Saturday, December 03, 2005
Stuck at a particularly boring fair yesterday, I decided to find out what I should wish for, for Christmas. Given that I have no personality or will of my own, I thought it very useful that the Guardian provided an article to help me along. The only thing I had to do was to find my own category and read on.
Unfortunately there was no such category as charlotte, 30s, married, no children, employed full-time, cultural age: 19.
But I gathered that Mrs. Wilson, mum, 30s was the nearest I would get (I particularly liked the way it was implied that Mrs. Wilson's main reason for existing was 'mum', and that being a 'mum' was the reason why Mrs. Wilson would to listen to Stock, Aitken & Waterman. I'm rather pleased that I am not yet a 'mum' and thus would have to a) listen to and b) enjoy Pete Waterman's back-catalogue of shite - even if it were in an ironic way).
I am also being told that I can choose Ian Brown's ramblings - Ian Brown: the man kept alive by great musicians, interesting songs and loudly-coloured track suits. Can he sing? Neither for shit nor supper.
And then of course there's the Son Cubano NYC album with which I am not familiar, so it may very well be splendid, but please:
After a quick blast of this, she'll be ready to take advantage of a generous wad of "salsa lesson vouchers" while Dad holds the fort at home.
I feel patronised and insulted in so many ways.
In the eyes of the Guardian I must seem as an intriguing juxtaposition of the entire family, which can mean two things: that I am in severe need of psychotherapy or that this is the most pointless article ever written. Who is this meant to apply to? Are people supposed to read this and think: 'Oh, well I am a mother in my 30s so I better rush out and buy Jerry Springer the Opera'? Or, as I suspect would be the defense: it's just a bit of fun?
Pointless and stupid. Perpetuating the notion of stereotypical roles and values in life (ie do you have to be a mum just because you are a woman in your 30s?).
Interestingly written by men only.
Blah.
Unfortunately there was no such category as charlotte, 30s, married, no children, employed full-time, cultural age: 19.
But I gathered that Mrs. Wilson, mum, 30s was the nearest I would get (I particularly liked the way it was implied that Mrs. Wilson's main reason for existing was 'mum', and that being a 'mum' was the reason why Mrs. Wilson would to listen to Stock, Aitken & Waterman. I'm rather pleased that I am not yet a 'mum' and thus would have to a) listen to and b) enjoy Pete Waterman's back-catalogue of shite - even if it were in an ironic way).
I am also being told that I can choose Ian Brown's ramblings - Ian Brown: the man kept alive by great musicians, interesting songs and loudly-coloured track suits. Can he sing? Neither for shit nor supper.
And then of course there's the Son Cubano NYC album with which I am not familiar, so it may very well be splendid, but please:
After a quick blast of this, she'll be ready to take advantage of a generous wad of "salsa lesson vouchers" while Dad holds the fort at home.
I feel patronised and insulted in so many ways.
In the eyes of the Guardian I must seem as an intriguing juxtaposition of the entire family, which can mean two things: that I am in severe need of psychotherapy or that this is the most pointless article ever written. Who is this meant to apply to? Are people supposed to read this and think: 'Oh, well I am a mother in my 30s so I better rush out and buy Jerry Springer the Opera'? Or, as I suspect would be the defense: it's just a bit of fun?
Pointless and stupid. Perpetuating the notion of stereotypical roles and values in life (ie do you have to be a mum just because you are a woman in your 30s?).
Interestingly written by men only.
Blah.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Danish newspaper Politiken doesn't like Lunar Park.
I do not claim that Lunar Park is a masterpiece, nor is it entirely satisfactory, but I do wonder if reviewer Kim Skotte read the Danish translation or the English original? I have not read the Danish version and it may be the best thing since sliced bread, but I doubt it. How can Ellis' language be equally as fluid and funny and clever and moving in Danish? Ellis masters the rhythm and speed of English and this - this - is why I am so enamoured of him. By reviewing a book read in a language other than the original and intended, one can only review the content and that is not solely the point of this type of text.
Lunar Park is extraordinarily moving (and I'm not talking about the second to last passage that clearly rips off Joyce's The Dead) - not scary, as Skotte rightly comments, but infused with a deep, deep sadness - and that is all in the choice of language. Forget about the big mechanical bird and the house that changes itself and the nightly emails - it is all in the swirling descriptions of what it is like - and I am not sure how that translates into Danish.
I may be getting it all wrong and Skotte read this in English and has read the book properly and after all he is a highly esteemed 'rock'n roll' reviewer of literature and who am I? Clearly biased, slightly deluded and deeply in love with Bret Easton Ellis - but I do not accept that this is a disappointing book. Ellis is moving on - and perhaps Skotte needs to do the same.
I do not claim that Lunar Park is a masterpiece, nor is it entirely satisfactory, but I do wonder if reviewer Kim Skotte read the Danish translation or the English original? I have not read the Danish version and it may be the best thing since sliced bread, but I doubt it. How can Ellis' language be equally as fluid and funny and clever and moving in Danish? Ellis masters the rhythm and speed of English and this - this - is why I am so enamoured of him. By reviewing a book read in a language other than the original and intended, one can only review the content and that is not solely the point of this type of text.
Lunar Park is extraordinarily moving (and I'm not talking about the second to last passage that clearly rips off Joyce's The Dead) - not scary, as Skotte rightly comments, but infused with a deep, deep sadness - and that is all in the choice of language. Forget about the big mechanical bird and the house that changes itself and the nightly emails - it is all in the swirling descriptions of what it is like - and I am not sure how that translates into Danish.
I may be getting it all wrong and Skotte read this in English and has read the book properly and after all he is a highly esteemed 'rock'n roll' reviewer of literature and who am I? Clearly biased, slightly deluded and deeply in love with Bret Easton Ellis - but I do not accept that this is a disappointing book. Ellis is moving on - and perhaps Skotte needs to do the same.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
The London Film Festival is well under way; somehow more subdued this year - I can't say why, perhaps because I've got other things on my mind at the moment.
After the usual scuffle (I'm not sure why, since all seats are numbered anyway) to get into the cinema and delayed by a special screening of the new Harry Potter thing, I was today treated to Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash biopic that is already generating Oscar-buzz.
Bad news first: this is not an unusual story (listen to the sound of hard-core Cash fans collectively posting me death threats and setting fire to their hard drives). I am not a hardened fan, although I appreciate the voice and the iconic stature of the ultimate Alpha male. I have seen this story in different guises many times before. Man experiences childhood trauma, man has a dream, man neglects family in order to realise dream, the gift becomes a curse, drink and drugs take over, redemption or at least rescue turns up, end on high note.
What is spectacular about this film is not so much the story of J R Cash - it is the charting of the relationship between John & June Carter and the extraordinary chemistry between Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. Singing each and every song themselves - very well, I might add. From afar, it looks like a made for TV special, but it is incredibly moving, all the way through. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, so whenever it opens (States November, here January) try to give it a go. And Joaquin, if you are reading this (and I don't see why you wouldn't) - I am open to suggestions, I am really very nice and my husband needs never know.
Last week was a different kettle of fish, what with the Belgian Dardenne brothers' lastest film L'Enfant. As per usual something rather gritty and handheld and slightly depressing - plenty of black humour giggled over mainly by Belgians and genuinely scary parts - mainly scary because it all seems so real. However it is incredibly engaging and again, like Walk the Line, extraordinarily moving.
Tuesday I'm off to see Colin Firth make out with Kevin Bacon (or so I've been lured) in the new Atom Egoyan which should be no less interesting than the Cash biopic or the Belgian realist extravaganza, although Colin touching Kevin's bits (and vice versa) doesn't promise to be quite so moving.
After the usual scuffle (I'm not sure why, since all seats are numbered anyway) to get into the cinema and delayed by a special screening of the new Harry Potter thing, I was today treated to Walk the Line, the Johnny Cash biopic that is already generating Oscar-buzz.
Bad news first: this is not an unusual story (listen to the sound of hard-core Cash fans collectively posting me death threats and setting fire to their hard drives). I am not a hardened fan, although I appreciate the voice and the iconic stature of the ultimate Alpha male. I have seen this story in different guises many times before. Man experiences childhood trauma, man has a dream, man neglects family in order to realise dream, the gift becomes a curse, drink and drugs take over, redemption or at least rescue turns up, end on high note.
What is spectacular about this film is not so much the story of J R Cash - it is the charting of the relationship between John & June Carter and the extraordinary chemistry between Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon. Singing each and every song themselves - very well, I might add. From afar, it looks like a made for TV special, but it is incredibly moving, all the way through. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, so whenever it opens (States November, here January) try to give it a go. And Joaquin, if you are reading this (and I don't see why you wouldn't) - I am open to suggestions, I am really very nice and my husband needs never know.
Last week was a different kettle of fish, what with the Belgian Dardenne brothers' lastest film L'Enfant. As per usual something rather gritty and handheld and slightly depressing - plenty of black humour giggled over mainly by Belgians and genuinely scary parts - mainly scary because it all seems so real. However it is incredibly engaging and again, like Walk the Line, extraordinarily moving.
Tuesday I'm off to see Colin Firth make out with Kevin Bacon (or so I've been lured) in the new Atom Egoyan which should be no less interesting than the Cash biopic or the Belgian realist extravaganza, although Colin touching Kevin's bits (and vice versa) doesn't promise to be quite so moving.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
On the eve that John Banville was awarded the Booker Prize, I and hundreds of others went for a talk by Bret Easton Ellis at the Royal Festival Hall. Not that I missed the vital news; the minute the winner was announced, Easton Ellis' British Random House representative (or whatever) sprang up and announced her glee. But I am jumping ahead of myself.
I was always fond of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, especially in my twenties, where his tales of hedonism and disconnection struck a chord which had previously be struck only by punk music and the Copenhagen squatters in the '80ies. For all the accusations of misogyny, spoiled-brat-antics, arrogance and plain degeneration, I never gave a shit, because in my minds eye, that was never what it was about. In the centre of all the kerfuffel was the truth and the truth was that he was a very skilled writer.
Later, in this century, I have been less interested, Glamorama disappointed, other writers caught my eye.
And yet, Bret Easton Ellis kept occupying a special place in my heart. My husband and I went on our first date to the cinema for a screening of American Psycho.
So I was still undecided about Lunar Park. Never mind liking, I didn't even know if I could be bothered reading it. And yet.
The talk was advertised and suddenly tickets were bought and anticipation high. Reviews started rolling in; Newsnight Review reviewers were collectively moved to tears, whilst Radio 4 was underwhelmed.
In person, Bret Easton Ellis is slightly uncomfortable and yet perfectly poised - this is clearly a man whose social skills are honed without him being slick and superficial. He is full of charm and wit and arrogance and clearly suffers no fools. He is thoroughly pleasant company (although the woman, who dared asking him what the meaning of American Psycho really was, would probably beg to differ) and the audience was raptuous at the end of the evening.
And then there was a book signing which I decided to queue for, and it went on and on - everyone wanted to shake his hand, have a few words, give him their number. And throughout the entire seance he stayed pleasant and graceful.
So now I am the lucky owner of a hardcopy of Lunar Park, signed to me with best wishes from the big man himself (even though I beforehand found that very cheesy) and I think I love him on a completely platonic level, of course.
And I've got a cold. So if Bret Easton Ellis is struck down by pneumonia shortly, it could very well be down to me.
As for the Booker? Who cares? I've only just started reading Hollinghurst, for pete's sake!
I was always fond of Bret Easton Ellis' writing, especially in my twenties, where his tales of hedonism and disconnection struck a chord which had previously be struck only by punk music and the Copenhagen squatters in the '80ies. For all the accusations of misogyny, spoiled-brat-antics, arrogance and plain degeneration, I never gave a shit, because in my minds eye, that was never what it was about. In the centre of all the kerfuffel was the truth and the truth was that he was a very skilled writer.
Later, in this century, I have been less interested, Glamorama disappointed, other writers caught my eye.
And yet, Bret Easton Ellis kept occupying a special place in my heart. My husband and I went on our first date to the cinema for a screening of American Psycho.
So I was still undecided about Lunar Park. Never mind liking, I didn't even know if I could be bothered reading it. And yet.
The talk was advertised and suddenly tickets were bought and anticipation high. Reviews started rolling in; Newsnight Review reviewers were collectively moved to tears, whilst Radio 4 was underwhelmed.
In person, Bret Easton Ellis is slightly uncomfortable and yet perfectly poised - this is clearly a man whose social skills are honed without him being slick and superficial. He is full of charm and wit and arrogance and clearly suffers no fools. He is thoroughly pleasant company (although the woman, who dared asking him what the meaning of American Psycho really was, would probably beg to differ) and the audience was raptuous at the end of the evening.
And then there was a book signing which I decided to queue for, and it went on and on - everyone wanted to shake his hand, have a few words, give him their number. And throughout the entire seance he stayed pleasant and graceful.
So now I am the lucky owner of a hardcopy of Lunar Park, signed to me with best wishes from the big man himself (even though I beforehand found that very cheesy) and I think I love him on a completely platonic level, of course.
And I've got a cold. So if Bret Easton Ellis is struck down by pneumonia shortly, it could very well be down to me.
As for the Booker? Who cares? I've only just started reading Hollinghurst, for pete's sake!
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The weekend started with Guy X at the Raindance Festival. Now, the Raindance is a funny, poor, black sheepish relative to the London Film Festival; everything is always a bit ad hoc - the makeshift queues, the delays, the relatively small, intimate screens. Elliot Grove usually hangs out, talking to the punters, cracking a joke, plugging something or other.
The programme is much more exctiting than one should think, given my choice of movie to see, and there's still another week left, so go see.
Guy X was by all means not a bad film. On the other hand, it was not a particularly exciting film. It starts off beautiful, intriguing (and interestingly, these first couple of minutes, according to director Saul Metzstein, were what attracted him to the script) - almost a perfection, especially compared to the rest of the movie. Obviously I could not stop thinking about M*A*S*H, Catch 22, Three Kings, Buffalo Soldiers, all of which are better than Guy X. My date mentioned Kafka, which is true; the story has got much potential to be kafkaesque, but lets this promise down halfways through the movie. Jason Biggs does well (insert own pie joke here) and he is a likeable actor. Guy X is not a wast of time by all means - should you come across it you may find lots of enjoyment there, but, alas, you probably don't need to go out of your way to see it.
Last night was the interesting business of RESFEST and more importantly, the Director Keynote Address from Anton Corbijn. This was really a talk/interview/conversation with Corbijn and Paul Morley, interspersed with Corbijn's music videos.
This is a much hipper and thus much more tiresome festival; there are fantastic showings and really useful information to be had but the audience would be better off...no, I would be better off would the audience not ask any questions. In the words of Pharrell Williams; fucking posers.
However, back to an energetic and interested evening - it started with music by U2 and a slideshow of Corbijn's photographs, all fantastically beautiful, poignant and hysterically funny. Corbijn's English is not fantastic but he has buckets of charm and warmth and everything is so effortless and friendly and the evening runs so smoothly that suddenly 2 1/2 hours have breezed past and its time to go home.
Btw, Anton Corbijn was plugging his new Director's Label DVD of which there are seven all in all, and if the new batch (the other directors being Mark Romanek, Stephane Sednaoui and Jonathan Glazer) is half as good as the first three of the series (Spike Jonze, Chris Cunningham and Michel Gondry) they are definitely worth splashing out on.
The programme is much more exctiting than one should think, given my choice of movie to see, and there's still another week left, so go see.
Guy X was by all means not a bad film. On the other hand, it was not a particularly exciting film. It starts off beautiful, intriguing (and interestingly, these first couple of minutes, according to director Saul Metzstein, were what attracted him to the script) - almost a perfection, especially compared to the rest of the movie. Obviously I could not stop thinking about M*A*S*H, Catch 22, Three Kings, Buffalo Soldiers, all of which are better than Guy X. My date mentioned Kafka, which is true; the story has got much potential to be kafkaesque, but lets this promise down halfways through the movie. Jason Biggs does well (insert own pie joke here) and he is a likeable actor. Guy X is not a wast of time by all means - should you come across it you may find lots of enjoyment there, but, alas, you probably don't need to go out of your way to see it.
Last night was the interesting business of RESFEST and more importantly, the Director Keynote Address from Anton Corbijn. This was really a talk/interview/conversation with Corbijn and Paul Morley, interspersed with Corbijn's music videos.
This is a much hipper and thus much more tiresome festival; there are fantastic showings and really useful information to be had but the audience would be better off...no, I would be better off would the audience not ask any questions. In the words of Pharrell Williams; fucking posers.
However, back to an energetic and interested evening - it started with music by U2 and a slideshow of Corbijn's photographs, all fantastically beautiful, poignant and hysterically funny. Corbijn's English is not fantastic but he has buckets of charm and warmth and everything is so effortless and friendly and the evening runs so smoothly that suddenly 2 1/2 hours have breezed past and its time to go home.
Btw, Anton Corbijn was plugging his new Director's Label DVD of which there are seven all in all, and if the new batch (the other directors being Mark Romanek, Stephane Sednaoui and Jonathan Glazer) is half as good as the first three of the series (Spike Jonze, Chris Cunningham and Michel Gondry) they are definitely worth splashing out on.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
The London Film Festival has revealed its programme for this year and it's ever so exciting.
A Cock and Bull Story premieres; not so much to say about that except that it is a must-see and competition is going to be hard, but at least I have spent a good £24.00 and should stand a (smallish) chance to get tickets.
Then there's The Brothers Grimm and Gilliam is always worth a look, but surely this must go on general release and can strictly speaking wait until then. I think.
Kiss Kiss, Bang, Bang could be fab and equally a disaster...
Walk the Line reads like a Five afternoon made-for-telly extravaganza, were it not for the divine Joaquin and above-average interesting subject.
Manderlay is on but is bound to hit the cinemas after the success of Dogville so I should probably spend my money elsewhere, perhaps on the penguin film which everyone is talking about?
Or one of the vast array of Belgian film, always sure to depress you and sicken you in equal parts - that does not necessarily mean that they are rubbish, mind you - Belgian people even seem to find them hilarious at best of times.
There's also a small selection of Danish film, but, frankly, these screenings are always full of expat Danes who will use any opportunity to ask questions in Danish and flirt with the actors who attend.
There are so many interesting films this year that choosing is going to be a serious problem, not least for my wallet.
Well, and Raindance is coming up shortly, so this, I guess, is where all my money will go in the near future.
Now we just need a bit of rain.
A Cock and Bull Story premieres; not so much to say about that except that it is a must-see and competition is going to be hard, but at least I have spent a good £24.00 and should stand a (smallish) chance to get tickets.
Then there's The Brothers Grimm and Gilliam is always worth a look, but surely this must go on general release and can strictly speaking wait until then. I think.
Kiss Kiss, Bang, Bang could be fab and equally a disaster...
Walk the Line reads like a Five afternoon made-for-telly extravaganza, were it not for the divine Joaquin and above-average interesting subject.
Manderlay is on but is bound to hit the cinemas after the success of Dogville so I should probably spend my money elsewhere, perhaps on the penguin film which everyone is talking about?
Or one of the vast array of Belgian film, always sure to depress you and sicken you in equal parts - that does not necessarily mean that they are rubbish, mind you - Belgian people even seem to find them hilarious at best of times.
There's also a small selection of Danish film, but, frankly, these screenings are always full of expat Danes who will use any opportunity to ask questions in Danish and flirt with the actors who attend.
There are so many interesting films this year that choosing is going to be a serious problem, not least for my wallet.
Well, and Raindance is coming up shortly, so this, I guess, is where all my money will go in the near future.
Now we just need a bit of rain.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Much unlike me, I have been drinking too much lately. Not too long ago I had to feign deadly illness and stay at home from work - for the first time evah - due to alcohol consumption.
I've also been to Denmark, but there's a whole post about that which will happen later.
Must get grip. Life is serious.
Allegedly.
I've also been to Denmark, but there's a whole post about that which will happen later.
Must get grip. Life is serious.
Allegedly.
Monday, August 22, 2005
New Franz Ferdinand?
Not sure, but optimistic.
Someone compared the new single/video to Blur circa Country House, which is not a bad comparison at all. Kooky intellectual boys running around winding up the (art) establishment. All sarky bastards.
Given that I detest Blur circa Country House this does not bode well, but thankfully there's more brains and cheek and less wanky smugness to FF, so I am mostly pleased. Now bring on the album.
Not sure, but optimistic.
Someone compared the new single/video to Blur circa Country House, which is not a bad comparison at all. Kooky intellectual boys running around winding up the (art) establishment. All sarky bastards.
Given that I detest Blur circa Country House this does not bode well, but thankfully there's more brains and cheek and less wanky smugness to FF, so I am mostly pleased. Now bring on the album.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Monday, August 15, 2005
Time has passed;
Marina Warner is a tumbling wave of hair and kind eyes and thoughts running a hundred miles a minute. In what was basically an advertisement for reading she managed to make people sit up and listen for 80 minutes straight.
Work kills me; I have nothing and everything to do, surrounded by people whom I can only describe as losers.
Yes, a bit harsh, but they are. Muppets. Friggin' all of them.
I am looking for an MA couse that does what I want it to as opposed to me finding one I can accept. Seems that this could become a problem.
I have cut most of my hair off. There's a reversed Samson & Delilah metaphor in there somewhere, but I'll have to get back to that another time. I'm blogging from work which is otherwise usually a no-no, and must go.
More later.
Marina Warner is a tumbling wave of hair and kind eyes and thoughts running a hundred miles a minute. In what was basically an advertisement for reading she managed to make people sit up and listen for 80 minutes straight.
Work kills me; I have nothing and everything to do, surrounded by people whom I can only describe as losers.
Yes, a bit harsh, but they are. Muppets. Friggin' all of them.
I am looking for an MA couse that does what I want it to as opposed to me finding one I can accept. Seems that this could become a problem.
I have cut most of my hair off. There's a reversed Samson & Delilah metaphor in there somewhere, but I'll have to get back to that another time. I'm blogging from work which is otherwise usually a no-no, and must go.
More later.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
The Frida Kahlo show at the Tate is huge; both in size and in scope. It, as it is eager to point out, concentrates on the painting, not on the celebrity-love bestowed, not on the character in a film, not even on the monobrow.
The rooms divide her life into sensible, separate areas; still-life, self-portrait, benefactors etc.
Her story is easily understood - a hard upbringing cursed by disease and life-threatening, life-altering traffic accident makes her whom she became, it coloured the way she lived and the way she died. This is probably why so many people like Frida's work - it is instantly understandable, instantly gripping, we can all imagine the gruelling pain which makes the beauty of paintings even more impressive and the horror of the painting even more heart-wrenching.
Interesting, though, is Germaine Greer's comment in Tate Etc. that Kahlo was 'the first ever true performance artist', and that 'the performance lasted all her life long'.
Greer claims that everything the spectator, the public gets to see is carefully decided by Kahlo, a phenomenon the norm these days. Frida wears Mexican folk costumes. Frida braids her hair or lets it hang loose according to mood. Frida creates the myth of Frida without revealing anything of what really goes on behind the facade.
And why shouldn't she? It still does not change the fact that her paintings are beautiful, harrowing pictures of womanhood or rather fridahood that stays with you for a long time after leaving the gallery.
(And then I went to Borough Market which is the coolest kick-ass market around. And then I went home and made teas and watched the three and something hours of A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies. And then I was almost happy.)
In other news:
Walter Salles does Jackie K. Yes. I guess that would be an obvious choice. Exciting.
Finally: I'll be moving to another site shortly. The days of the sheep are numbered. I'll keep you posted. Baah.
The rooms divide her life into sensible, separate areas; still-life, self-portrait, benefactors etc.
Her story is easily understood - a hard upbringing cursed by disease and life-threatening, life-altering traffic accident makes her whom she became, it coloured the way she lived and the way she died. This is probably why so many people like Frida's work - it is instantly understandable, instantly gripping, we can all imagine the gruelling pain which makes the beauty of paintings even more impressive and the horror of the painting even more heart-wrenching.
Interesting, though, is Germaine Greer's comment in Tate Etc. that Kahlo was 'the first ever true performance artist', and that 'the performance lasted all her life long'.
Greer claims that everything the spectator, the public gets to see is carefully decided by Kahlo, a phenomenon the norm these days. Frida wears Mexican folk costumes. Frida braids her hair or lets it hang loose according to mood. Frida creates the myth of Frida without revealing anything of what really goes on behind the facade.
And why shouldn't she? It still does not change the fact that her paintings are beautiful, harrowing pictures of womanhood or rather fridahood that stays with you for a long time after leaving the gallery.
(And then I went to Borough Market which is the coolest kick-ass market around. And then I went home and made teas and watched the three and something hours of A Personal Journey with Martin Scorsese Through American Movies. And then I was almost happy.)
In other news:
Walter Salles does Jackie K. Yes. I guess that would be an obvious choice. Exciting.
Finally: I'll be moving to another site shortly. The days of the sheep are numbered. I'll keep you posted. Baah.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Ahh!
A whole weekend with nothing to do but to read the papers. You know you're getting older when it takes you a couple of days to revive following a drunken Friday.
According to Benjamin Markovits, 'the English tend to think Americans are obsessed by winners. But it is winning, the heartbreaking quest for it, that's interesting - the goal that makes sense of the game that makes losing what it is: romantic.'
Winning - the quest for the otherwise considered unobtainable (be that the girl, the match, the good job) - or rather the journey toward the success, is surely what makes every story, every arc of the story, worth watching, participating in, what makes the Olympic and every World Cup imaginable worth a glimpse, yes, even cheese rolling in Gloucestershire can be deemed excited if you are so inclined.
This is not only reserved for Americans. What separates the Americans from the English here is the stories in which Americans revel. In every part of American (pop) culture, the story must be romantic (in Markovits' sense of the word) - romance is pursued, from Carrie's pursuit of the perfect man in Sex and the City to Bree's pursuit of the perfect home life in Desperate Housewives, to Leonard's characters' pursuit of poetic justice to Batman's pursuit of his demons. Romance thereby serves as mean to a 'perfect' end or as 'that which cannot be had' leading to tragedy.
What the English are much more interested in is the real, ie the kitchen sink drama, Eastenders, Little Britain - if there is winning it is only momentarily and then life goes on or the gift turns out to be a curse and we are all loosers in the end.
No more obvious was this than in my recent travels to California. Americans will ask (looking hopeful): 'So how do you like our country'?
I'd answer: 'It's lovely, it's really beautiful here'
They would light up in sheer pride: 'Yes, isn't it! I'm glad you like it'
This was frankly a welcome change from the British, who, before I even have time to compliment anything, will mutter: 'Yeah, it's all shite here'.
Right then.
While American up-beatedness can be trying, at least they are positive. Inherent insecurity or inflated ego?
The British on the other hand are used to resting on their laurels so to speak and have never really recovered from losing India.
Markovits drags the 'great American novel' into the equation; 'it's Ahab's ambition, not his triumph, that makes him the hero of Moby Dick.' And that is perhaps the ultimate differnce between the American reader and the European: in my opinion, Ahab was never a hero, but rather a symbol of the American Dream - charging for a quest and killing himself on the way, both physically and metaphorically.
Well; Fever Pitch to The Perfect Catch. Reviews not bad at all, actually.
And The Observer has picked up on BookCrossing years after anyone else. Well done.
A whole weekend with nothing to do but to read the papers. You know you're getting older when it takes you a couple of days to revive following a drunken Friday.
According to Benjamin Markovits, 'the English tend to think Americans are obsessed by winners. But it is winning, the heartbreaking quest for it, that's interesting - the goal that makes sense of the game that makes losing what it is: romantic.'
Winning - the quest for the otherwise considered unobtainable (be that the girl, the match, the good job) - or rather the journey toward the success, is surely what makes every story, every arc of the story, worth watching, participating in, what makes the Olympic and every World Cup imaginable worth a glimpse, yes, even cheese rolling in Gloucestershire can be deemed excited if you are so inclined.
This is not only reserved for Americans. What separates the Americans from the English here is the stories in which Americans revel. In every part of American (pop) culture, the story must be romantic (in Markovits' sense of the word) - romance is pursued, from Carrie's pursuit of the perfect man in Sex and the City to Bree's pursuit of the perfect home life in Desperate Housewives, to Leonard's characters' pursuit of poetic justice to Batman's pursuit of his demons. Romance thereby serves as mean to a 'perfect' end or as 'that which cannot be had' leading to tragedy.
What the English are much more interested in is the real, ie the kitchen sink drama, Eastenders, Little Britain - if there is winning it is only momentarily and then life goes on or the gift turns out to be a curse and we are all loosers in the end.
No more obvious was this than in my recent travels to California. Americans will ask (looking hopeful): 'So how do you like our country'?
I'd answer: 'It's lovely, it's really beautiful here'
They would light up in sheer pride: 'Yes, isn't it! I'm glad you like it'
This was frankly a welcome change from the British, who, before I even have time to compliment anything, will mutter: 'Yeah, it's all shite here'.
Right then.
While American up-beatedness can be trying, at least they are positive. Inherent insecurity or inflated ego?
The British on the other hand are used to resting on their laurels so to speak and have never really recovered from losing India.
Markovits drags the 'great American novel' into the equation; 'it's Ahab's ambition, not his triumph, that makes him the hero of Moby Dick.' And that is perhaps the ultimate differnce between the American reader and the European: in my opinion, Ahab was never a hero, but rather a symbol of the American Dream - charging for a quest and killing himself on the way, both physically and metaphorically.
Well; Fever Pitch to The Perfect Catch. Reviews not bad at all, actually.
And The Observer has picked up on BookCrossing years after anyone else. Well done.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Much to my husband's dismay, I am an avid fan of University Challenge.
What is not to love about a bunch of self-satisfied twerps putting their reputations on the line, all for the fame and glory? How can you not admire the brusque, barking Paxman?
What is part of the fun is seeing the differences between colleges. Let's do a case study:
Christ College Oxford v. Reading, for example.
Christ College:
Tweed, the Queen's English, some sort of nasal obstruction.
Reading:
T-shirts and curly hair.
Christ College:
A look of agitated self-approval in the eyes.
Reading:
A nervous squint.
This division exists within London as well; ie UCL (don't get me wrong; I have a perfect love/hate relationship with UCL, mostly to do with the fact that they wouldn't have me) v. St. Mary's or whatever. Goldsmiths, of course, will have nothing to do with this sort of thing - at some point during my three years there, someone meekly suggested participating - a suggestion that was laughed at so hard and so long that it lingered on the suggestion-stage for a while and then vanished into oblivion.
Anyhoo.
University Challege's 'Professionals' edition is usually more of the same - funny how people never forget what they 'ought to be'. This is a city of appearances.
Last night it was the time-honoured Financial Times v. The Idler.
I had never heard of The Idler, which I guess is rather suitable.
Suffice to say that The Idler kicked the Financial Times' butt severely - a strike for the work shy all over the world. Thank you, Idler.
Ever since Robinson Crusoe tried to persuade me for the 2000th time that he was never idle, I have had severe problems with 'not being idle'. Why should one not be idle, then? It is such a bloody middle class way of thinking: Work hard, get money, buy stuff, rise on the status ladder.
Yes, I know, I know, easy to be idle if you've got the money. The Idler: a group a child-men refusing to grow up and take responsibility?
I guess it is time to find ways of perpetuating idleness in a practical way.
Go on, Idler, you can do it! (Although I do expect The Idler prefers living in half-obscurity).
What is not to love about a bunch of self-satisfied twerps putting their reputations on the line, all for the fame and glory? How can you not admire the brusque, barking Paxman?
What is part of the fun is seeing the differences between colleges. Let's do a case study:
Christ College Oxford v. Reading, for example.
Christ College:
Tweed, the Queen's English, some sort of nasal obstruction.
Reading:
T-shirts and curly hair.
Christ College:
A look of agitated self-approval in the eyes.
Reading:
A nervous squint.
This division exists within London as well; ie UCL (don't get me wrong; I have a perfect love/hate relationship with UCL, mostly to do with the fact that they wouldn't have me) v. St. Mary's or whatever. Goldsmiths, of course, will have nothing to do with this sort of thing - at some point during my three years there, someone meekly suggested participating - a suggestion that was laughed at so hard and so long that it lingered on the suggestion-stage for a while and then vanished into oblivion.
Anyhoo.
University Challege's 'Professionals' edition is usually more of the same - funny how people never forget what they 'ought to be'. This is a city of appearances.
Last night it was the time-honoured Financial Times v. The Idler.
I had never heard of The Idler, which I guess is rather suitable.
Suffice to say that The Idler kicked the Financial Times' butt severely - a strike for the work shy all over the world. Thank you, Idler.
Ever since Robinson Crusoe tried to persuade me for the 2000th time that he was never idle, I have had severe problems with 'not being idle'. Why should one not be idle, then? It is such a bloody middle class way of thinking: Work hard, get money, buy stuff, rise on the status ladder.
Yes, I know, I know, easy to be idle if you've got the money. The Idler: a group a child-men refusing to grow up and take responsibility?
I guess it is time to find ways of perpetuating idleness in a practical way.
Go on, Idler, you can do it! (Although I do expect The Idler prefers living in half-obscurity).
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The human mind is incredible. Two weeks later, and here I am, happily getting the tube back from work, dozing off on the journey, NOT checking bags and people and nervous movement in the carriage. I have no choice, I have to take this trip in this manner every day.
I get back from work, and two weeks ago, the first thing I did was turn on the TV in order to find out what had actually happened, and where, and was it still going on.
Today I leasurely go shopping locally, wander home, open my post, check my email.
What excites me even more than all of this, is in fact that I finished a lovely book yesterday, Knut Hamsun's Hunger, and he can be discussed until the end of time, especially the did he-did he not (he did) support the Nazis during WW2. The fact of the matter is that it is an extraordinary well-written text, full of sadness and uncompromising wish to write, only write and nothing else.
Reading in Danish is much different to reading in English - I understanding in a different way; from the back of my spine as opposed to the top of my head. Strangely, though, I find that English texts reach the depth of my heart and the pit of my stomach in a way that Danish writing rarely manages.
Hamsun has touched me and inspired me and this is so rare these days, especially when I read in Danish, that I feel unconquerable today, because I have read something great.
And those little wannabe terrorist amateurs can go f*** themselves.
I get back from work, and two weeks ago, the first thing I did was turn on the TV in order to find out what had actually happened, and where, and was it still going on.
Today I leasurely go shopping locally, wander home, open my post, check my email.
What excites me even more than all of this, is in fact that I finished a lovely book yesterday, Knut Hamsun's Hunger, and he can be discussed until the end of time, especially the did he-did he not (he did) support the Nazis during WW2. The fact of the matter is that it is an extraordinary well-written text, full of sadness and uncompromising wish to write, only write and nothing else.
Reading in Danish is much different to reading in English - I understanding in a different way; from the back of my spine as opposed to the top of my head. Strangely, though, I find that English texts reach the depth of my heart and the pit of my stomach in a way that Danish writing rarely manages.
Hamsun has touched me and inspired me and this is so rare these days, especially when I read in Danish, that I feel unconquerable today, because I have read something great.
And those little wannabe terrorist amateurs can go f*** themselves.
*Yawn*
All this being bombed is a bit tiresome by now.
Will brave the odds and try to get home.
Terrorists are boring.
All this being bombed is a bit tiresome by now.
Will brave the odds and try to get home.
Terrorists are boring.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Too hot to blog!
*Gasp, gasp*
Have been stuck in a bus for an hour due to gridlock and must have lost about 10 lb.
(I've been given a collection of poetry by Saul Williams which seems promising. Will give that a go over the weekend.)
Weekend's started.
Over and out.
*Gasp, gasp*
Have been stuck in a bus for an hour due to gridlock and must have lost about 10 lb.
(I've been given a collection of poetry by Saul Williams which seems promising. Will give that a go over the weekend.)
Weekend's started.
Over and out.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
According to Danish newspaper Politiken, a bus driver in Denmark has been attacked by a man, only uttering the word 'London'. The bus driver is a Sikh. The perpetraitor got away.
Friday, July 08, 2005
The following day I am safely ensconced in my flat. For a while I have been planning to take this day off due to a massive load of overtime worked, so I don't need to worry about getting to work.
It seems that most transport is running pretty much to schedule, though.
So what actually happened yesterday?
I went to work
I stayed in the office until 3.30
I got my husband to pick me up on the Vespa and we got home fairly easily
I'm such a lucky bugger; it seems that the first bomb went off pretty much as I got on the tube. However, my travels take me in the opposite direction of the East and we were only told that it was 'probably power failure'.
I think that the second bomb went off just before we, deep underground, were told that Westminster Station was closed.
Edgware Road (which is very, very close to where I work) must have happened just as I got off the train.
I went to get a cup of coffee and was told that all stations had been closed.
Went to work, found out about the bus (which brings a few of my co-workers to the office each day), finally was sure that it was nothing but nothing else than...that.
I think most people felt the same. All shocked, none surprised. We have all felt that it was only a matter of time.
Londoners are resilient, very brave, and used to living with this kind of danger. This is still why it's so bloody difficult to find rubbish bins in public places.
Going home on the scooter it was eerily quiet on the strets, there were cars and people but everthing seemed so still. Turning down Southampton Row the opposite end was cordoned off and there were police and absolutely nothing to see. People were crossing the bridges in droves, quietly talking and determinedly walking to get home or at least somewhere from which they could get some sort of transport.
Monday I'll get back on the horse.
James Meek has an account that says it all.
Muslim fear of backlash
Update:
Just amended a few spelling mistakes.
As time goes by, opinions are aired as to the 'why'. Yes, I know that both my mothercountry and the country in which I live have approved of killings on larger scale than what we experienced yesterday. Yes, I agree, it's wrong - I believe that we have killed an unforgiveable amount of innocent people in Afghanistan and Iraque (and many other places). That does not justify what happened yesterday, though. I have personally never killed or intended to kill anyone, and I could just as well have died yesterday. And I hazard a guess that most if not all killed and injured yesterday, have never hurt a fly. So don't give me that eye for an eye bullshit.
It seems that most transport is running pretty much to schedule, though.
So what actually happened yesterday?
I went to work
I stayed in the office until 3.30
I got my husband to pick me up on the Vespa and we got home fairly easily
I'm such a lucky bugger; it seems that the first bomb went off pretty much as I got on the tube. However, my travels take me in the opposite direction of the East and we were only told that it was 'probably power failure'.
I think that the second bomb went off just before we, deep underground, were told that Westminster Station was closed.
Edgware Road (which is very, very close to where I work) must have happened just as I got off the train.
I went to get a cup of coffee and was told that all stations had been closed.
Went to work, found out about the bus (which brings a few of my co-workers to the office each day), finally was sure that it was nothing but nothing else than...that.
I think most people felt the same. All shocked, none surprised. We have all felt that it was only a matter of time.
Londoners are resilient, very brave, and used to living with this kind of danger. This is still why it's so bloody difficult to find rubbish bins in public places.
Going home on the scooter it was eerily quiet on the strets, there were cars and people but everthing seemed so still. Turning down Southampton Row the opposite end was cordoned off and there were police and absolutely nothing to see. People were crossing the bridges in droves, quietly talking and determinedly walking to get home or at least somewhere from which they could get some sort of transport.
Monday I'll get back on the horse.
James Meek has an account that says it all.
Muslim fear of backlash
Update:
Just amended a few spelling mistakes.
As time goes by, opinions are aired as to the 'why'. Yes, I know that both my mothercountry and the country in which I live have approved of killings on larger scale than what we experienced yesterday. Yes, I agree, it's wrong - I believe that we have killed an unforgiveable amount of innocent people in Afghanistan and Iraque (and many other places). That does not justify what happened yesterday, though. I have personally never killed or intended to kill anyone, and I could just as well have died yesterday. And I hazard a guess that most if not all killed and injured yesterday, have never hurt a fly. So don't give me that eye for an eye bullshit.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Under siege!-
Well, hardly, but the sound of helicopters overhead, police and emergency units whisking by and frantic phonecalls to and fro, makes me feel slightly as if war has broken out.
The worst thing is obviously that we are told nothing other than 'power fault' (ie nothing to worry about).
Anyway, we're all well and good here.
Update:
Seems that we are actually under siege.
Crap.
Another update:
Still here in the office until I've decided how to get home. Obviously no tube or busses and it's a bit far to walk (and it's raining). Not much work gets done, just loads of surfing on the internet for any shred of information, and chatting to friends and family, reassuring that we're okay.
I've momentarily lost track of my husband but assume that he is not stupid enough to go walkies in Leicester Square or something.
There are free river boats apparently which is great news to me and my Essex-based friend who has got to stay over, since there's only few mainline trains as well.
At some point we lost internet connection as well as the mobile phone networks being down, which only added to the sense of being completely and utterly out of touch.
I don't mind being here so much (although my colleague has just kindly informed me that we're almost literally sitting atop the Bakerloo Line), but I really worry about getting home within a fairly short time, without being blasted on my way there.
It is kind of unreal, being here in the office, the army helicopters are still hovering real low and sirens are on and off around here, but apart from that it looks like a normal day in the office. But only a few miles from here body parts are scattered and there is nothing else to do than take care of yourself and those around you.
Well, hardly, but the sound of helicopters overhead, police and emergency units whisking by and frantic phonecalls to and fro, makes me feel slightly as if war has broken out.
The worst thing is obviously that we are told nothing other than 'power fault' (ie nothing to worry about).
Anyway, we're all well and good here.
Update:
Seems that we are actually under siege.
Crap.
Another update:
Still here in the office until I've decided how to get home. Obviously no tube or busses and it's a bit far to walk (and it's raining). Not much work gets done, just loads of surfing on the internet for any shred of information, and chatting to friends and family, reassuring that we're okay.
I've momentarily lost track of my husband but assume that he is not stupid enough to go walkies in Leicester Square or something.
There are free river boats apparently which is great news to me and my Essex-based friend who has got to stay over, since there's only few mainline trains as well.
At some point we lost internet connection as well as the mobile phone networks being down, which only added to the sense of being completely and utterly out of touch.
I don't mind being here so much (although my colleague has just kindly informed me that we're almost literally sitting atop the Bakerloo Line), but I really worry about getting home within a fairly short time, without being blasted on my way there.
It is kind of unreal, being here in the office, the army helicopters are still hovering real low and sirens are on and off around here, but apart from that it looks like a normal day in the office. But only a few miles from here body parts are scattered and there is nothing else to do than take care of yourself and those around you.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
2012, 2012, 2012...
Well, at least that gives me something to work with. A deadline, if you will. Must move out of the city by 2012, must move out of the city...
While I can see the benefits (for some!) in this exercise, I find it morally wrong on all levels. And while I recognise that the East End probably will get a much-needed, well-deserved 'face-lift', I would prefer to just give them the friggin' money, instead of making a big song and dance about it. And if you don't have much money as it is already, the idea of having to cough up loads more in council tax may just prove impossible. Who cares about long term benefits if you just don't have the dough?
On a more personal level, I'm happily oblivious to the Olympics. Sports leave me cold. 2012 in London? I have but three words:
LONG
HAUL
FLIGHT.
Oh, and does anyone know Danish band Aztrid (or however they spell it?)? And have I completely lost all sense of, well, sense, by liking them?
Or are they actually pretty cool? Cheesy lyrics, brooding voices? I must be right.
Well, at least that gives me something to work with. A deadline, if you will. Must move out of the city by 2012, must move out of the city...
While I can see the benefits (for some!) in this exercise, I find it morally wrong on all levels. And while I recognise that the East End probably will get a much-needed, well-deserved 'face-lift', I would prefer to just give them the friggin' money, instead of making a big song and dance about it. And if you don't have much money as it is already, the idea of having to cough up loads more in council tax may just prove impossible. Who cares about long term benefits if you just don't have the dough?
On a more personal level, I'm happily oblivious to the Olympics. Sports leave me cold. 2012 in London? I have but three words:
LONG
HAUL
FLIGHT.
Oh, and does anyone know Danish band Aztrid (or however they spell it?)? And have I completely lost all sense of, well, sense, by liking them?
Or are they actually pretty cool? Cheesy lyrics, brooding voices? I must be right.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Career Doctor, Guardian, 05.07.05
Question:
Our head wants pupils to drop English literature at GCSE in favour of media studies. As head of the English department, I am very concerned. What can I do?
As an English graduate I am obviously biased, but I do not even begin to understand the comparison. Given that the Head Teacher wants to substitute English with Media Studies, there must be some sort of comparison taking place. These days most English graduates will go on to work in 'the media'; obvious choice: journalism, as obvious, less glamourous: arts management - or will want to, at least - and most end up in administration. So the line of thinking could be that since these people inevitable end up in the industry anyway, or at least will want to, we may as well give them the proper background.
Or could it be, as the Career Doctor ponders, that:
...your head is encouraging pupils to do media studies because it is a great deal easier to blag a GSCE that way. [...] For any school keen to boost its league table rankings, the atractions of media studies are obvious...
What about English as a subject, though? As well as equipping students to analyse the world around them and read other people and situations (which surely must be a benefit), the sheer joy of reading is incomparable to getting paid £40,000 p/a. I'm not saying it's better, it's just incomparable. While I (and the Career Doctor) have nothing against Media Studies at all, or getting a good job, or getting a lousy job in the media, I feel desperately saddened by the idea of the possible demise of English at GSCE level. The people I know who read (actual books, not just the back of the cornflake box or the sports section of The Sun in the loo) have been reading all their lives, have been read to as children, have grown up in houses that contained books (not necessarily so-called high literature), have been encouraged to read by parents, teachers and friends.
Reading develops your imagination, makes you smarter, teaches you, comforts you, scares you, brings you in touch with your emotions, challenges you and makes you think. Surely that can only be good.
Yes, English Lit can be awfully hard and terribly boring, but perhaps a way of coping would be to look at the curriculum, look at the teachers and finally to realise that English is not for all but fantastic for some and at least at GSCE level it is worth it giving pupils this experience. Afterwards, they'll have all the time in the world to renounce English.
Question:
Our head wants pupils to drop English literature at GCSE in favour of media studies. As head of the English department, I am very concerned. What can I do?
As an English graduate I am obviously biased, but I do not even begin to understand the comparison. Given that the Head Teacher wants to substitute English with Media Studies, there must be some sort of comparison taking place. These days most English graduates will go on to work in 'the media'; obvious choice: journalism, as obvious, less glamourous: arts management - or will want to, at least - and most end up in administration. So the line of thinking could be that since these people inevitable end up in the industry anyway, or at least will want to, we may as well give them the proper background.
Or could it be, as the Career Doctor ponders, that:
...your head is encouraging pupils to do media studies because it is a great deal easier to blag a GSCE that way. [...] For any school keen to boost its league table rankings, the atractions of media studies are obvious...
What about English as a subject, though? As well as equipping students to analyse the world around them and read other people and situations (which surely must be a benefit), the sheer joy of reading is incomparable to getting paid £40,000 p/a. I'm not saying it's better, it's just incomparable. While I (and the Career Doctor) have nothing against Media Studies at all, or getting a good job, or getting a lousy job in the media, I feel desperately saddened by the idea of the possible demise of English at GSCE level. The people I know who read (actual books, not just the back of the cornflake box or the sports section of The Sun in the loo) have been reading all their lives, have been read to as children, have grown up in houses that contained books (not necessarily so-called high literature), have been encouraged to read by parents, teachers and friends.
Reading develops your imagination, makes you smarter, teaches you, comforts you, scares you, brings you in touch with your emotions, challenges you and makes you think. Surely that can only be good.
Yes, English Lit can be awfully hard and terribly boring, but perhaps a way of coping would be to look at the curriculum, look at the teachers and finally to realise that English is not for all but fantastic for some and at least at GSCE level it is worth it giving pupils this experience. Afterwards, they'll have all the time in the world to renounce English.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Now if I were in Roskilde (which I'm not), I would be first in line for:
Bloc Party (because Kele Okereke rocks my boat)
Bright Eyes (gotta be curious about Conor Oberst, doncha?)
Dresden Dolls
Duran Duran (yeah, yeah, I know, they're rubbish, but I have never loved anyone so intensely as I loved John Taylor)
Outlandish (don't ask...)
The Raveonettes
Roots Manuva (hail to the saviour of British hip hop or whatever)
Sonic Youth (they'll kick your ass and you won't notice until it's too late)
Le Tigre (Grrrr)
But, alas, I'm here.
Bloc Party (because Kele Okereke rocks my boat)
Bright Eyes (gotta be curious about Conor Oberst, doncha?)
Dresden Dolls
Duran Duran (yeah, yeah, I know, they're rubbish, but I have never loved anyone so intensely as I loved John Taylor)
Outlandish (don't ask...)
The Raveonettes
Roots Manuva (hail to the saviour of British hip hop or whatever)
Sonic Youth (they'll kick your ass and you won't notice until it's too late)
Le Tigre (Grrrr)
But, alas, I'm here.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
It is still really, really hot in the city and the humidity lies heavy. It is impossible to breathe properly and lethargy is common all around the park benches and in offices and on balconies.
We keep hoping for rain but apart from short bursts of showers, absolutely nothing happens. There's a deadness in my head that is only partly due to the heat.
And I've been reading Jim Carroll's Basketball Diaries which depressed me no end and yet filled me with hope for the of the future of the written word.
Good stuff has happened too:
Hedwig shook his angry inch at Heaven the other day in a great performance by David Bedella who was divine in a plethora of different ways. The small and tight venue suited Hedwig who must be the centre of attention, of course,and the songs and the story of Hedwigs journey were interspersed with quips and nods to current news items and even a karaoke moment with Hedwig taking (to) the audience up the aisle.
Then yesterday was the day of the great Ewan MacGregor all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza; Guys and Dolls was fabulous.
Sky Masterson was all swagger and sweetness, less ruthless, more decent than could have been. MacGregor is no Sinatra, so when he belts out Luck Be A Lady one does wish upon a Frank, but Ewan can sing, no doubt about it, and held his own in a group of generally much better singers.
Jane Krakowski was wonderful and she can churn out a song to make the audience go crazy in rapturous applause.
All the girls in the audience went ooh and aah when Ewan made his entrance and I'm just glad that someone invented the theatre binoculars so there were close-ups and cheeky grins and long, slow kisses- that Ewan, he sure knows how to suck face. (His American accent, on the other hand...)
All in all, an energetic, stylish, sexy production that was just about having a good time, and I, who have a natural suspicion towards musicals, was utterly charmed.
We keep hoping for rain but apart from short bursts of showers, absolutely nothing happens. There's a deadness in my head that is only partly due to the heat.
And I've been reading Jim Carroll's Basketball Diaries which depressed me no end and yet filled me with hope for the of the future of the written word.
Good stuff has happened too:
Hedwig shook his angry inch at Heaven the other day in a great performance by David Bedella who was divine in a plethora of different ways. The small and tight venue suited Hedwig who must be the centre of attention, of course,and the songs and the story of Hedwigs journey were interspersed with quips and nods to current news items and even a karaoke moment with Hedwig taking (to) the audience up the aisle.
Then yesterday was the day of the great Ewan MacGregor all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza; Guys and Dolls was fabulous.
Sky Masterson was all swagger and sweetness, less ruthless, more decent than could have been. MacGregor is no Sinatra, so when he belts out Luck Be A Lady one does wish upon a Frank, but Ewan can sing, no doubt about it, and held his own in a group of generally much better singers.
Jane Krakowski was wonderful and she can churn out a song to make the audience go crazy in rapturous applause.
All the girls in the audience went ooh and aah when Ewan made his entrance and I'm just glad that someone invented the theatre binoculars so there were close-ups and cheeky grins and long, slow kisses- that Ewan, he sure knows how to suck face. (His American accent, on the other hand...)
All in all, an energetic, stylish, sexy production that was just about having a good time, and I, who have a natural suspicion towards musicals, was utterly charmed.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
And thus it began...
Batman Begins is just what I hoped it would be. The story makes sense, the acting is great, the casting is brilliant, it's stylish and it's clever.
I approached the cinema with slight apprehension, as I really wanted to like the film - after all Chris Nolan made Memento, for pete's sake! - but I was nothing less than concerned. Dare I mention Batman & Robin?
But it's good. And no, it is not because I want to like the film (or the fact that I've loved Christian Bale from the bottom of my heart since we were both was 14 and he starred in Empire of the Sun) it is because it - is - good.
Only cause for concern now is that reportedly Bale has signed up for another two films, with or without Chris Nolan.
Why must there be more? Batman Ends? Batman Reawakens? Please don't.
Other than that: have been eating my way 'round Regent's Park, mainly due to free tickets (there's nothing like freebies), unbearable heat and a massive need to sleep and not enough time in whch to do it. Pity me.
Batman Begins is just what I hoped it would be. The story makes sense, the acting is great, the casting is brilliant, it's stylish and it's clever.
I approached the cinema with slight apprehension, as I really wanted to like the film - after all Chris Nolan made Memento, for pete's sake! - but I was nothing less than concerned. Dare I mention Batman & Robin?
But it's good. And no, it is not because I want to like the film (or the fact that I've loved Christian Bale from the bottom of my heart since we were both was 14 and he starred in Empire of the Sun) it is because it - is - good.
Only cause for concern now is that reportedly Bale has signed up for another two films, with or without Chris Nolan.
Why must there be more? Batman Ends? Batman Reawakens? Please don't.
Other than that: have been eating my way 'round Regent's Park, mainly due to free tickets (there's nothing like freebies), unbearable heat and a massive need to sleep and not enough time in whch to do it. Pity me.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
I never actually make it into the pool in Vegas, due to a desert storm and a fabulous marble bathroom. Las Vegas is Disneyland and and a red light district rolled into one; it's entire purpose of existence is to make people spend, spend , spend, and does everything it can to make you forget space and time.
Our hotel had an oxygen bar, not so much for the trendiness of it all, but to KEEP YOU AWAKE, wheee, so you can SPEND more money.
Las Vegas is a city so full of sex and dust and holidaying rednecks and Celine Dion billboards and CASH (kerchinnng!) that I need to go back to spend a couple of days hanging out in bars, smoking cigarettes, listening to the lounge pianists, pinching the bar girls in the short skirts in the bum, imagining what it's like to be Dean Martin.
Another place in which I never made it to the pool:
The small fishing cum tourist village somewhere between LA and San Diego. Beach too close nearby.
Place in which I spent only 10 minutes in the pool, due to nightfall and chill:
The 10th floor above downtown San Francisco.
There were other pools and other places and now I'm back and it's so not very sexy or even interesting but at least I get to go to Sheffield next week...
Our hotel had an oxygen bar, not so much for the trendiness of it all, but to KEEP YOU AWAKE, wheee, so you can SPEND more money.
Las Vegas is a city so full of sex and dust and holidaying rednecks and Celine Dion billboards and CASH (kerchinnng!) that I need to go back to spend a couple of days hanging out in bars, smoking cigarettes, listening to the lounge pianists, pinching the bar girls in the short skirts in the bum, imagining what it's like to be Dean Martin.
Another place in which I never made it to the pool:
The small fishing cum tourist village somewhere between LA and San Diego. Beach too close nearby.
Place in which I spent only 10 minutes in the pool, due to nightfall and chill:
The 10th floor above downtown San Francisco.
There were other pools and other places and now I'm back and it's so not very sexy or even interesting but at least I get to go to Sheffield next week...
Friday, June 10, 2005
So I'm in a pool next to the Merced River and with the sound of the waters rolling down the mountain and the sun over head, things are not bad at all.
24 hours later I'll be standing at the foot of a waterfall, being soaked through and through but it will be so much fun that we will have to go twice.
24 hours earlier I was browsing a bookshop in Berkeley, nicely named 'Mrs Dalloway's' and smelling of hay, buying a bit of Cummings and comtemplating a life in American academia.
24 hours later I'll be standing at the foot of a waterfall, being soaked through and through but it will be so much fun that we will have to go twice.
24 hours earlier I was browsing a bookshop in Berkeley, nicely named 'Mrs Dalloway's' and smelling of hay, buying a bit of Cummings and comtemplating a life in American academia.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
So I'm in a pool by the freeway in San Diego and it's 8 in the morning and I can't sleep because the sun is out already and it's really hot and the traffic is insane -
Last night we had a right old knees up in the hotel restaurant with singing and dancing pensioners and loads of utterly pished Australian rugby fans.
24 hours earlier we were more than 8000 feet in the air, looking for mountain lions and trundling through snow in our flip-flops.
24 hours later we'll be splashing in the sea, fending off surfers and dogs and my husband has decided that this is where we need to live, while I'm still undecided -
Last night we had a right old knees up in the hotel restaurant with singing and dancing pensioners and loads of utterly pished Australian rugby fans.
24 hours earlier we were more than 8000 feet in the air, looking for mountain lions and trundling through snow in our flip-flops.
24 hours later we'll be splashing in the sea, fending off surfers and dogs and my husband has decided that this is where we need to live, while I'm still undecided -
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
So I'm in a pool in West Hollywood and it's really hot and outside is this kicking city and if I jump on the bed I can just make out the big Hollywood sign in the hills.
This is such a rock'n roll place to be and there's cool people around so that's fab.
The diner is open pretty much 24/7 and seems like a local which I like and the weather is good enough for us to sit outside and eat loads of junk and get an LA Times out of the stand and rich kids right out of Beverly Hills 90210 descents on us, undoubtedly from the hills in their convertibles.
24 hours later I will search in vain for Vince Vaughn in Los Feliz and check into a big pink hotel in the middle of nowhere where there's a rock waterfall shower and loads of leather.
24 hours earlier I was cavorting on a beach before buying beer and take-out Mexican.
Mrs Charlotte is doing good.
This is such a rock'n roll place to be and there's cool people around so that's fab.
The diner is open pretty much 24/7 and seems like a local which I like and the weather is good enough for us to sit outside and eat loads of junk and get an LA Times out of the stand and rich kids right out of Beverly Hills 90210 descents on us, undoubtedly from the hills in their convertibles.
24 hours later I will search in vain for Vince Vaughn in Los Feliz and check into a big pink hotel in the middle of nowhere where there's a rock waterfall shower and loads of leather.
24 hours earlier I was cavorting on a beach before buying beer and take-out Mexican.
Mrs Charlotte is doing good.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
I am getting married the day after tomorrow and thus am not entirely up to scratch on anything except dress-making, shoe shopping and the fact that apparently brides have to look perfect.
Much more exciting, at present, are the recent two viewings (in one week, no less) of a certain film, anticipated with equal parts dread and excitement by the usual geeks (like me) who were weaned onto this stuff many years ago. I shouldn't say too much about this, as the film is only released in the UK in June, but it is absolutely fab (the billowing coats and ties! the sinister white squirting of blood! A hobbit meeting a grisly end!) and definitely, definitely, so far the film of the year. No, fuck that, much better than that!
Anyhoo, when we meet again I'll be someone's wife; 'do you want to stay out for another drink?' someone will ask him. 'No',he'll answer, 'I have to get home to my wife'.
*Shudders*
I refuse to be the one in the curlers and the robe.
On the other hand: 'do you want another drink?' someone asks. 'Okay', he says, 'could you get one for my wife too?'
Now, that's nice.
Much more exciting, at present, are the recent two viewings (in one week, no less) of a certain film, anticipated with equal parts dread and excitement by the usual geeks (like me) who were weaned onto this stuff many years ago. I shouldn't say too much about this, as the film is only released in the UK in June, but it is absolutely fab (the billowing coats and ties! the sinister white squirting of blood! A hobbit meeting a grisly end!) and definitely, definitely, so far the film of the year. No, fuck that, much better than that!
Anyhoo, when we meet again I'll be someone's wife; 'do you want to stay out for another drink?' someone will ask him. 'No',he'll answer, 'I have to get home to my wife'.
*Shudders*
I refuse to be the one in the curlers and the robe.
On the other hand: 'do you want another drink?' someone asks. 'Okay', he says, 'could you get one for my wife too?'
Now, that's nice.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Oooh.
Everything looks the same around here, and yet so different...
Ah. Like walking in to a deserted barn, what with the smell of moist hay and dust and the feeling of someone just having left, perhaps a mug with coffee that has settled disturbingly and which can hardly be shaken.
I need to change the lay-out.
Anyhoo, I'm just popping in to relieve myself in your company. Mmm.
Just happened:
Nothing significant. Still trying to get married in an orderly fashion but people seem to have different ideas. All businesses want is a bit of The Bride - the groom is apparently not that important. Apparently we are also quite alternative in our tastes - excuse me for not being madly in love with the idea of a decidedly themed party (English Rose, Country Cottage, or my favorite, "Classic Contemporary", which is linguistically and stylistically just bollocks). Getting married sure is stressful - even if you're trying to make it less so - expensive and (follow my advice) do not try to pull off a tri-lingual party. Fore you shall regret and ponder stabbing yourself in the eye with a blunt pencil.
In the near future:
Shopping (this is good)
A million hairdressing appointments
Payments of rather large cheques to people who charge double when the word 'wedding' is mentioned
Last fittings of dress
Spa NK
Burlesque!
And finally, in a couple of weeks' time: the goddam wedding itself, ready or not.
Obviously I've got pre-wedding jitters, mainly along the lines of ohmygod-that'sit-I'mold-nomorenicelittletallblondskinnystockydarkhairedcockyfunnycleversexy boys ever.
And I'm utterly, utterly homesick, I was to go to Copenhagen and hang out and smoke cigarettes and have babies and a garden and a puppy.
This is of course nothing new. These are things I always want to do when I am stressed or tired or things are not going according to plan. In six weeks I'll be perfectly happy here, without baby, puppy and horticulture.
And there is nothing wrong with the man I am marrying, which is why I am marrying him as opposed to shagging strangers in public toilets.
Anyway, I may or may not pop in again before the wedding - after the wedding I'm off for about three weeks - I may update and I may not.
Have a nice one.
Everything looks the same around here, and yet so different...
Ah. Like walking in to a deserted barn, what with the smell of moist hay and dust and the feeling of someone just having left, perhaps a mug with coffee that has settled disturbingly and which can hardly be shaken.
I need to change the lay-out.
Anyhoo, I'm just popping in to relieve myself in your company. Mmm.
Just happened:
Nothing significant. Still trying to get married in an orderly fashion but people seem to have different ideas. All businesses want is a bit of The Bride - the groom is apparently not that important. Apparently we are also quite alternative in our tastes - excuse me for not being madly in love with the idea of a decidedly themed party (English Rose, Country Cottage, or my favorite, "Classic Contemporary", which is linguistically and stylistically just bollocks). Getting married sure is stressful - even if you're trying to make it less so - expensive and (follow my advice) do not try to pull off a tri-lingual party. Fore you shall regret and ponder stabbing yourself in the eye with a blunt pencil.
In the near future:
Shopping (this is good)
A million hairdressing appointments
Payments of rather large cheques to people who charge double when the word 'wedding' is mentioned
Last fittings of dress
Spa NK
Burlesque!
And finally, in a couple of weeks' time: the goddam wedding itself, ready or not.
Obviously I've got pre-wedding jitters, mainly along the lines of ohmygod-that'sit-I'mold-nomorenicelittletallblondskinnystockydarkhairedcockyfunnycleversexy boys ever.
And I'm utterly, utterly homesick, I was to go to Copenhagen and hang out and smoke cigarettes and have babies and a garden and a puppy.
This is of course nothing new. These are things I always want to do when I am stressed or tired or things are not going according to plan. In six weeks I'll be perfectly happy here, without baby, puppy and horticulture.
And there is nothing wrong with the man I am marrying, which is why I am marrying him as opposed to shagging strangers in public toilets.
Anyway, I may or may not pop in again before the wedding - after the wedding I'm off for about three weeks - I may update and I may not.
Have a nice one.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
I think i'm going to have to put this blog on hold for a while. Not that I have been posting that much recently , but I consider, almost every day, a post or two, only for me to discard the idea due to various more or less annoying issues in my life, none of which directly related to the actual blog/blogging experience/interweb.
On a practical note, I'm also a bit bored with green and my template and all that shit, but neither have time nor energy to change it.
A great part of my life thoroughly sucks at the moment and before I've got that sorted out, I'm no use to the blogging world.
On a postive note: Rufus Wainwright can definitely make you relax (if you let him) and Paul Bettany can come around any time he'd like.
On a practical note, I'm also a bit bored with green and my template and all that shit, but neither have time nor energy to change it.
A great part of my life thoroughly sucks at the moment and before I've got that sorted out, I'm no use to the blogging world.
On a postive note: Rufus Wainwright can definitely make you relax (if you let him) and Paul Bettany can come around any time he'd like.
Monday, March 14, 2005
I don't come around very often any more. Life takes over in that special way that only life can - keeps me on my toes and buries me in an NW/SE axis.
But once in a while, like today, life has mercy on me and places me suddenly slap bang in the middle of the Gate, usually right outside the yellow bookshop that seems to be open every hour of the day.
The shops change frequently and are becoming more and more gentrified, most aspiring to become the new BBB which in itself is not that hip anymore at all but you'd have to live there to know. Mariella Frostrup still lives around the corner along with most celebrities who see themselves too earthy for and superior to the warped art-puppies who have relocated to Shoreditch a long time ago.
The area has choked on its own uber-trendiness and caters now mainly for Spanish and Italian people who like the laid-back life in the slow lane, coffee in hand, fag in close proximity, smoking itself in a makeshift ashtray.
I still consider it home, though. I have tonnes of memories that relate to the area, to that shop, to this offie.
The shops change frequently but the people never - I can stay away for 6 months and come back and find someone in the place where I last saw him, wearing the same kind of clothes, still looking bored and gorgeous. And I feel myself losening up and chatting and swirling my hair, just like the tall bohogirls who have got the latest model mobilephone and boyfriend.
It's about feeling comfortable in what is known and excited about the unknown, as opposed to where I live at present where the known and the unknown is equally dreary, the dangerous just scary and not exciting, and the exciting limited to finding out that it is my lucky day and my supermarked actually stocks fennel.
But once in a while, like today, life has mercy on me and places me suddenly slap bang in the middle of the Gate, usually right outside the yellow bookshop that seems to be open every hour of the day.
The shops change frequently and are becoming more and more gentrified, most aspiring to become the new BBB which in itself is not that hip anymore at all but you'd have to live there to know. Mariella Frostrup still lives around the corner along with most celebrities who see themselves too earthy for and superior to the warped art-puppies who have relocated to Shoreditch a long time ago.
The area has choked on its own uber-trendiness and caters now mainly for Spanish and Italian people who like the laid-back life in the slow lane, coffee in hand, fag in close proximity, smoking itself in a makeshift ashtray.
I still consider it home, though. I have tonnes of memories that relate to the area, to that shop, to this offie.
The shops change frequently but the people never - I can stay away for 6 months and come back and find someone in the place where I last saw him, wearing the same kind of clothes, still looking bored and gorgeous. And I feel myself losening up and chatting and swirling my hair, just like the tall bohogirls who have got the latest model mobilephone and boyfriend.
It's about feeling comfortable in what is known and excited about the unknown, as opposed to where I live at present where the known and the unknown is equally dreary, the dangerous just scary and not exciting, and the exciting limited to finding out that it is my lucky day and my supermarked actually stocks fennel.
Friday, March 11, 2005
*Hums quietly to self whilst swatting invisible flies*
Am turning into Cousin Dell.
My formative years never really, well, stopped, as formative years usually do. Likewise my teenage protestations against this and that and whatever else comes along. At the moment I am painfully aware of generation gaps, cultural differences, class systems and all other disintegrations within society. Or, the multiple societies which co-exist in the world.
I never liked being told what to do. This can usually be dealt with by deciding not to participate in certain things, or eating ones annoyance, plastering on a fake smile and/or air of good humour and play along nicely with the other kids. The problems obviously occur when one needs advice from someone, asks for advice, and then gets advice that one doesn't like.
See how I've reverted to third person there?
I never liked being told that something wasn't possible. To this day I believe that kids need to be encouraged - unless they want to jump from a very tall building or eat chips all day (there's a Jamie Oliver discussion in there, but I'll get to that another day). I think kids need to be made aware of their limitations but certainly and even more so their abilities - so that if you don't have what it takes to be a concert pianist you may still be able to climb Mount Everest.
I always hated the 'but nobody else does that'- argument. Variations over this could be: 'but that's how everyone else does that' or 'that is just not done' (by whom one might ask). I just don't think that this is reason enough for me to be discouraged from doing something fun/harmless/beneficial for me.
I feel that this is the one thing I have fought for all my life - acknowledgment that maybe I would be able to do this and maybe that would be nice - even though other people don't do it that way.
Too abstract for ya? - Still in my formative years and will not be able to divulge any further...yet.
Am turning into Cousin Dell.
My formative years never really, well, stopped, as formative years usually do. Likewise my teenage protestations against this and that and whatever else comes along. At the moment I am painfully aware of generation gaps, cultural differences, class systems and all other disintegrations within society. Or, the multiple societies which co-exist in the world.
I never liked being told what to do. This can usually be dealt with by deciding not to participate in certain things, or eating ones annoyance, plastering on a fake smile and/or air of good humour and play along nicely with the other kids. The problems obviously occur when one needs advice from someone, asks for advice, and then gets advice that one doesn't like.
See how I've reverted to third person there?
I never liked being told that something wasn't possible. To this day I believe that kids need to be encouraged - unless they want to jump from a very tall building or eat chips all day (there's a Jamie Oliver discussion in there, but I'll get to that another day). I think kids need to be made aware of their limitations but certainly and even more so their abilities - so that if you don't have what it takes to be a concert pianist you may still be able to climb Mount Everest.
I always hated the 'but nobody else does that'- argument. Variations over this could be: 'but that's how everyone else does that' or 'that is just not done' (by whom one might ask). I just don't think that this is reason enough for me to be discouraged from doing something fun/harmless/beneficial for me.
I feel that this is the one thing I have fought for all my life - acknowledgment that maybe I would be able to do this and maybe that would be nice - even though other people don't do it that way.
Too abstract for ya? - Still in my formative years and will not be able to divulge any further...yet.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
He doesn't want to write anymore?
No.
Why not?
He didn't say.
Is he still writing poetry?
Apparently.
So he is still writing, then.
...
I guess he's -
Writing poetry-
Mmm.
...
Okay then.
No.
Why not?
He didn't say.
Is he still writing poetry?
Apparently.
So he is still writing, then.
...
I guess he's -
Writing poetry-
Mmm.
...
Okay then.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Just checking in to say -
Hello.
I'm alive.
Still getting used to contacts which means that I am blurry-eyed and bleary-eyed, and my, did I never notice those bags underneath until I spent a day without glasses...
Quick plug, now that The Woodsman has gone on general release - please go see.
Got appointment with Kinsey next week, which should be interesting.
After having entered data for half a day I am feeling slightly nauseous and unintested in the interweb. Thankfully there's more to my dayjob than this.
Celebrating a friend's birthday tonight, snowfall allowing, which should be nice after a day spent with aliens.
Hello.
I'm alive.
Still getting used to contacts which means that I am blurry-eyed and bleary-eyed, and my, did I never notice those bags underneath until I spent a day without glasses...
Quick plug, now that The Woodsman has gone on general release - please go see.
Got appointment with Kinsey next week, which should be interesting.
After having entered data for half a day I am feeling slightly nauseous and unintested in the interweb. Thankfully there's more to my dayjob than this.
Celebrating a friend's birthday tonight, snowfall allowing, which should be nice after a day spent with aliens.
Monday, February 21, 2005
The airport in San Juan is a fine, modern thing, full of bright colors and suntanned people and Latin rhythms blaring from speakers hung on naked girders above the lobby. I walked up a long ramp, carrying my topcoat and my typewriter in one hand, and a small leather bag in the other. The signs led me up another ramp and finally to the coffee shop. As I went in I saw myself in a mirror, looking dirty and disreputable, a pale vagrant with red eyes.
Hunter S.
(Had contact lenses fitted and can't really see properly. Great, when one works in an office. Anticipating a brilliant onslaught of migraine to hit anytime now. I'm quite fond of wearing glasses, but surfing with specs...? And surfing must be, when one goes on honeymoon.)
Hunter S.
(Had contact lenses fitted and can't really see properly. Great, when one works in an office. Anticipating a brilliant onslaught of migraine to hit anytime now. I'm quite fond of wearing glasses, but surfing with specs...? And surfing must be, when one goes on honeymoon.)
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Best bit?
Rowdy, gorgeous Mexican boys.
Worst bit?
It was a bit boring, really, wasn't it? And frankly, the rise and rise of the fiancee of a famous actor leaves me slightly baffled.
Rowdy, gorgeous Mexican boys.
Worst bit?
It was a bit boring, really, wasn't it? And frankly, the rise and rise of the fiancee of a famous actor leaves me slightly baffled.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Right;
A couple of suggestions for the weekend:
Sin City trailer looks pretty good -
Try the Classic IQ test here (beware: you have to pay for the personalised report!):
Charlotte, your IQ score is 122
You are gifted with the natural fluency of a writer and the visual and spatial strengths of an artist. Those skills contribute to your creative and expressive mind.
etc.
Catch up on the Danish literary canon (and many other texts) on Project Gutenberg.
Get to know Gilles Deleuze on The Internet Encyclopaedia of Philosophy.
Watch the BAFTAs tonight on BBC, in the good company of Stephen Fry
Read an Arthur Miller play, such as The Crucible.
Death of a Salesman plays at the Lyric from 10th May 2005 - get ye to the ticketstall.
A couple of suggestions for the weekend:
Sin City trailer looks pretty good -
Try the Classic IQ test here (beware: you have to pay for the personalised report!):
Charlotte, your IQ score is 122
You are gifted with the natural fluency of a writer and the visual and spatial strengths of an artist. Those skills contribute to your creative and expressive mind.
etc.
Catch up on the Danish literary canon (and many other texts) on Project Gutenberg.
Get to know Gilles Deleuze on The Internet Encyclopaedia of Philosophy.
Watch the BAFTAs tonight on BBC, in the good company of Stephen Fry
Read an Arthur Miller play, such as The Crucible.
Death of a Salesman plays at the Lyric from 10th May 2005 - get ye to the ticketstall.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
I kinda want to write something about the Danish elections. But I don't think I can. I think I've said all I can say, and I am now dry and tired and disillusioned. However, I'm not really that surprised.
Another four years in Blighty for me, then.
Another four years in Blighty for me, then.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Sometimes you meet people with whom you are not bound to, for various reasons, maintain any kind of relationship.
I have now met E. four times over the last year and a bit and spoken to him on the phone a couple of times. These are work-related circumstances and due to the nature of my job, less pleasant occasions for him than for me. I now do not have any reason to see him any more and will only speak to him if I happen to pick up the phone when (and if) he rings. Not that it means anything in the greater scheme of things but I have a feeling that it is a shame - that we could potentially become great friends. However, since he is based in Aberdeen (the accent, the accent) and we have lost that common ground that we have had so far, it is highly unlikely that we will ever get to know each other.
Other than that: had a surreal and brief conversation with a colleague about Donald Judd and sweaters. Unfortunately H. only comes in once a week, 'cause she's quite fun and straightforward and brave and creative and interesting. Everything that my job otherwise isn't.
I have now met E. four times over the last year and a bit and spoken to him on the phone a couple of times. These are work-related circumstances and due to the nature of my job, less pleasant occasions for him than for me. I now do not have any reason to see him any more and will only speak to him if I happen to pick up the phone when (and if) he rings. Not that it means anything in the greater scheme of things but I have a feeling that it is a shame - that we could potentially become great friends. However, since he is based in Aberdeen (the accent, the accent) and we have lost that common ground that we have had so far, it is highly unlikely that we will ever get to know each other.
Other than that: had a surreal and brief conversation with a colleague about Donald Judd and sweaters. Unfortunately H. only comes in once a week, 'cause she's quite fun and straightforward and brave and creative and interesting. Everything that my job otherwise isn't.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
It annoys me that they cannot spell, but I do believe that a little subversion is good. Therefore; hooray Razzies and welcome back.
It strikes me that I've only seen three (3!) of the movies nominated (in the 'ordinary' category) which leads me to believe that I have impeccable taste. Or maybe I just don't see enough movies these days.
Other than that - life is getting in the way of blogging. On a positive note - I've just booked my friggin' honeymoon! (Who would've thought that I, of all people, would ever write that?!)
It strikes me that I've only seen three (3!) of the movies nominated (in the 'ordinary' category) which leads me to believe that I have impeccable taste. Or maybe I just don't see enough movies these days.
Other than that - life is getting in the way of blogging. On a positive note - I've just booked my friggin' honeymoon! (Who would've thought that I, of all people, would ever write that?!)
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Oscar noms are in:
I predict a song and dance opening number with Chris Rock arriving on a plane singing the chorus from Learn to be Lonely. After a mock crash landing he will search for Neverland, which seems to be neither in Jack Nicholson's grin nor Kate Winslet's cleavage. Rock foregoes his quest and start looking for wine instead, allthewhile a chorus of 500 hundred gospel singers hum Look to Your Path. On his way he meets a female boxer who kicks his ass but Rock, smitten, sings bits of Accidentally in Love. Finally he morphs into Ray, singing Believe and the entire segment finishes with an instrumental version of Al Otro Lado Del Rio, which, since it is in Spanish, no one can understand the words of anyway.
I actually really like Chris Rock and hope that he can make the thing take off just ever so slightly.
-- Posted something long and celebratory about Anton Corbijn yesterday which Blogger, true to nature, got rid of immediately. Suffice it to say that I am extremely fond of Corbijn whose work is almost cheesy, existing just on the right side of cliche. Watch:
Depeche Mode's Barrel of a Gun .
Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence .
David Bowie as Jesus.
Tom Waits (always).
Even the lump of (dare I say) crap that is U2's Electrical Storm is given a lovely treatment, video-wise.
Anton Corbijn. The mood-aligner.
I predict a song and dance opening number with Chris Rock arriving on a plane singing the chorus from Learn to be Lonely. After a mock crash landing he will search for Neverland, which seems to be neither in Jack Nicholson's grin nor Kate Winslet's cleavage. Rock foregoes his quest and start looking for wine instead, allthewhile a chorus of 500 hundred gospel singers hum Look to Your Path. On his way he meets a female boxer who kicks his ass but Rock, smitten, sings bits of Accidentally in Love. Finally he morphs into Ray, singing Believe and the entire segment finishes with an instrumental version of Al Otro Lado Del Rio, which, since it is in Spanish, no one can understand the words of anyway.
I actually really like Chris Rock and hope that he can make the thing take off just ever so slightly.
-- Posted something long and celebratory about Anton Corbijn yesterday which Blogger, true to nature, got rid of immediately. Suffice it to say that I am extremely fond of Corbijn whose work is almost cheesy, existing just on the right side of cliche. Watch:
Depeche Mode's Barrel of a Gun .
Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence .
David Bowie as Jesus.
Tom Waits (always).
Even the lump of (dare I say) crap that is U2's Electrical Storm is given a lovely treatment, video-wise.
Anton Corbijn. The mood-aligner.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
On the day before the presidential inauguration, Arnie finally got to kill someone for real.
Isn't that wonderful? The American Dream personified. Not only is he allowed - legally - he is also allowed to watch, if he wants to, or not, if reality is too much for him. God's left hand man, just west of His right hand man, who was sworn in today. This reminds me that last night I was watching a film - which shall as of yet remain unnamed (for legal reasons)- full of actors getting too wrapped up in politics for their own good.
- If only Arnie's songs were this good -
Will he one day become president? You betcha!
The Danish elections are so far looking bleak which depresses me no end. Come to think of it, I won't talk about it.
*Bows head in shame*
Isn't that wonderful? The American Dream personified. Not only is he allowed - legally - he is also allowed to watch, if he wants to, or not, if reality is too much for him. God's left hand man, just west of His right hand man, who was sworn in today. This reminds me that last night I was watching a film - which shall as of yet remain unnamed (for legal reasons)- full of actors getting too wrapped up in politics for their own good.
- If only Arnie's songs were this good -
Will he one day become president? You betcha!
The Danish elections are so far looking bleak which depresses me no end. Come to think of it, I won't talk about it.
*Bows head in shame*
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
I just wrote a long post about John McCririck eating his own bogeys on Channel 4.
And then Blogger ate it.
There was also something about buying a house in Denmark, which we are not (presently), but we are looking at prizes and sizes and that sort of thing.
It is expensive, is what it is. And if it's not expensive it's in an area that I'm not sure about (goddam you Copenhagen suburbs!) or utter, utter crap.
Which brought me to John McCririck.
Blogger also ate my predictions for John's future, something involving advertising for a diet cola-based soft drink, book deals, good advice (drink milk!) and weird hand gestures on the race track.
Never mind.
I'm thinking of getting rid of Blogger.
And then Blogger ate it.
There was also something about buying a house in Denmark, which we are not (presently), but we are looking at prizes and sizes and that sort of thing.
It is expensive, is what it is. And if it's not expensive it's in an area that I'm not sure about (goddam you Copenhagen suburbs!) or utter, utter crap.
Which brought me to John McCririck.
Blogger also ate my predictions for John's future, something involving advertising for a diet cola-based soft drink, book deals, good advice (drink milk!) and weird hand gestures on the race track.
Never mind.
I'm thinking of getting rid of Blogger.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
So I've got this new job, right? And it pays better and the responsibility is greater which in turns mean that it is super for my CV.
It means that I get to go to meetings and carry around a leather bound diary and a plethora of pens and people actually ring my direct line and when they do they know my name.
It means that I get to meet heaps of new people almost every day and most of them are nice and I shake hands and smile 'till my cheeks hurt although mostly that slippery smile that doesn't reveal teeth which is meant to say: 'you seem like a nice person and I enjoy your company albeit in a professional manner' but actually says: 'I didn't really hear what you said but I'll assume that you were friendly now when can I get away from here?'
The problem here is two-fold.
Firstly, I am no conversationalist. I tend to freeze up whenever faced with an unavoidable social situation, especially when stuck in a room with people with whom I don't have much in common, having to be nice. Nothing more and nothing less, just nice. Witty, of course, would be good, but I'm not really required to be witty as this trait is usually attributed to someone perceivably in a better paid/more creative/scientific/whatever job than mine. My professional world is still a man's world.
Secondly, I'm fairly anti-social. I'm quite happy to play in my own little puddle without the other kids splashing mud on my clothes. I like just getting on with things, instead of having to wine and dine and swing my hair.
These traits or whatever they are can surely be referred back to
arrogance
insecurity
the fact that I'm an only child and used to play by myself
or
it may just be that this is how my personality presents itself and, here it comes -
I'm in the wrong business.
2005 will hopefully be a year of change and discovery, I might let out the kaballah-observing hippie from within, or the chavvy cleaner or even the princess on the pea.
(Incidentially, don't forget to observe the Hans Christian Andersen bicentenary this year. There's loads of events on, mostly in Denmark of course, but one should (and will) definitely check out the exhibition at British Library from 20th May 2005. Or adopt something Andersen! Just don't forget about him, who wrote stories full of beauty and pain and utter, bloody misery.)
It means that I get to go to meetings and carry around a leather bound diary and a plethora of pens and people actually ring my direct line and when they do they know my name.
It means that I get to meet heaps of new people almost every day and most of them are nice and I shake hands and smile 'till my cheeks hurt although mostly that slippery smile that doesn't reveal teeth which is meant to say: 'you seem like a nice person and I enjoy your company albeit in a professional manner' but actually says: 'I didn't really hear what you said but I'll assume that you were friendly now when can I get away from here?'
The problem here is two-fold.
Firstly, I am no conversationalist. I tend to freeze up whenever faced with an unavoidable social situation, especially when stuck in a room with people with whom I don't have much in common, having to be nice. Nothing more and nothing less, just nice. Witty, of course, would be good, but I'm not really required to be witty as this trait is usually attributed to someone perceivably in a better paid/more creative/scientific/whatever job than mine. My professional world is still a man's world.
Secondly, I'm fairly anti-social. I'm quite happy to play in my own little puddle without the other kids splashing mud on my clothes. I like just getting on with things, instead of having to wine and dine and swing my hair.
These traits or whatever they are can surely be referred back to
arrogance
insecurity
the fact that I'm an only child and used to play by myself
or
it may just be that this is how my personality presents itself and, here it comes -
I'm in the wrong business.
2005 will hopefully be a year of change and discovery, I might let out the kaballah-observing hippie from within, or the chavvy cleaner or even the princess on the pea.
(Incidentially, don't forget to observe the Hans Christian Andersen bicentenary this year. There's loads of events on, mostly in Denmark of course, but one should (and will) definitely check out the exhibition at British Library from 20th May 2005. Or adopt something Andersen! Just don't forget about him, who wrote stories full of beauty and pain and utter, bloody misery.)
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Ah, Germaine. Thou of utter brilliance and stubbornness and a bit of madness! Germaine, whom I love and hate in equal parts, has signed up for Celebrity Big Brother. One is tempted to ask why, as surely someone this opinionated and highly valued would neither do it for money nor fame (she's a professor, for God's sake!).
Joining her in the Big Brutha house is also Brigitte Nielsen, my fellow Dane who seems mad as a hatter, but who, if everything else fails, has the good fortune to be able to bitch-slap even the bravest into submission.
Having managed to watch less and less of Big Brother, and especially the celebrity-kind, over the previous years, my curiosity was awakened when I heard rumours about super-rich, ultra wanky and yet so dishy Eddie Irvine being the eye candy this year. (A rumour that turned out to be untrue, sadly).
Anyway, my money's on Bez who, as Shaun Ryder said, is Bez is Bez, just like Tigger.
Joining her in the Big Brutha house is also Brigitte Nielsen, my fellow Dane who seems mad as a hatter, but who, if everything else fails, has the good fortune to be able to bitch-slap even the bravest into submission.
Having managed to watch less and less of Big Brother, and especially the celebrity-kind, over the previous years, my curiosity was awakened when I heard rumours about super-rich, ultra wanky and yet so dishy Eddie Irvine being the eye candy this year. (A rumour that turned out to be untrue, sadly).
Anyway, my money's on Bez who, as Shaun Ryder said, is Bez is Bez, just like Tigger.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
And a happy New Year to all.
Things learnt:
Under-4's cannot succesfully help you pack your suitcases.
Try not to spend 9 hours in a car with your in-laws.
Champagne at 11 in morning can make you a bit faint.
Belgians do not exchange anything. Ever.
Men sometimes look thinner with beards.
I'm too old for stilts.
Things seen:
Drunken Germans wearing paper sacks.
Drunken Danes setting their fingers alight. To prove a point.
Things received:
The Beautiful
The Damned
And the Eye in the Sky
And now:
Back at work.
Zzzzzz.
Things learnt:
Under-4's cannot succesfully help you pack your suitcases.
Try not to spend 9 hours in a car with your in-laws.
Champagne at 11 in morning can make you a bit faint.
Belgians do not exchange anything. Ever.
Men sometimes look thinner with beards.
I'm too old for stilts.
Things seen:
Drunken Germans wearing paper sacks.
Drunken Danes setting their fingers alight. To prove a point.
Things received:
The Beautiful
The Damned
And the Eye in the Sky
And now:
Back at work.
Zzzzzz.
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