution stands for a fairly grim class division and perpetuation of tradition, the building itself is full of stories. Lovely.
Am also nursing a serious Sims addiction. That it should ever happen to me!
In other news:
Last night the computer started smelling burned. And then I turned the bastard off. And so the smeling slowly vanished. I am now officially afraid of technology.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
You know, when someone fancies you and you know it but you don't speak about it (and you don't fancy them back), it makes you feel all weird inside. You try to act normal - pretend that you don't know, that it doesn't matter and that you can take it as you imagine an adult would.
That's the feeling I've got at the moment, albeit not with a potential lover, but with a colleague. Who is really, really looking forward to working with me. Like really, really.
I want him to leave me alone. I want him to lower his expectations and be realistic about my workload and my competencies.
On a different level, this is all good, as there's more money in it. And it is "good for my CV". I just wish I wouldn't be doted upon - if I wanted a puppy I would get one. Of the canine kind.
That's the feeling I've got at the moment, albeit not with a potential lover, but with a colleague. Who is really, really looking forward to working with me. Like really, really.
I want him to leave me alone. I want him to lower his expectations and be realistic about my workload and my competencies.
On a different level, this is all good, as there's more money in it. And it is "good for my CV". I just wish I wouldn't be doted upon - if I wanted a puppy I would get one. Of the canine kind.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Once upon a time I had dinner in Jesus College, Oxford, under the painting of Lawrence of Arabia. Even though the students were dressed in a contemporary fashion, the oak-pannelled room told tales of academic greatness and quiet bookishness. I have no recollection of the food, or the conversation, but I still remember the sense of feeling very small and completely in awe.
Call it snobbism, if you will.
Many years ago I went to see Eton college. It was around the time of Dead Poets' Society and the chapel only lacked choral song and Robert Sean Leonard for me to want to jump up my desk and recite Whitman.
Got the same feeling in Cambridge the other day. So it's full of tourists wandering aimlessly around, but sneak a peek into the college courtyards and it's all quiet and beautiful.
Of course the spotty kids are all wearing oversize Korn t-shirts and baggy jeans, but consider this: one of them may become the Prime Minister one day.
Scary thought, innit?
Do I wish that my college had had the same atmosphere? Yes and no. Unfortunately I believe that an atmosphere like this can be retained thorugh a perpetual retainment of tradition and habit only and this I do not believe to be entirely good. My college was very liberated, quite arty and open, always, to new influences. And at the end of the day, this is what I would always chose, even over oak-pannelled rooms, the gorgeous pronunciation of Magdalen and world domination.
Call it snobbism, if you will.
Many years ago I went to see Eton college. It was around the time of Dead Poets' Society and the chapel only lacked choral song and Robert Sean Leonard for me to want to jump up my desk and recite Whitman.
Got the same feeling in Cambridge the other day. So it's full of tourists wandering aimlessly around, but sneak a peek into the college courtyards and it's all quiet and beautiful.
Of course the spotty kids are all wearing oversize Korn t-shirts and baggy jeans, but consider this: one of them may become the Prime Minister one day.
Scary thought, innit?
Do I wish that my college had had the same atmosphere? Yes and no. Unfortunately I believe that an atmosphere like this can be retained thorugh a perpetual retainment of tradition and habit only and this I do not believe to be entirely good. My college was very liberated, quite arty and open, always, to new influences. And at the end of the day, this is what I would always chose, even over oak-pannelled rooms, the gorgeous pronunciation of Magdalen and world domination.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Next stop Cambridge.
I am going to my first wedding which, considering that I am an otherwise experience thirty-something, is quite surprising (that it's my first, I mean).
Have booked myself into a hotel, with spa, and shall therefore pamper myself into oblivion.
Have been breaking in silver t-bar sandals for a couple of days now.
I am going to my first wedding which, considering that I am an otherwise experience thirty-something, is quite surprising (that it's my first, I mean).
Have booked myself into a hotel, with spa, and shall therefore pamper myself into oblivion.
Have been breaking in silver t-bar sandals for a couple of days now.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Post-Sheffield:
City of full monties, industrial industry, congestion, one-way streets, rain, helpless cab-drivers and friendly people.
Cute boys will inevitably be from London.
Natives speak very fast.
Local TV is boring.
I am a room service whore.
Glad to be back.
City of full monties, industrial industry, congestion, one-way streets, rain, helpless cab-drivers and friendly people.
Cute boys will inevitably be from London.
Natives speak very fast.
Local TV is boring.
I am a room service whore.
Glad to be back.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Off to Sheffield tomorrow - city of full monties and industrial, er, industry.
The joy.
Am also feeling decidedly under the weather.
Starting to suspect a conspiracy.
The joy.
Am also feeling decidedly under the weather.
Starting to suspect a conspiracy.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Cooking as art?
Being pelted with coriander leaves whilst enjoying jazz music is not the worst thing that could happen. Patatboem is an event that presents cooking as easy and fun, different kinds of music (otherwise perhaps considered an aquired taste) as accessible and turns mundane kitchen sounds into fulfilled and fulfilling musical rhythms.
At the beginning of the show drinks are served (knowledgeable people claimed this to be green tea with mint and coriander seeds - I have no idea, but it was nice and very green) - towards the end of the show food is served, including a divine pudding of cucumber, avocado, lemon and 'something else'.
During there is a woman singing into a celeriac and a man playing a cucmber and it is fun and decidedly different to watching a surly Gordon Ramsay swear and make everything look difficult and thereby putting people off venturing into the kitchen ever.
Belgians do rule.
(Speaking of Belgians, I have been invited to celebrate Flemish Day at the National Gallery, something with drinks and ambassadors and lounge suits...will it be all Brussel sprouts and Hoegarden or will there also be Ann Demeulemeester and dEUS?)
Being pelted with coriander leaves whilst enjoying jazz music is not the worst thing that could happen. Patatboem is an event that presents cooking as easy and fun, different kinds of music (otherwise perhaps considered an aquired taste) as accessible and turns mundane kitchen sounds into fulfilled and fulfilling musical rhythms.
At the beginning of the show drinks are served (knowledgeable people claimed this to be green tea with mint and coriander seeds - I have no idea, but it was nice and very green) - towards the end of the show food is served, including a divine pudding of cucumber, avocado, lemon and 'something else'.
During there is a woman singing into a celeriac and a man playing a cucmber and it is fun and decidedly different to watching a surly Gordon Ramsay swear and make everything look difficult and thereby putting people off venturing into the kitchen ever.
Belgians do rule.
(Speaking of Belgians, I have been invited to celebrate Flemish Day at the National Gallery, something with drinks and ambassadors and lounge suits...will it be all Brussel sprouts and Hoegarden or will there also be Ann Demeulemeester and dEUS?)
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Happy Bloomsday!
If I were in Dublin I would...
Attend the 19th International James Joyce Symposium (and definitely the Paddy Dignam Wake)
Go to the Dublin Writers Museum
Revisit the most gorgeous building in the world; the Trinity College Library (and marvel over the Book of Kells - again)
Trawl up and down Temple Bar
Hang out on St. Stephen's Green
Go to Dun Laoghaire and visit Martello Tower and get my feet wet in the bay
Get tickets for the Abbey, no matter what is playing
Have breakfast with Dubliners - I might even be able to drown a bit of Guinness with the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
However, I won't be in Dublin; I'm stuck in the hell-hole that is soaring hot London, imploding with exhaustion of hayfever and work. Pity me.
But I'm glad to see that also Google has embraced Bloomsday!
If I were in Dublin I would...
Attend the 19th International James Joyce Symposium (and definitely the Paddy Dignam Wake)
Go to the Dublin Writers Museum
Revisit the most gorgeous building in the world; the Trinity College Library (and marvel over the Book of Kells - again)
Trawl up and down Temple Bar
Hang out on St. Stephen's Green
Go to Dun Laoghaire and visit Martello Tower and get my feet wet in the bay
Get tickets for the Abbey, no matter what is playing
Have breakfast with Dubliners - I might even be able to drown a bit of Guinness with the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
However, I won't be in Dublin; I'm stuck in the hell-hole that is soaring hot London, imploding with exhaustion of hayfever and work. Pity me.
But I'm glad to see that also Google has embraced Bloomsday!
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
I was never that keen on Nick Broomfield. His quest to find conspiracies and evil takes him on a trip around Americas underbelly - poor man's Oliver Stone, one might add. Sometimes looking for subject where there aren't any, often making the oeuvre seemed forced, he is difficult to take seriously. In Biggie & Tupac, for example, the film-maker is clearly terrified of a massive, imprisoned Suge Knight, which is quite amusing, but not particularly useful. The entire film actually reminded me of the Louis Theroux Weird Weekend episode Gangsta Rap, only the latter did it for laughs (I hope!).
However, watching Aileen - Life & Death of a Serial Killer, what really did it for me was the line: 'At nine she was exchanging blow-jobs for cigarettes.' Banal into the extreme, I still got completely drawn into this story and the sympathetic treatment; not questioning if she did it or not (she did), but questioning whether or not she should die (she shouldn't), if, at the end, she was mad (she was) and which kind of society allows a girl to grow up the way she did (not questions answered). Broomfield is completely engaged with his subject, in an honest way, and I think this is why this film works much better than others.
Go find out about Aileen - it is a sorry story, but a fascinating one - and hope that it doesn't repeat itself (but I'm sure it does).
However, watching Aileen - Life & Death of a Serial Killer, what really did it for me was the line: 'At nine she was exchanging blow-jobs for cigarettes.' Banal into the extreme, I still got completely drawn into this story and the sympathetic treatment; not questioning if she did it or not (she did), but questioning whether or not she should die (she shouldn't), if, at the end, she was mad (she was) and which kind of society allows a girl to grow up the way she did (not questions answered). Broomfield is completely engaged with his subject, in an honest way, and I think this is why this film works much better than others.
Go find out about Aileen - it is a sorry story, but a fascinating one - and hope that it doesn't repeat itself (but I'm sure it does).
Sunday, June 13, 2004
I won't be wearing a veil.
Nor will I be wearing a huge meringue-like dress in 'silk-duchesse' (I have no idea what duchesse is), with boned corsage, puffy sleeves a la Krystel Carrington, generously strewn with rhinestones/pearls/beads/whatever.
I won't write my own promises to my future husband.
Nor will I promise whatever it is I promise in from of God and Mankind -only Mankind.
I won't be releasing 5 white doves to the sky at the end of the ceremony (one for each year we've known each other).
I won't have photos of me and my groom and a pond in the countryside (swan optional).
I won't have a photo of me, cheekily revealing a blue garter to my betrothed, promising kinky things to come.
I won't have a blue garter.
I will, however, and kind of am already, get excited about getting married.
Nor will I be wearing a huge meringue-like dress in 'silk-duchesse' (I have no idea what duchesse is), with boned corsage, puffy sleeves a la Krystel Carrington, generously strewn with rhinestones/pearls/beads/whatever.
I won't write my own promises to my future husband.
Nor will I promise whatever it is I promise in from of God and Mankind -only Mankind.
I won't be releasing 5 white doves to the sky at the end of the ceremony (one for each year we've known each other).
I won't have photos of me and my groom and a pond in the countryside (swan optional).
I won't have a photo of me, cheekily revealing a blue garter to my betrothed, promising kinky things to come.
I won't have a blue garter.
I will, however, and kind of am already, get excited about getting married.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Have you all been a-voting?
Well done.
All this wedding venue seaching with added hayfever attacks have left me a) in despair b) a well moody cow c) a bit whiney and d) knackered.
Updating will commence when a) we've found a venue b) I've reached a zen-like state of mind c)there is no more grass in the, like, world or d) when I've had time to sleep properly.
Well done.
All this wedding venue seaching with added hayfever attacks have left me a) in despair b) a well moody cow c) a bit whiney and d) knackered.
Updating will commence when a) we've found a venue b) I've reached a zen-like state of mind c)there is no more grass in the, like, world or d) when I've had time to sleep properly.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Hello? Hello? I'm sorry? What's that? Hello? I can't really hear...?
Death to the Pixies.
Indeed.
(As I'm getting slightly on, agewise, and because of a freak amateur gig incident in New Cross, my hearing is not what it used to be. So my sensible other half brought me ear-plugs for last night's gig. However, going to a concert with a fat, bald man who screams as if his life depends on it, wearing earplugs, somehow defies the entire notion of The Pixies. So out they went and in came the sound and it was gorgeous. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And if you can catch them, wherever you are in the world they are playing, you must do so.)
Death to the Pixies.
Indeed.
(As I'm getting slightly on, agewise, and because of a freak amateur gig incident in New Cross, my hearing is not what it used to be. So my sensible other half brought me ear-plugs for last night's gig. However, going to a concert with a fat, bald man who screams as if his life depends on it, wearing earplugs, somehow defies the entire notion of The Pixies. So out they went and in came the sound and it was gorgeous. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And if you can catch them, wherever you are in the world they are playing, you must do so.)
Friday, May 28, 2004
Before it's too late in this fickle world of web-logging:
It's a crying shame about that Britart. I feel particularly gutted about Tracey's tent and Hell according to the Chapmans. The former has had a special part in my heart since I wrote an essay based on that, among with other art works, and Joyce's Ulysses (again!). People say that La Trace is a f*****-up sensationalist, but at least what she does has heart. And real pain. And lots of humour. Which is more than can be said about a lot of the Goldsmiths-stylee geometrical blah that's around these days.
And what does it prove? That art should never be hidden away in a storage room because a) it may burn and b) no one can see it.
A funny one for the weekend - 'Teachers' silent battles in exams':
'...The study found some teachers play tag as they move about the room. "It's just like the real game but without any running", said a contributor to an exams antics website set up by the Times Educational Supplement. Then there is the game of "chicken" in which teachers walk towards each other, the loser being the first to side-step to avoid colliding. The nastiest game is "ugly" where a teacher stands beside the least good-looking pupil.' (from Metro)
Since these games could be incorporated in my work, I think I'll, in a couple of weeks, take pleasure in a quiet game of "ugly" with my colleague.
It's a crying shame about that Britart. I feel particularly gutted about Tracey's tent and Hell according to the Chapmans. The former has had a special part in my heart since I wrote an essay based on that, among with other art works, and Joyce's Ulysses (again!). People say that La Trace is a f*****-up sensationalist, but at least what she does has heart. And real pain. And lots of humour. Which is more than can be said about a lot of the Goldsmiths-stylee geometrical blah that's around these days.
And what does it prove? That art should never be hidden away in a storage room because a) it may burn and b) no one can see it.
A funny one for the weekend - 'Teachers' silent battles in exams':
'...The study found some teachers play tag as they move about the room. "It's just like the real game but without any running", said a contributor to an exams antics website set up by the Times Educational Supplement. Then there is the game of "chicken" in which teachers walk towards each other, the loser being the first to side-step to avoid colliding. The nastiest game is "ugly" where a teacher stands beside the least good-looking pupil.' (from Metro)
Since these games could be incorporated in my work, I think I'll, in a couple of weeks, take pleasure in a quiet game of "ugly" with my colleague.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Kingdom Hospital doesn't rock my boat. All the right components are there, though; quirky story, mad interludes, good actors, Andrew McCarthy (I lost my heart to Andrew McCarthy when I was 11 and he's been lingering ever since), Lars von as executive producer etc etc.
And yet, I've watched two out of three episodes and managed to fall asleep during two out of two.
Firstly, the ant-eater. Now, while this is initially quite funny in a whatsitdoingthere-kinda way, it's out of place in devastatingly non-surreal-only-annoying kinda way.
Secondly, the too-obvious product-placement, in this case a character reading a Stephen King novel in close-up. Jeez. Not exactly subtle and definitely not clever.
Thirdly...well, even though many components are new, I feel like I've seen it all before. Which I pretty much have.
Sometimes you should just let sleeping dogs lie.
More succesful as 're-imagining' is von Trier's attempt to 'de-perfect-ise' Jørgen Leth's Det Perfekte Menneske, or The Perfect Human, if you will. The Five Obstructions is highly entertaining, funny, witty, warm, and even moral even though von Trier clearly enjoys torturing the poor Leth, who in turns looses dignity and gains respect (and vice versa, of course).
And yet, I've watched two out of three episodes and managed to fall asleep during two out of two.
Firstly, the ant-eater. Now, while this is initially quite funny in a whatsitdoingthere-kinda way, it's out of place in devastatingly non-surreal-only-annoying kinda way.
Secondly, the too-obvious product-placement, in this case a character reading a Stephen King novel in close-up. Jeez. Not exactly subtle and definitely not clever.
Thirdly...well, even though many components are new, I feel like I've seen it all before. Which I pretty much have.
Sometimes you should just let sleeping dogs lie.
More succesful as 're-imagining' is von Trier's attempt to 'de-perfect-ise' Jørgen Leth's Det Perfekte Menneske, or The Perfect Human, if you will. The Five Obstructions is highly entertaining, funny, witty, warm, and even moral even though von Trier clearly enjoys torturing the poor Leth, who in turns looses dignity and gains respect (and vice versa, of course).
Sunday, May 23, 2004
The Evelyn Waugh-article in yesterday's Guardian, is well worth a read. Being an arrogant, slightly racist twat does not exclude an interesting thought-process and amusing habits, as well as competent craftmanship. Again, Birth of a Nation can be watched with amazement at the skill, yet with a clear knowledge and opinion on subject treatment. Should you avoid Triumph of the Will ? Possibly, but you should also acknowledge the fact that Leni Riefenstahl was an accomplished film-maker and a succesful woman in a man's world.
*Ponder Paul Bettany as Charles Ryder...drool...offer Tinka my firstborn for the information*
*Ponder Paul Bettany as Charles Ryder...drool...offer Tinka my firstborn for the information*
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Bits:
The 'Shhh' exhibition at V&A is great; the permanent collection set to sound. It is interesting how a mood can be created (and changed) through sound installations and music. Highlights: Elizabeth Fraser and the Raphael Cartoons, Cornelius and the glass collection, Roots Manuva and David Byrne.
The hypocrisy of some: British censors ban nipple in European election film
The 'Shhh' exhibition at V&A is great; the permanent collection set to sound. It is interesting how a mood can be created (and changed) through sound installations and music. Highlights: Elizabeth Fraser and the Raphael Cartoons, Cornelius and the glass collection, Roots Manuva and David Byrne.
The hypocrisy of some: British censors ban nipple in European election film
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Forgot to mention that I went to Aarhus - for a variety of reasons, but also to check out the new ARoS Museum. It's a great building and the collection is all-round interesting, but to me, the most interesting bits were:
1. The CoBrA collection.
2. Ron Mueck's BOY
3. Five Angels for the Millenium by Bill Viola.
The latter is in turns beautiful and scary, moving and menacing, touching the viewer with the use of image and sound. It is really a study of movement, of bodies and water, of matter and life.
BOY, on the other hand, impresses firstly because of its size. A massive boy, crouching, looking down on the viewer, at the same time intimidated and intimidating. It calls to mind Mueck's other brilliant Dead Dad, a miniature man, naked, dead.
I slept all afternoon. Then I ate strawberry-cake and spoke with friends on the phone forever. I'm quite happy here.
Gwyn & Chris are naming their baby Apple. The first case of a privately sponsored child? Next; 'We bring Apple anywhere', say Gwyneth and Chris, while gazing lovingly at the child. 'Me too'! says the child, pulling a laptop from behind the mother's back.
1. The CoBrA collection.
2. Ron Mueck's BOY
3. Five Angels for the Millenium by Bill Viola.
The latter is in turns beautiful and scary, moving and menacing, touching the viewer with the use of image and sound. It is really a study of movement, of bodies and water, of matter and life.
BOY, on the other hand, impresses firstly because of its size. A massive boy, crouching, looking down on the viewer, at the same time intimidated and intimidating. It calls to mind Mueck's other brilliant Dead Dad, a miniature man, naked, dead.
I slept all afternoon. Then I ate strawberry-cake and spoke with friends on the phone forever. I'm quite happy here.
Gwyn & Chris are naming their baby Apple. The first case of a privately sponsored child? Next; 'We bring Apple anywhere', say Gwyneth and Chris, while gazing lovingly at the child. 'Me too'! says the child, pulling a laptop from behind the mother's back.
Ding Dong, the witch is dead!
- much to my pleasure.
However, this does obviously not mean that British soldiers haven't been involved in torture and humiliation in Iraque. More investigation into this, please, and a trailer in a park for Piers.
The Danish royal wedding is finally over, and I think I may have developed a special Royal tumour to go with all the live transmissions and shit. What annoys me the most is the notion that all women will sob in their hankies (because the Crown Prince is cute, and romantic and, well, a prince) and just because he declares his undying love for his wife, I am supposed to melt (because I am a woman) and find it the most romantic occasion, like, evah. I'm sorry, but then I'm not a woman.
- much to my pleasure.
However, this does obviously not mean that British soldiers haven't been involved in torture and humiliation in Iraque. More investigation into this, please, and a trailer in a park for Piers.
The Danish royal wedding is finally over, and I think I may have developed a special Royal tumour to go with all the live transmissions and shit. What annoys me the most is the notion that all women will sob in their hankies (because the Crown Prince is cute, and romantic and, well, a prince) and just because he declares his undying love for his wife, I am supposed to melt (because I am a woman) and find it the most romantic occasion, like, evah. I'm sorry, but then I'm not a woman.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Buying poetry in my hometown is a fruitless task. Every single one of the shops stock a couple of copies of the newest 'release' as well as one or two 'classics', but further than that, one must order. Then, if one is lucky, they can get the desired book from 'head office' or 'the shop in the other part of the country' - otherwise they'll advise you to go to the next shop up the road and there we go again.
There's definitely not enough poetry in my hometown.
There's definitely not enough poetry in my hometown.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
I know, it's pathetic, I'm on holiday, should go out into the, erm, weather, bla bla bla.
But I just had to share this: Burger King has a sense of humour. Weirdly addictive. Like The Sims. Only not.
But I just had to share this: Burger King has a sense of humour. Weirdly addictive. Like The Sims. Only not.
Part 2 of my forgotten cd-drawer content-listing:
David Bowie's Outside. On listening to it again, so many years later, it's not as bad as I thought it was, but it's too conceptual, and, after all, there's a reason why it's been in the drawer for so long, and not on my shelf.
Dureforsog's Knee. Why I bought it, I don't know, since it's really not my thing. Not saying that it's bad. And the song Henning? is fairly amusing.
Black Grape's It's Great When You're Straight...Yeah - well it might be great to be straight and the album is rather funky hunky dory, but I personally always enjoyed Shaun more when he was off his head. Doesn't mean that I want him to half kill himself.
Hotel Hunger's Frankie My Dear I Don't Give A Damn. The title has annoyed me, like, always. Why Frankie? Why not Frankly? Is it supposed to be a pun? But who is Frankie?
I give up.*
Neneh Cherry's Homebrew. I'm actually quite fond of Neneh Cherry, in every way possible, but after the novelty of Michael Stipe rapping, the album kinda wore off quickly.
* Frankly my dear I mainly bought the album because I fancied the pants off Jimmy Jørgensen. Still do. Although these days I almost prefer to hear him comment on this, that and the other. He is a good singer, mind, but give the man some decent songs!!! That said, the album is actually really good, although a bit college-y I guess. Will consider bringing it back with me.
My hometown is full of freaks. It's a sleepy little town full of people who wear the same clothes and speak in the same way and never wear heels and are politely ignorant towards tourists and politely hostile towards immigrants and politely dismissive of everything they don't know. Things like bicycle-helmets and tofu and men in skirts and Vespas and perhaps even Naser Khader (after all these years) are still having a hard time in my hometown. But at least it's pretty! And safe! And quite conservative and as much as I love coming back and hanging out, I would never want my kids to grow up here...
David Bowie's Outside. On listening to it again, so many years later, it's not as bad as I thought it was, but it's too conceptual, and, after all, there's a reason why it's been in the drawer for so long, and not on my shelf.
Dureforsog's Knee. Why I bought it, I don't know, since it's really not my thing. Not saying that it's bad. And the song Henning? is fairly amusing.
Black Grape's It's Great When You're Straight...Yeah - well it might be great to be straight and the album is rather funky hunky dory, but I personally always enjoyed Shaun more when he was off his head. Doesn't mean that I want him to half kill himself.
Hotel Hunger's Frankie My Dear I Don't Give A Damn. The title has annoyed me, like, always. Why Frankie? Why not Frankly? Is it supposed to be a pun? But who is Frankie?
I give up.*
Neneh Cherry's Homebrew. I'm actually quite fond of Neneh Cherry, in every way possible, but after the novelty of Michael Stipe rapping, the album kinda wore off quickly.
* Frankly my dear I mainly bought the album because I fancied the pants off Jimmy Jørgensen. Still do. Although these days I almost prefer to hear him comment on this, that and the other. He is a good singer, mind, but give the man some decent songs!!! That said, the album is actually really good, although a bit college-y I guess. Will consider bringing it back with me.
My hometown is full of freaks. It's a sleepy little town full of people who wear the same clothes and speak in the same way and never wear heels and are politely ignorant towards tourists and politely hostile towards immigrants and politely dismissive of everything they don't know. Things like bicycle-helmets and tofu and men in skirts and Vespas and perhaps even Naser Khader (after all these years) are still having a hard time in my hometown. But at least it's pretty! And safe! And quite conservative and as much as I love coming back and hanging out, I would never want my kids to grow up here...
Monday, May 10, 2004
I'm surfing the net, whilst listening to some old CD's, dug out from deep inside a drawer.
As usual; I go all sentimental when I stay at my parents' house.
The disc of today belongs to my youth, time spent in London, me chasing dreams of danger.
There was the hair, the tatoos and the, uhm, fruit incident.
Baggy trousers on a weak voice, an over-sized baseball cap perched on top, years before East 17 decided to do the same. Somewhere inbetween Happy Mondays' drug-induced, pidgeon-killing antics and Oasis', well, drug-induced mad-for-it antics, EMF just had so much fun.
And so one of them went on to perform with Whistler, whose albums are good, but who played one one the most boring gigs of 2001. Another died, which was almost a given - I know, not a nice thing to say, but he was the gorgeous one and if they don't succeed, they usually end up in prison - or dead, as it is.
I still quite enjoy their music, although I doubt that I would buy any of it now.
They still make me laugh, though. Silly little boys with too much money and too much time. Well up for it. Bless.
As usual; I go all sentimental when I stay at my parents' house.
The disc of today belongs to my youth, time spent in London, me chasing dreams of danger.
There was the hair, the tatoos and the, uhm, fruit incident.
Baggy trousers on a weak voice, an over-sized baseball cap perched on top, years before East 17 decided to do the same. Somewhere inbetween Happy Mondays' drug-induced, pidgeon-killing antics and Oasis', well, drug-induced mad-for-it antics, EMF just had so much fun.
And so one of them went on to perform with Whistler, whose albums are good, but who played one one the most boring gigs of 2001. Another died, which was almost a given - I know, not a nice thing to say, but he was the gorgeous one and if they don't succeed, they usually end up in prison - or dead, as it is.
I still quite enjoy their music, although I doubt that I would buy any of it now.
They still make me laugh, though. Silly little boys with too much money and too much time. Well up for it. Bless.
Sunday, May 09, 2004
So I'm approaching the Chanel counter, a bit flustered, 'cause I'm in a hurry, having spent 45 minutes inhaling perfumes and losing my general sense of smell. I'm pretty sure what I want, since I've lingered earlier, but there's no sales girl to approach.
I hang around for a bit.
Finally, slowly, a tall blond girl appears, one of those girls who at first glance look quite pretty and glamorous, but at closer inspection turns out to be quite plain looking, but also quite shiny, which can be deceptive. (Other girls in this category are: all the Atomic Kittens, most British TV presenters, espcially those who present music/youth programmes - except Miquita, whom I adore - the blond Spice Girl, quite a few of the girls I went to school with).
Sales girl looks at me.
I smile (hopefully in a friendly way, although I am in a hurry and just need that bloody product now) and ask for the Orient red. She looks up and down at me for about 30 seconds, with a smile that can mean a) 'buying Chanel with our last savings, are we?' or b) 'right, 'cause you're stylish enough to wear Chanel (not)!'
I consider ripping her hair off, but don't as I really need to catch my plane.
There's a famous Danish football player getting on the same plane, which excites the airport staff no end.
Then there's the, uhm, gig, in honour of the impending, goddam wedding and in spite of it all, I go all mushy when one of the heroes of my youth turns up on stage and looks just as lovely and sings just as sweet as he used to do.
I hang around for a bit.
Finally, slowly, a tall blond girl appears, one of those girls who at first glance look quite pretty and glamorous, but at closer inspection turns out to be quite plain looking, but also quite shiny, which can be deceptive. (Other girls in this category are: all the Atomic Kittens, most British TV presenters, espcially those who present music/youth programmes - except Miquita, whom I adore - the blond Spice Girl, quite a few of the girls I went to school with).
Sales girl looks at me.
I smile (hopefully in a friendly way, although I am in a hurry and just need that bloody product now) and ask for the Orient red. She looks up and down at me for about 30 seconds, with a smile that can mean a) 'buying Chanel with our last savings, are we?' or b) 'right, 'cause you're stylish enough to wear Chanel (not)!'
I consider ripping her hair off, but don't as I really need to catch my plane.
There's a famous Danish football player getting on the same plane, which excites the airport staff no end.
Then there's the, uhm, gig, in honour of the impending, goddam wedding and in spite of it all, I go all mushy when one of the heroes of my youth turns up on stage and looks just as lovely and sings just as sweet as he used to do.
Friday, May 07, 2004
What is this thing, with female American sitcom/comedy characters deciding to run off to Paris (always Paris! Never Rome or Madrid or London or, uhm, Reykjavik)?
And then they go there, or at least reach the airport from which they will fly there, when some guy (not parents! Not work! Just some guy!) make them change their minds, and they stay in the good old US of A.
1. Are American viewers (who one must persume to be the target audience even though these shows are exported abroad) so bloody...unimaginative, that they can only picture Paris as lovely and mysterious and worth going to (as opposed to other European cities)?
2. Do American writers realise that Paris is a city in France and not a country in Europe?
3. Are all American sitcom/comedy writers men?
Anyway Carrie couldn't live without Big and Rachel can't live without Ross, so they must go to Paris (Paris possibly being a metaphor for something really, like, deep) in order to realise what they can't know in New York. Obviously these storylines are supposed to appeal to most viewers (especially the women) who want to believe in everlasting love and the notion of a soul-mate.
I'm going to Denmark, which is itself embroiled in a whirl-wind, fairy-tale romance, that I suspect has reached vomit-inducing levels by now. I predict that I'll mainly be slung on the sofa, in the company of the great Paul Auster.
See you later.
And then they go there, or at least reach the airport from which they will fly there, when some guy (not parents! Not work! Just some guy!) make them change their minds, and they stay in the good old US of A.
1. Are American viewers (who one must persume to be the target audience even though these shows are exported abroad) so bloody...unimaginative, that they can only picture Paris as lovely and mysterious and worth going to (as opposed to other European cities)?
2. Do American writers realise that Paris is a city in France and not a country in Europe?
3. Are all American sitcom/comedy writers men?
Anyway Carrie couldn't live without Big and Rachel can't live without Ross, so they must go to Paris (Paris possibly being a metaphor for something really, like, deep) in order to realise what they can't know in New York. Obviously these storylines are supposed to appeal to most viewers (especially the women) who want to believe in everlasting love and the notion of a soul-mate.
I'm going to Denmark, which is itself embroiled in a whirl-wind, fairy-tale romance, that I suspect has reached vomit-inducing levels by now. I predict that I'll mainly be slung on the sofa, in the company of the great Paul Auster.
See you later.
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