nothing came out

Quand je fais la montagne de vaisselle qui pourrit dans l'évier, quand je descends les pavés inégaux de Regent Street, quand je remonte les escaliers mécaniques du underground (à la DROITE, à la DROITE!) ou m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube (surtout quand je m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube), peu importe ce que je fais, je ressens cet intense désir de m’évacuer. Ça s’accumule et s’empile, ça gronde et ça grouille avec une lenteur souffrante, juste là-là.

Mais quand ça compte, quand je pose mes fesses et dégourdis mes doigts, avec anticipation et transpiration, ça ne. Sort. Pas.

Ça bloque.
Ça enfonce sans pousser.
Ça agace comme une grosse merde.
Ça fait chier, mais pas vraiment, vous suivez?

Mesdames, messieurs, je suis blogstipée.

Mais en attendant que mes muscles relaxent, veuillez visionner mon band* chéri du jour. Merci.




*Quoi, vous n’attendiez pas du Beethoven quand même? Pas après ça... (Ô! R’gard les jolies couleurs...!)

better

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.




...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?




Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...

1 2 3 4

It’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s humid, it’s summer. Seriously.

It’s sweating, softening, sweltering and scolding away my heart. I’m too busy dissolving to care.

I can no longer struggle, I’m speaking in tongues, I’ve bought shorts.

My defenses are shatterred, my chest slashed aghast. Pass it some ice.




Or simply more of this. Oh, be still my speeding heart!...

yesterday once more

High Fidelity was one of the first contemporary English novel I read as an ‘adult’. Have never seen the movie, but heard Mister Hornby wanted John Cusack to play every one of his male protagonists should they be captured on film as well (which doesn’t say much about the width of his thematic range, but eh, who I am to complain about dwelling self-indulgences?). Also, to know Lloyd Dobler is to love him, and since I solely remember my male actors in their best light [until they go insane and antisemite], the movie is definitely somewhere in my Must See Films list. Rob from the novel, however, I had problems with. He just somehow reeked a dab too much of insecurity, uncertainty; is unsatisfied and whiny about it - all qualities I hate in myself really, which just seems worse when personified in someone else. Especially someone I was expecting to really like, as I often do with books I love (e.g. why "Holden's" is forever emblazoned on my heart) . Not so here. What did win me over, however, is his obsessions with lists. It’s dreadfully fantastic! And how he’s so anal about music, having it be the tell all & end all of human existence. Though, admittedly, I barely recognise half of the ‘dodgy’ songs he mentions and have a much more embarrassing collection myself, who seriously cannot identify with that with a little smile en coin? Still to this day, there are certain songs that bring me right back to the very first time I heard it, and in doing so, define it completely. With the same exact despair and/or glee. Apply as needed.

For instance, at the mere start of some of my favorite Chinese series theme songs, I am seen to be embarrassingly gushing, clapping my hands and hopping in my seat. Have you ever tried that? It’s utterly annoying for whoever’s not doing it, I assure you. There’s also giggling. And did I mention cheering? Yes, there is cheering too. I just get so uncontrollably excited, as if I was to see a long lost friend who once taught me everything I know about honour & love (make-up help included!), whose tales of woes & wars, love lost and friendship in hardship sung my entire childhood. And in some two minutes & sweet seconds I get to hear them again, I am as gullible & hopeful as I was when I was 6 years old, believing that love does conquer all, and nobody is really as evil as they seem [just weak... and unfortunate]. When I listen to these songs again, I am reminded & astounded as to how complex the story lines & characters were, how every plot, every anecdote all tie in together in a messy web of confusion. And how all we do is struggle to untangle ourself from it. (…So that’s why I’m so fucked so early! I tell you, Cinderella’s got nothing on Little Dragon Girl. Psh.)

Or when I was in year 9 and had [allowed myself] my first real crush. I never knew what his name was, where he lived or what his likes & dislikes, favorite band or cartoons were. I’ve heard his voice only once - when he asked his little brother if he wanted his seat *swoons* - but my gosh, my entire 15-year-old blissful moments were of simply seeing him. While listening to this song. I know. I told you I had no credibility as a music critic. Every time the swoosh begins though, without fault, I can’t help but moan & roll my eyes, reminded suddenly of him. And then smile from ear to ear. It still warms me up, you see. Mon Gars du Bus….

… Oh, sweet adolescence, what wonderfully embarrassing years you were! How sad it only degenerated from there! *sigh*

I have mentioned before my love/shame relationship with Bon Jovi. It’s actually worse than I’ve lead on. A lot worse. I heart them muchly, I did. To the point where I bought Mister Giovanni’s solo debut tape and listened to it almost everyday. Uh-huh... Sure, there were the ubiquitous Bush [ex-]X & Garbage pouring down my eardrums, but… I just dusted off the tape from my High School Box (what? Don’t you have one of those?) and had a listen again some days ago. I was quickly reminded of a distinctive feeling when I’d hear these again (other than shame). It brings back the cold hazy days of yore.... When yore were school days off, and instead of sleeping in or spending time with friends, I’d wake up like any other day, put on my uniform (so my folks, unaware of my schedule, would not interrogate me wonder), and took the bus. Just to get lost. For hours. Destination anywhere. Watching. And yearning. For something I couldn't define…. I suppose I can come up with some self-conscious analysis now, generic psychological profile and self-deprecating confirmations, but really, it’ll just be redundant. I was sixteen. Look at my blog title.

Not so long after that, I'd have my first mental breakdown. Yes, happy times… It was also from that point forward that, after every other one I went through, be in minor or of World War proportions, I'd run to The Beatles. I can clearly recall the moment it all started. I was walking towards school, cutting through the park, fenced on the left by huge imposing trees. As I looked up and saw the sun & blue skies piercing between shuffled leaves & windy tears, his voice suddenly broke from my headphones and washed over me. (Terribly cliché, I know... But after admitting my love to Bon Jovi and 80’s Chinese songs I don’t understand a single word to, what else do you expect? Tch.) The thing with The Beatles is, they keep my heart safe, you see. They're my imaginary friends. The only real ones I could stand. Who can hold it in and rock it to sleep, without having to say anything. They let me know it’s okay, and to keep on going, to keep on hoping. To keep on loving. With every innocent note.

So I do.

Across the universe.

Because, if there's anything I’ve learned from my childhood tales, it’s what a good theme song does.

alors alors

Who misses bullet-points?

*raises hand like a 6-year-old teacher's pet*

• Went to see the Man Whose Smile Melts My Cold Heart (commonly known as Dumas) over the weekend. Despite some technical mishaps, the concert was all in all fabulous. Sing-alongs, inconspicuous loops, crazy dancing sequence (oh! to the flutter of my beating heart!), acoustic rendition, rocking riffs – it was wonderful, man! And forget about pyrotechnics, spectacular sets and huge screens, it’s all about BALLOONS, people! Unleash some balloons from the ceiling during the second encore and it’s all to make my heart jump with yearning childhood glee! The loveliest surprise of the evening though was the opening gig in the svelte body of a local singer, whose honey musked voice warmed the back of my neck in the sweetest of ways. Alone with a guitar, a harmonica and some few finger clicks, he sang pretty pretty little folksy-pop songs with sorrowful humour that surely delighted the soppy little girl that I am. Oh yes. I want to have his babies.
  Which is necessary to understand, you see, as it may or may not be one of the reasons I ended up buying his record right after the show. *blush* Unfortunately, I only realised the next day that the two songs I really loved were not on it and that he is indeed much better live. *pouts* That’ll teach me to spend money on cute boys. It’s still decent though. And after a few listen, it somehow makes me want to sit by a window sipping hot tea, and write….
  


• Light Bulb Moment of the Week: Lying to mum about having already bought her Mother Day’s gift but forgotten it in someone’s car when in actuality have forgotten it altogether is A Bad Idea. Especially when she is The Crazy Woman, loves gifts and insists that this ‘Someone’ drives by to give it back and, when you point out how unnecessary this is as you are going to meet this ‘Someone’ the next day anyway (lie #2), suggests on driving herself to ‘Someone’’s house to pick said un-existing gift.
  I am going to be struck by lightening and burn in hell, etcetera, etcetera, but it still beats having to see the disappointment in her eyes. There is just so much this poor woman can take [in a very near future]. Besides, the way I figure, her being deceived and my incapability to look her in the eyes for the entire day balances one another out. *wiggles thumbs up*
  


• I have fallen in love with ice wine. Or as I like to call it Oh Sweet Nectar Of Gods. *drools & falls over herself*
  


• I have discovered that the sound of motor trucks can simulate bird speach. Or vice versa. As I laid in bed this morning in the sweet slumbers of five a.m. and was gently woken up by construction workers who, within some few 50 metres away from my bedroom window, were busy grilling, moving and shoving large things about, it dawned on me that I was probably onto something when gently tweeting pierced through my ears.
  In the name of science, I shall transcribe here a part of the conversation for future references:
  
  

  "Broom, vraaaaaaahh!"
  "Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!"
  "Brrrooom broom Brooooooooomm."
  "Twee-twee Tweet! Tweet Twe-weet! Tweet!"
  "Vrrrrreeeeeeee-IIIIIIIIIGH!"
  "TWEEEEEEEEEEEEET! tweIIIIIIIIIIIT! Twee..."
  "...rrrrrrrrrAOORGGGH! VRAOOOOOOOM!"
  "Tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweeet-tweeeeeeet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-twee tweeet twe..."
  "..."
  "Twee-twet-twet-twetwetwetwet tweeeeeet?"
  "Pssssshhhaooorgh!"
  "TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET!"
  etc.

  Is there someone out there to confirm and/or translate? If you are an ornithologist, zoologist, biologist, sound engineer and/or bird hunter, please leave your answers/rates in the comments below. Thank you.
  


• What a lovely Spring day it was yesterday.
  
  
  Which, of course, also meant Great Shopping Spring Day. As I busied through my carefully planned schedule, I stumbled upon a hardcover of David Sedaris’ Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim for a ridiculous 7.99$! Which, with my irewards rebay, came to a total of 7.62! Huzzah! With the book in tow and an extra beat in my steps, I then wandered towards Shop With Enviable Frocks, and just look what I’ve got my hands on now (aside some Fruit-Of-The-Loom undies):
  
  
  I know. Please stop looking at me like that. I’ve been coveting this skirt for months, OKAY?! And just when I thought it wasn’t meant to be, there it was, hanging sheepishly on its little lonesome with a SIXTY DOLLARS LESS price tag! Zoing! As if that wasn’t enough proof that Fate was bringing the two of us together, it was in MY EXACT SIZE! Angels could have flown down and chanted for our holy union and it wouldn’t be so perfect! And I just look so puhr’dy in it, ma!... *puppy eyes*
  


• Question of the Week: What causes two seemingly full-functionning adults to make out in the middle of a café? In broad daylight? Where there are actual people around? Hm?! I’m aware that T’is the season to be horny, and while some superficial people take more joys in finding the perfect all-year-round skirt others prefer giving in to the throws of hormones love, it still doesn’t explain why they have to - oh but literally - LICK EACH OTHER’S FACE OFF! RIGHT. IN. FRONT. OF. ME! And loud enough, in fact, that I can HEAR them when my ears are PLUGGED IN! Gah! Sure, I suppose a normal person would simply look away, but:
  
  

  1) Where I am sitting, I’d risk developping cervicalgia if I were to turn to either side, and frankly (a) I'd look [even more] retarded should I position myself so awkwardly, and (b) why the hell should I discomfort myself for their sake anyway? Are we not in a public space after all? Mutual respect, consideration for thy neighbors, etc, etc. GET A ROOM, YOU!;
  
  2) In some twisted way, it’s just morbidly fascinating, innit? Like watching a car crash, or a baby taking a fall (or is that just me? anyone?), your eyes can’t seem to escape such odd manifestation of the human body. (Lordy! Even as I type these words, I can see their tongues sipping out like ol’Nessy peeping for air from the corner of my eyes!) *shudders*

  …Which brings us to Subquestion of the Week: Is it terribly shallow of me to find unattractive people making out the best premarital-sex prevention method?
  


• Okay. What’s the deal here? That’s the second person to come up to me today and start a conversation out of the bloody blue. Is it because of the season? Is there a drug sale going on and everyone’s on crack? Do I somehow look like a nice sociable person?! [Note to self: reconsider goth look.] The strange part is I am actually engaging in the conversation. While my head screams for me to shut the fuck up and run away, my mouth keeps rattling on, jolly answering to their questions, attentively listening in, and (oh why, in the name of Sweet Frozen Grapes!?) pertinently raising side issues! Pah!... Further proof that there is an important link missing from my brain to my mouth.
  


• It is unfortunate for me to announce that Pollens have officially declared war on me and taken over my respiratory system. If I wish to have a winning chance against these nasty little buggers, drastic measures must be taken for the greater good. Will you please excuse me now as I go cut my nose, peel off my skin and poke my eyes out.
  This, hopefully, might also discourage strangers from striking uncalled chit-chat with me.
  As they say, two birds with one stone.
  Sadly, only figuratively.

And it all ties in together. *bows out*

kingdom of doom

Went to see Grindhouse today. Most riveting & awesomest three hours I've ever spent. (Except that time with... when i was... but that's not quite... and there's also... but i mean... yeah.... Carry on.) Excellent movie. Not for the faint of heart. Very much ace all the same. Or rather, for that exact reason. Fuck yeah, mofos.



Um. Right.




Ouh! And look what came through the mail!


Yiiiippeeeeeee!

Yes. It takes so very little to get me excited....

thank you for the music

I’m not a music elitist. Really. My darling Big Cuz would beg to differ but he also loves the Backstreet Boys (and if a fully grown 25-year-old man seriously believes that the Backstreet Boys are “great musicians” and expects anything less than endless mockery and patronizing sighs every time the topic of music – or anything else for that matter – comes up then the world is worse off than I have ever expected). I might get a trifle involved & ridiculously possessive with certain bands & songs sometimes, but I am also acutely aware that, hey! It’s just rock n’ roll man! And I am utter shite at these things anyway! Many a-time have I been caught not only singing proudly to the Bee Gees and praising the disco gods that are ABBA (hello?! Aluminum sashes? PURE GENIUS!), but also happily dancing to the Pussycat Dolls (or is it PCD now? Am I cool yet?) and the completely fabulous bollocks that is this. Yes, ladies & gents, I am a shameless dancing whore, and therefore in no position to pass any musical judgements at all.

Also, unlike other hardcore musical snobs that I lovingly know (hey there, deary! How’s it going?), I listen to the radio. *gasps* And not that socially aware pretentious informative one either, no - it’s mainstream radio for me, baby! I enjoy its peppy chatter. Usually, while meandering through my morning routine as to not pass out from the buzzing silence as I brush my teeth, you understand. Or as I go through my besoins matinaux. Which means I mostly haven’t a clue of what is going on other than I mustn’t pass out and fall asleep in my own wee. (No, thank you, morning radio!)

However, it has alarmingly come to my attention that an increasing number of utter & complete shite curiously composed music has gained more and more airwaves time recently, which not only cause the little number of functioning neurons left in my brain to auto-prune but to wake me up in an angry jolt at the sheer offensive unpleasantness of it all. Here are but a few causes for my concern:

Covers & remakes.
Or Much Of The Same Old Thing. Only Not As Good.

It seems that covers and/or remakes are becoming as fashionable as footless tights again. And just like the bewildering piece of clothing, it takes a certain flair to carry it off. A flair that unfortunately is missing in most.

These days, it's Eric Prydz’ 'Proper Education' that is constantly dubbed in me neck of the woods. It’s not that it is bad – or even that it’s a clubby dance remix of Pink Floyd playing at 9 in the morning (and let’s face it, I’d probably embarrassingly shake my ass like no tomorrow if it were played in an actual club, regardless of what time of day it is). The problem it’s that…well, it’s not that particularly good either. Or even – dare I pretentiously say it – relevant. I mean, if you are going to take a well known classic from a 70’s cult rock band with enough hardcore fan base to ruminate in their basement and strike a half-baked outrageous whiny letter to spam the daylights out of the gorgeous Mac on which you produced the song in the first place, at the very least, do something interesting with it, eh. Like this. Biased? Completely. But notice how, in this version, the Scissor Sisters managed to retain the gloomy disillusioned mood of the original while leaving the cringing angst behind for some uber groovy & sexy beats. It’s inventive! It’s fabulous! It’s Is-It-Me-Or-Is-It-Getting-Hot-In-Here kind of music that grabs you by the balls every time you listen to it and doesn’t let go! (Which sure beats vapidly giving a few disinterested pokes to it, now donnit?)

Then, there’s this Gary Jules’ cover of Tears For Fears 'Mad World' that completely defies my purpose of listening to the radio altogether and sends me collapsing in the sink in a bad case of narcolepsia. Ironically, I tend to indulge in these very sentimental slow naval-gazing soppy songs, so if I think it induces untimely comatosis – may it be voluntary or not, due to its monotone and boring beat rather than its depressing content – then, Houston, we have a problem. And how is it that it’s becoming so popular now? Wasn’t this a song featured in Donny Darko some 6 years ago? Why the sudden resurgence?

…Just like footless tights! A-ha! So the mystery starts to unravel….


Boys. Bands. And boybands.

Okay. Justin Timberlake. I must humbly admit that there was a foolish time in my ‘youth’ where I’ve thought, “Huh. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he? And wow, what great skin!”, but that was back when he’d just started his solo career and really caught me by surprise by not definitely sucking [said, I note, in a sexy German accent]. Now, I am convinced that he is on a one-man quest to bring back Castrati on the forefront of fashion again, and unless you are a pedophile hidden under the veil of a catholic priest (hiss!), I really don’t understand why more people aren’t marching against this most barbaric of trends. Instead, Mister Timberlake is swarmed in popularity & praise wherever he goes and even succeeds to make out with the incredibly hawt Scarlet Johansson in his over-hyped and bore-me-to-tears video, which begs the question, “Why, Scarlet, why?” No, seriously, why? At least with Michael Jackson, it was always flabbbergastingly cool (even when he started making out with Elvis’ daughter, we were all morbidly fascinated – that was entertainment!). As for comparison with Prince (for shame!), I believe Mr. Purple Rain has well proven that he had a fair dose of testosrone during his adolescence to reach a decent C.

It is also possible that I may have missed the memo where 12-year-old boys were hot & sexy.
Balls. I’m always left out from these things.

*pouts*

In other boy news, has anyone heard of this guy?


When I first heard him on the radio, I almost shat in my pants thinking Queen had released a hidden track and no one bothered telling me about it. When the truth was revealed that no, Freddie Mercury did not come back to gloriously haunt our airwaves again, I struggled between feeling a little robbed & outraged that this Mika had the insolence to imitate one of the greatest rock n’ roll voices of all time and secretly comforting myself that it wasn’t actually that godawful… Alas, the song tends to get highly on one’s nerve after the third listen, by which time you’ve successfully determined that though similar, he definitely lacks Mercury’s, well, talent. And charisma.

Oh Freddy, you are still the original one & only Fag to the Hag in my heart.
Le sigh.

While on the topic of voices, why wouldn’t Fall Out Boy crawl back to wherever it was they fell from? Their whinging screeching through my speakers is starting to pain me to tears. I know, it took some time but I’d always believed that patience was a virtue and they’d run out of air soon enough. Was that hopeful thinking? Wassit? Because, WHY WILL THEY NOT LEAVE?!

The only problem I fear is, once these emo squealing dolphin-boys are drowned away from the musical ocean (see what I did there? Dolphins? Ocean? Ha! I’m so rad…), old sharks (okay, will stop with the aquatic metaphor now) shall come back with a bloody vengeance…. Bon Jovi? I’m talking to you here. Oh, Bon Jovi, what a love/shame relationship I have with thee…. You were so great back in the day with your long 80’s mop and sleazy tees and ripped jeans, singing and promising debauched love & infidelity with damn-it-all attitude while riding your motorcycle into the sunset like the soft little toughie you wanted me to believe. How many times have I risked being thrown out from a speeding car as I insisted on wailing 'You Give Love A Bad Name' on top of my lungs… Good times. Why then must you return from rock n’ roll heaven with hip trendy haircuts and fashionable leather jackets with half-assed written self-important ballads to shatter my 14-year-old dreams of you? WHY?!

*weeps in her sleeves*

This is starting to bring me down. I seriously need to find me some hot rocker boy to inappropriately perv and conceive many adventurously steamy fantasies over. Any suggestion is welcomed.


Gangsta rap.

I don’t get it.

That is all.

Please don’t shoot me.


Ô Canada, land of crap music!...

Alright. That was a bit harsh. And rather untrue actually.

There is indeed great music grown in this land I live – Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Feist, K-os, Tegan & Sara, The New Pornographers, to name but a few from the English side of the medal. But that’s not exactly what’s being massively exported now, is it? It’s not even getting most of domestic airtime. Instead, you know what we get to hear day in, day out, every fucking day? DO YOU? Go on, have a guess!










NICKELBACK, that’s what!
NICKEL. FUCKING. BACK. Why in the world would anyone want to release this unredeeming horror of a band from our borders – any borders! – is beyond me. Oh! how it shames me…. And I’m not even the least bit nationalistic at all! But is that sort of utter horseshite that's known as "Canadian music"!? (That, and Ann Murray. But let’s leave poor Ann out of this, she didn’t spawn the devil child that is Chad Kruger.) *shudders* God, I feel dirty just saying their name. And not in that good naughty-dirty kinda way either. That can’t possibly be healthy, now is it? That’s not what music is suppose to do? Ever. And can someone please tell me how to differentiate one of their song from another? Or is it just the same old rubbish being endlessly played in countdowns for the past 5 years? Shouldn’t that be illegal? No, really. I NEED TO KNOW!

Oh, and as if that wasn't enough to make one wants to change nationality, who can forget about "our little Canadian princess"? No, I am not talking about this:


but rather this:
Lady Lavigne who, for all the money & marital bliss in California, would not shut up. Sadly. And while I’m fully aware the very high risk of her stalking me down to scratch my skin off and spit in my face, this is something that must be said. For your own good, Avril. Really. May I call you Avril? I don’t care. Listen, Avril, you are quite pretty to look at, seriously. Looking at photo above, no one would think you’re an obnoxious mentally insipid little brat who hadn’t cleaned her nails in three years. I’ve heard you were interested in modeling, or *contains vomit* ‘acting’ a bit. Which is great! Really! As long as you never ever open your mouth again. Please? I’m sure you’d be quite pleasant as a little model. You really do have great facial features, which pains me to see them being so utterly deformed with your constant grimacing & tongue-pulling. It makes me want to slap you. And come to think of it, I don’t even mind if you land a speaking role in a movie at all, for (a) it would hopefully be someone else’s lines & not your own incomprehensible slurring that will be excreted from your perfectly defined lips, and (b) if I don’t want to watch your *contains vomit* 'acting' I will simply not go see the movie, instead of having to endure your banshee voice that every goddamn radio station forces me to listen every goddamn morning! So, it's a win-win situation! Hurrah!

Except for the dancing. What’s all that about, eh? Is that suppose to be "ironic"? Was that the aim? Were you drunk? Because, like, I don’t, like get it.

Like.

… Then again, is it all just me? Am I too old to "get with it"? Am I "out of the loop"? Am I not "hip" enough? Not "in with the crowd"? And, more importantly, when the hell was I ever anyway? So many unanswered questions....

*sighs heavily*

In any case, as I am waiting for my new music to come in through the mail (I love you, Amazon!), here’s to hoping that they will make me all forget & forgive the above and that I won’t throw my radio through the wall in a fit of uncontrollable morning rage. With these new purchases, I really can’t afford any renovation.

the coming of spring

Aside from the general sun tauntingly shining on, puddles of melting brown shite (or What Is Left Of The Glorious Snow), the sweet smell of feces emanating from said pile of melting snow (extra aromatic due to months of fermented bliss - mmmm...), and wait - is that my throat itching? Is that my nose running? Is that my left eye tearing? Why, it's ALLERGIES SEASON! *punches fist into wall* - it can't be all bad, can it...?

With that in mind (Ouh! Ouh! Look at me being all positive!), here is a list of Good Things About Spring:

1. After months of wanting to let my bangs & hair grow, I gave in to the Spirit Of Change and cut the whole damn thing! Well, not the entire thing, just gave myself a wee trim. And a kickass dye. Which feels immmmeeeensely good. Behold!
   
   

   Before

   
   

   After(See the difference? It's darker now, yes?
   Am image of Adventurous, truly?...
   Humour me?)

2. Maple syrup. Need i say more?
   
   
3. Now, if you break it down, what 'Spring' really stands for is 'Spring Cleaning'. Which ultimately leads to LOOK AT MY SWANKY CLEAN COLOR-COORDINATED CLOSET!
   
   
   
   I love it so much, i could just sit here and marvel at it for hours, quite sadly!
   
   
4. Have just finished my paper on Education & Minority Language Acquisition! Hurrah-rah-rah! (...although that doesn't have anything to do with Spring, now does it? If anything, Spring is paper season and i actually have two other ones to write for this week! Okay, happy thoughts, happy thoughts...)
   
   
5. Ouh! With the warm weather I can now wear my cute lighter coat and kickass brown leather boots again! Gnarly!
   
   
6. AND, because three months of Winter makes us Canadians slightly deranged in the head, we can now enjoy our drinks on terraces! Even if it is still only 5C outside!*
   
   
7. Closet again.
   
   
   
   Yes, let its magic wash over you...
   
   
8. ...as you listen to this! (click on the small black box in the middle, marked "media", then "audio", then the 5th little blue square from the left. You can listen to the entire thing too, of course. Go on, it's only mildly frantically dancy!... Unless that's not exactly your piece of pie. In which case, never mind then.)

* I believe that the more exclamation marks i put, the more likely am i to feel its enthusiastic effect. As long as I don't strangle myself out of sheer annoyance first.

picture of my life

While some of my friends are raising havoc at a Frat Party this very minute (it’s all about them cheap beer, young impressionable 17-year-old girls and sexually confused first year Saskatoon lads, you understand... god speed, me boys, god speed!), I am neatly tucked away in bed with a facial (yes, the Depends pads are very comfortable, thank you for asking). Although the unsurpassable amount of beer that taste like piss and drunken pretentious college boys whose best pickup line is "you're such a hawt Asian* chick - burrrrrp" would ratle up any girl's fantasy, I just have the feeling that I can't resist biting some heads off tonight. And speaking of biting, I have not yet digested all that I have eaten, so thought as well to spare the lovely folks at Sigma Chi Lambda Alpha Omega Delta I Haven't The Slightest Clue Really the sweet smell of my bowel movement over the delicious sex pheromones & vomiting sweat. Case in point - what I have ingested today:

• 2 bowls of Crispix** cereal [which the only grocer carrying it, in a fit akin to Jack Bauer's torturous rage, is no longer selling. They have stopped having it for a while but around Christmas, much to my childish delight, decided to restock only to YANK IT away from its shelves again. Why, dear Metro Gods, why?]
• half a roll of rosette de lyon sausage from La Charcuterie de Père Lemoine, with enough black peppers to start a small fire in one's throat.
• a plate of linguine (couldn't resist taking picture of it - notice the melting garlic butter on top. Mm-aaaarrhhh....)
• a plate of sweet sticky rice with fried onions i had to fight over with The Crazy Woman.
• Yummy roast chicken with steamed rice [that would be supper, in case anyone was wondering, courtesy of The fabulous Crazy Woman.]
• A pot noodle. Or two.

[Note to self: must learn to say 'stop'. And actually stop.]

Have also been geekilly youtubing all the music videos i've missed out on, and came to the conclusion that it seriously sucks rats balls to be on a tight budget, as i absolutely must get my hands on The Good, The Bad and The Queen record, as well as the new Arcade Fire***!

And these shoes!

Dancing shoes.
Only-In-My-Dreams shoes.

Prim-And-Proper-Sunday-Garden-Party shoes. (Not that i have ever been, or know anyone who's gone, to a garden party before.)

For some reason remind me of Jem-And-The-Holograms shoes. Which makes me want them even more. I mean, i've even named them and all, so of course they should be mine!...

Yes, it is a sad life I live.

*That would be something not to say to get a girl. EVER. But that is a very long post for another day, i'm afraid...
**As oppose to something like Coco Puffs, or Lucky Charms, i always very boringly prefer something relatively plain in taste. They are the ones that you can eat endlessly, in my opinion. Although i oddly feel like having some of'em Lucky Charms now....
***Speaking of which, their encore performances here were completely SOLD OUT TODAY! *cries* Due, might i add to a bunch of LYING WHORES at one shabby music store who told us they were to go on sale TOMORROW. May you have CRABS, Dirty Blond Shag Boy and Old Nancy Dweeb With Scary Neck Rash! Freakishly gargantuesque Super-Crabs! Now if anyobody can tell me how to get or has an extra ticket, i will gratefully repay them in any way possible. With anything. My soul, anyone? Seriously, anyone?...

it's the most wonderful time

Reasons why Christmas is fantabulous:

• Buying gifts! Did my Christmas shopping yesterday and was TOTALLY into it, picking out prezzies for my mum (a beautilful tweed pencil skirt with a teal sweater - le gorgeous), my sister (penguin themed pjs, undies, socks and huge coffee mug - so nauseatingly cute she'll barf out the damn bird), my cutest petutiest 3-year-old cousin (a box of crayons & a Dora pop-up book), and for another 7-year-old to whom i am his Secret Santa (a beautiful Fables de La Fontaine book, just like the one i used to love). It reminded me how fun it is to really give rather than receive (although receiving is very much the tops as the second point shall demonstrate).
  
  Roaming along the kids section in the bookstore, surrounded by all the colors and glossy covers, i was also whisked back to the time when each penny i saved would propel me towards the nearest book shop where i would deliberate for hours on the one i would take home. There was this collection i remember of ancient myths that i coveted - Egypt, Greek, Roman and Celtic tales (yes, i was about this close to become a Dongeons & Dragons afficionado). Over two years, it had been such a long & hard endeavor to me that i bought the last book out of sheer principle as my literary taste had been captivated by Monsieur Poirot's charming mustache & the Great Agatha by then. That's called devotion, people! I remember how much books meant to me as a kid, when i didn't have Life Obligations to worry about or derail me from it, when i could lounge around and read all day while my friends did their thing. Books were dependable. And they also made me look less of a social inadequate than i actually was/am (ahem). Which is probably why i am now one of those aunts & cousins who will happily shove down a book down any little child's throat at the first sign of weakness. (Also, in case he doesn't appreciate the magic of Les Fables de La Fontaine, well, i'll just have to keep it now, won't i? Hahahahaha!)
  
  Anywho. I have only me Daddio left to buy for now. A challenge that must not be taken lightly as he is one who would not like ANYTHING that he receives yet sulk when he doesn't. Wonderful character, i know. Thank goodness it's something he did not pass down on me!



• Everything i get is now labelled not under 'Another Useless Consumerist Purchase' but neatly wrapped - like everything else - under 'Christmas Gift For Moi!' Behold, so far, these can be found in my stocking:
  
  

Yes. That is a vase. For my Future Flat. I think it's beautiful, okay?






For my Europe Longing Days.





A 'rare collection' of short stories! Hurrah!





...I have not the words...
This will be a GREAT holiday...





• I was going to say 'The Snow' but the little snow that fell has now been replaced with the goddamn rain....Ugh. Carry on, then...



• The nice sales clerks. Yes, i know. Either they are, or i am peculiarly nice, which, in any case, is so much more pleasant to deal with. They are all smiles and strangely patient & indulgent to find gifts with you, laughing with your silly picks for your sister, giggling about ending up buying just for yourself, wishing you a 'Joyeuses Fêtes!' as you leave. It's all just so pleasant! There must be a course or a conference beforehand, of course, and somehow forced upon but it still feels quite nice.



• Making mixed cds. Also known as one of my top Favorite Waisting Time Activity. Now, you all must know that i am a shameless fan of the classics - Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Brenda Lee & the likes, even though they are endowed with the power to cause seizures - but it's also such fun (and a challenge!) to find newer rocking holiday tunes like The Ramones' 'Merry Christmas' & The Ravoenettes' 'Chirstmas Song' to put them all together!
  
  'River' by Joni Mitchell is an absolute must - despite that one is a tad inclined to gulp down an entire bottle of whiskey only to jump off a bridge afterwards - but somehow i've managed to slip it in between 'It's Christmas Time' by what sounds like The Miracles (do correct me if i'm wrong) & 'Rock of Ages', then followed by Sinead O'Connor's 'Silent Night'. Right. Not exactly the cheeriest, is it?... But the cd ends with 'Maybe This Christmas' by Ron Sexsmith, which is really lovely & sweet. With a little pinch of bitter perhaps but still very sweet & more than a bearable listen during these times...



• The Food! Living here, every self-respected food lover's favorite cooking show, À la Di Stasio, is the summum of class, good taste & good food. Josée Di Stasio, the bona fide hostess, is a little like Martha Stewart but less insane. And without all the bows & ribbons & flowers & dresses, anything that might distract from the great FOOD she & her local celebrity guests concoct in her immaculately delicious and warm kitchen. And then, there's the lighting... it makes the pasta shine, the meat glisten, the puddings luscious. She makes me want to cook! Let me write that again. She. Makes. Me. Want. To. Cook. ME. Who considers an omelette as part of her Sophisticated Dish Repertoire. So yes, allow me to tuck that under Christmas Miracle of 2006.
  



• All above reasons to distract me from My Boy Troubles.... *gnaw at cheeks, etc.*

sisters of mercy

Weekend resumé, resolution and reward, all in bullet-point form! Can it be any more perfect?

• Astonishing discovery: i am rubbish. I've been out for two weeks (and by 'two weeks', i mean 'two weekends'), and i am utterly wrecked. I woke up this morning with a dry cactus embedded in my throat, i apparently have lost my voice, somebody seemed to have sneaked into my bedroom & drawn dark semi-circles below the two reddened eyeballs that lay inside my sunken sockets, my skin is of a stale greenish yellow, my neck is making a 'chweck' sound as i turn from right to left & a 'toc!' from left to right (which was, i must admit, kinda fun for the first 5 minutes), and my hair looks like it's been chewed by that same nocturnal visitor. I will never be a rockstar.
  


• I will have NOTHING but fruits & vegetables, nice good red meat and heaps of water for the next 7 days. And fish. But that's it - no more coffee, no alcohol, no sweets, and definitely no more INSTANT NOODLES.
  


• Will also lead a sane, active, good girl healthy lifestyle, which will include running, yoga and reading. Hail to the Gods, let the Cleansing Program begin!
  


• Okay, for 5 days.
  


• 
  
  That is a crack in the inner corner of the lens of my glasses. I assure you, it is not due to any Hard Partying on my part. I know this because my idea of Hard Partying usually consists of sitting around & imitating a drunken sloth. Followed by dancing like there's no tomorrow. It could have happened, i presume, when i passed out & hit the floor, but i have no recollection of such unexemplary behaviours either. I am a lady after all.
  


• I just bought Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man soundtrack, and it is absolutely wonderful. I haven't seen the documentary yet, but hearing Mister Cohen's voice have always strangely resulted in me being naked - not really a part of the Cleansing Program, i'm afraid...
  


• 3 days...? I mean, it's not like i really need that much bourgeois leisure time anyway... *Chweck*
  


• My sister is coming back from her weekly visit to her hubby (who is working away up North at the moment), and a Girls' Night In at her place is well in order & blissfully welcomed. The program for the night: The Wedding Singer, followed by Bridget Jones's Diary, The Grey Cup final, and reruns of the UFC: Ultimate Fighting Championship - with facials & nailpolishing to boot! I'm already gushing with girlish glee!
  


• ...Okay, starting tomorrow, the Cleansing Program of 3 hardcore healthy living days shall start! (And then watch out Tomkat 'cause i'll be kicking so much ass your Scientology God* will be worshipping ME! Mouaahahahaha! Think you're too good to invite 'lil ol'me dontcha...?** Just you wait....)

*Is there such a thing as a Scientology God? Or is that Mr. Tom Cruise himself?
**Seriously, who wasn't at that insane wedding?! And doesn't it eerily remind you of that other star-studded whorish of a matrimonial freak show that was the unholy union of Liza Minelli & her playdoh [ex-]groom? When did Tom Fucking Cruise become such a freak?! Are all sexy eye-candy boys doomed to be a circus act sooner or later? First the Michael-Jackson-Sans-Nose-Ape transformation to the Tom-Cruise-Scary-Joker metamorphosis. Will Brad Pitt someday turn into a three-nipples lady as well? *hands over mouth weeping*

pieces of the people we love

Apparently, i am one of those people. You know the kind.

When you go to a concert, and there's that one afflicted person who seems a tad more into it than the others. Not a 'groupie', mind you (or at least not yet. I hope. Oh good god, i truly do hope never ever please...), but one who would start gushing over the band & be a little keener than everyone else there. You see, my name is [Vapidly Vibrant] and i am the girl who falls head over heels for live performers. And i am not proud.

It all started with this chick:

That is Leslie Feist, by the way. Or just Feist as she is commonly & lovingly known.

I can still remember the night. It was in the heat of end of June. We [J & i, not Feist & i - unfortunately] had just had some delicious thai food au quartier latin. Tourists were sweatily bustling on the streets while red, yellow & green lights emanated from the scantily attached lanterns on the sidewalk trees. We hurriedly walked amidst the avid crowd towards the Spectrum where she was playing, just at the outskirt of the Jazz Festival. At 6 o'clock sharp, with no opening act, she walked out, basked in a moody red light. And she was absolutely perfect. She had turned her sweet music into a sometime acoustic, sometime rock n' roll, but always warm & touching version of her record. And she was so tiny and lady-like, like a little Thumbelina, but with an overgrown electric guitar to punch the living daylights out of all those who cross her. By the end of the concert, I got out into the musky night, completely infatuated, thinking "that's the kind of rocker i would like to be [if i knew how to sing & play the guitar]!"

Then, there was Ambulance Ltd: Okay, so they may not be the most gorgeous looking band out there, in my humble taste (also, am not nearly sexually adventurous enough as to actually want to [insert term for 'fornicating' starting with the same letter but is somehow strangely deemed a tad too strong so early on such a holy day despite being what Ms. Ann Coulter would call a 'Godless skank'] all of them. Together. At the same time. Or in any combination, nowthatweareatit & letsmoveonthankyouverymuch). Which is neither here nor there, really, and beside the point, i should specify, as these performers have 'turned me on' on a more 'spiritual' sense rather than in the mere animalistic yearning to make babies that some - obvioulsy - could inspire.... I just wasn't expecting much out of the concert, to be honest. I had listened to their LP a few times before, and though i very much enjoyed it - finding it moody in an upbeat, 70's chill way - i also had an exam the very next day, and was seriously in no position to be seeing a band i did not absolutely adore. But i did anyway because being the Queen Procrastinator that i am means that i had duties to uphold, sacrifices to make and consequences to deal with, which involved surely, i thought, the concert to royally suck in such a level that would make, on top of failing the exam for lack of studying, a perfectly karmalicious punishment.

Alas, no! To my utter surprise, it was a fantastic performance! Their chillin' music was rockin' the freakin' roof off! I'd never had such an expereince before (or ever since)! At the end of the concert, i felt like i was on a high, on cloud nine, or some other nirvana-like state, as if everything was tinted in a soft powder blue & rose, and i was in love! And despite the sound of it & the many successive exclamation points, i was/am not literally high either, i assure you. It wasn't only me, the gorgeous Indian girl behind me & her friends also thought the same (i know this because she poked at us [again J & i, not Ambulance Ltd & i - sadly], and elatedly screamed "That was so GREAT, wasn't it?!", to which we elatedly shouted back "HELL YEAH!").

(Furthermore, to prove that my concept of the Universe is completely rubbish, i did not even fail my exam! Pah!)

The third time this terrible affliction occurred, it was with my fatefully doomed encounter with Interpol:

I was standing in the first row for the first time. Well, actually, the second row: my friend A, who was completely bonkers over them, had stood in the first row, right in the middle, for two hours so she could see them up close & poysenal. She had a thing for the drummer. I, innocently enough, did not find any of them particularly attractive. I'd googled them up the previous night to have at least an idea of what this band that was indeed firmly growing on me looked like, and had thought it was rather funny that the singer, whose voice was so cavernous & deep, should actually look like a scrawny little blondie. But then... the actual boy suddenly appeared in front of me. And he opened his mouth. And i was done. That easy.

The voice, the allure, the silent charm. The fatigue. And he was not scrawny at all. I repeat, NOT. Scrawny. At. ALL. (Mmmmm.) And when he sung 'Hands Away', i fucking cried (yes, i do realize i just used the other word that starts with the same letter as 'fornicating' despite going through a bizarre rant about not using it earlier, but it is not employed here in its true prude-trampling sense but rather in a 'I can't fucking believe i cried in public' sense, you see. Which is always never inappropriate. The using of the word 'fucking' like that. Not the crying in public part). What's important to note here however is, I CRIED! IN PUBLIC! Where there were actual people around! To see me cry! In public! Argh!

So i was admittedly not in the bestest of moods to start out with... They were still quite amazing. Plus, Paul Banks has this whole pseudo-shy-intellectual-with-guitar thing that [sadly] fits right up my alley. Literally & figuratively speaking.

Ahem.

Fast forward to Spring 2006. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs had just released a new album, and it kicked so much tooshies that my Twelve-Year-Old and Seventeen-Year-Old Selves both came together, at the same moment in time, for that one performing night - a phenomenon that should not be taken lightly as most of the time my Twelve-Year-Old Self would choose to completely ignore my Seventeen-Year-Old Self (out of spite more than out of respect, really, as she would much rather annihilate the poor girl but cannot - she is only 12 years old after all), while the Seventeen-Year-Old Self is so concerned with her own issues & what's wrong with the world to ever care about that pesky Twelve-Year-Old anyway. But at the concert, they completely rocked out like the silly little girls they both had forgotten they were - together - and i firmly believe that nobody but the incredible Miss O can achieve such a feat. I mean, just look at her:

So cute. She came out in a wool-feathered chicken suit and wore a discoball hat for crying out loud! *bows to Her Magnificence*

The latest addition to this illustrious list (and the one who confirmed my chronical condition) is The Rapture. Their debut album came out three years ago, if i am not mistaken. I loved it immediately. Underground rock meets 70's disco, with cow bell. What else can one ask for? And it was sexy, and dancy, and unpretentious, and so totally rock n' roll, dude! It was fantastic. They released their second album recently, and i get to see them last Thursday in a little venue downtown, and by George! this is what they look like:

Geeky gents who dance! Huzzah!

[** Note: i am aware that there are lots of geeky bands who dance out there - namely Franz Ferdinand, whom i saw & loved - but they are not exactly 'hot', are they? Behold, completely biased & superficial comparison:

FF:Cool, nice, funny-looking boys, lovely to hang out with it seems, but not exactly shaggable, are they? At least, not while being sober. And/or maybe when one is horny as hell.

vs.

The Rapture:Guitar-arms & singing-jawlines, who knew? (except perhaps for that poppet in the middle in the back. He kinda looks scary there). And it's not because the picture is in black & white either.

Case in point.]

Anywho. They had this unpretentious coolness about them, and it was so odd to see the singer (the one with the muppet hairdo) wailing in such a high pitch voice it would give Mr. Gibb a run for his money, all while looking absolutely calm & nonchalant about it (am all about the weird and contrast, y'see). And! hewasalsoverycute. They were able to create a mood that saw the entire crowd - even those sitting in the too-cool-to-care area - dancing like it was indeed 1999, where there was nothing left but disco & love in the air. There were no annoying Emo hipsters to make me want to scoop my eyeballs out, no retardo I-Am-The-Center-Of-The-Universe-Set-Aside-elbowing, no overberaing drunk lunatic. Everyone just danced. Like that ridiculous mating ritual scene in The Matrix Reloaded, minus the ridiculousness. Obviously. During the last encore, everyone climbed onstage, and the singer was completely friendly about it and took pictures with them in this most adorable unassuming way. AND!... hewasalsoverycute. *blush* (Just give me a nice little crazy dancing boy any day, really. Pretty please?)

That's the thing with live performances that predisposes me to such an affliction - the mood, the atmospehere (and the alsoverycutesinger). It felt as if we were all connected, friends, brethren, with the same skewed dancing Xanadu vision of what the world should be like....

*sigh*

Now, i've been listening to them - both albums, back-to-back - for the last three days, and bopping my head like a maniac. It is starting to hurt in the neck area. Also, i want to be a rockstar.

Hmm.

In other news, I went karaoke-ing for me birthday for the first time ever (am now addicted to singing really badly in public), was shocked in the brain for forgetting to take Mr. Effexor (again), got into a ginormous fight with J, kissed & made-up, and have been craving for pizza & milk. And fornication. That is all.

i found out

I am addicted to shopping on Amazon. I bought two CDs (Nouvelle Vague, vol. 1 & 2 - the Special Edition one, no less...), and two books (A Heart So White by Javier Marias, recommended by this lovely gal, and a fantastic architecture hardcover on Frank Gerhy) for the first time ever on the website a few weeks ago, and saved a bundle of moolah, baby! Plus, nice little packages get delivered to me in the mail! (and surely the surprise of receiving any packages in the mail is sheer & utter delight in itself no matter what marvel - capable of turning populations into a biological threat or not - may lie inside.)

Now, i cannot stop. They keep suggesting products to me, and though i am no fool to their marketing tactics, i am still overwhelmed with desire for EVERY SINGLE ITEM! Bastards. BUT! i do get to save money - on books, and DVDs, and CDs i've always wanted, all the goodies i can't find (am too lazy to look) elswehere, and let's not forget the free shipping. All this, and I DON'T EVEN HAVE TO MOVE MY ARSE! Bloody brilliant bastards!*

I finally get what this whole internet hoopla is all about. Should now move on to this Free Porn thing i keep hearing of then....



* Surely, i do realize nobody is unaware of this revealing piece of information but please, humour me. I just got a goddamn blog.

i'm with the pilots

Although i did not know much about Ladytron, i reckoned some weird electronica coupled with time with some friends i haven't seen in a while (and a promise of beer tucked in there somewhere) would be good enough a reason to pay the 25$ the ticket cost. Lo & behold, i had a hoot of a time, and my blood was alcohol free! Huzzah!

The opening band, CSS (an acronym in Portugese for "Cansei de Ser Sexy", or 'Tired of Being Sexy' - gold! ) had me completely danced out by the very start. They are a rocking Brazilian sixtet, with five of the cutest badass little girls if i ever saw any (i just wanted to grab the lead singer, tuck her in me pocket, bring her home, bathe her, and feed her, and dress her, and play with her, and make her my very own little singing doll!), and an ambiguously pimpish-looking drummer (t'was probably the mustache & overall dirtiness that gave it away). The audience, despite my reserve for them being pseudo-intellectual electronica elitists, was marvellously fabulous [Emo Kids aside]! Never have i seen so many fags & their hags at a concert before*. They even happily obliged said Cute Lead Singer Doll in her choreagraphed dance sequence, and JOINED IN! It was the closest thing to an Olivia Newton-John's rendition of 'Physical' that i'll ever get to be apart of. I beemed.

When Ladytron finally came in, things settled down a bit. Admittedly, i was a tad disappointed thinking that the fun was all over. The music was great - ambient & syntholicious - but after shaking my little behind to tiny teeny rockers, suddenly falling to seriously uber coolness wasn't so...well, cool. Thankfully, by 'Seventeen' - the only song i actually knew - the tunes soon picked up, and gladly saw me practicing my new Jagged Dance Move. *double thumbs up* Even the two seemingly straight-arrow beefy blase guys in front of me looked at eachother at one point, smiled, nodded as if to say 'yes, we men approve the rocking goodness of this', then proceeded into a frenzy dance. Oh so not geeky-musical-snobs indeed.

That'll show me to bare such prejudices in the future.

(Except for Emo's . They are the devil's pawns.)



*us excluded, that is.