About 5 minutes after I posted last night's entry I did something very stupid. In my defence my shorts got wet in the rain. Wet in the rain? I'm glad you asked. My shorts got wet in the rain, so I took my wallets, coins and keys out of the pockets and hung the shorts up to dry. Sadly, when I rerobed and left my flat I neglected to pick up one important item. The very moment after the door clicked locked I realized that my keys were sat on my coffee table. Bugger.
The following thirty minutes contained many scenes of door abuse, window abuse, verbal abuse and finger abuse. I should clarify that the finger abuse occurred while I was trying to prise open one of the rear windows to my apartment, without success. It still hurts. Poor finger. In the end judicious application of money solved the problem. I called up my landlord and for a, so far undisclosed, fee she drove here and let me in to my place. How stupid did I feel? Very stupid.
Further stupidity ensued this afternoon. The owner of the bar downstairs recently bought a big TV. By big I mean 65" tall, 70" wide and 275 lbs heavy. So what did he want to do with this beast of a "floor model" television? He wanted to put it on top of the 7 foot high beer fridge. It was a somewhat crazy idea. Miraculously, six partially drunk guys managed to manhandle the television above our heads and on to the beer cooler. I honestly don't know how we did it without breaking either the TV or ourselves. A mixture of stupidity, brute force and luck, is my best guess.
Just a quick laugh at the silly American Olympic commentators, part one. Describing the Argentinean basketball players: "These European players really know how to play as a team". (p.s. Argentina ain't in Europe.)
Just a quick laugh at the silly American Olympic commentators, part two. Describing the crowd during the mens volleyball final: "These fans wait until a crucial moment to really lay one out". (p.s. Laying one out is slang for having a big shit.)
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Leg humping, crotch grabbing and other Olympic thoughts
NBC's coverage of the Olympic Games is appalling. In fact it's worse than that, it's pathetic and appalling. This afternoon, at around 1pm EST, there was the start of the final day of athletics in Athens — with the womens' 1500, the mens' 5000 and three of the relays. Over here we had the choice of watching the bronze medal basketball match — an understandable choice as the "Dream Team" were playing — or volleyball & handball. How are volleyball and handball more worthy of live coverage than the climax of the athletics program. The athletics are what the Olympics is all about. I had to 'watch' Kelly Holmes's 1500 metre victory following a text ticker that updated every lap, it wasn't very exciting.
I guess that NBC were saving the athletics for tonight's prime time show. Of course they started off the show with a quick bout of leg humping and crotch grabbing. Apparently this is a sport. They call it freestyle wrestling. If you missed it; imagine an act of sodomy, between two men, and then stick leotards on them, that gets you pretty close to the mark. What a crock of shit. Although it was slightly better than the Greco-Roman wrestling I saw, which consisted of two fat men hugging for a few minutes. And they get the same medal as for the marathon or the decathlon or one of the other more worthwhile events. Who is it that grows up and wants to be a leg humper in the Olympics, actually I can answer that question as the medal winner was called Cael and his brothers were Caleb, Colin and Charlie (the names may be wrong but all 4 of them began with 'C'). So there you have it parents to be, don't name all your children with the same initial, because if you do they'll grow up to be leg humpers.
Kelly Holmes? Very impressive. What else can you say? You're 34, this is your 6th middle distance race in the last 8 or 9 days and you break your national record and win Olympic gold. Très impressionnant.
As for me? I spent most of the day wandering around in the hot, sticky weather. Breakfast was taken at the Northstar cafe. It's one of these modern places that sells good local food in a nice, open environment. Being as this is a stylish modern place in the Short North, while I was there I think I was one of two hetrosexual males in the establishment. After breakfast I had my weekly Saturday CD shopping spree. This week brought Badly Drawn Boy ('cause I quite like him), Jamie Cullum ('cause he's a phenom, as they'd say over here), Gary Jules (purely for Mad World from the excellent Donnie Darko) and Creedence Clearwater Revival (to hear what the original version of Bad Moon Rising sounds like, I only know Thea Gilmore's version). Afterwards I popped in to the Brenen's coffee shop on High St and had a double espresso. Yes, once more, the main reason that I had the coffee was to see if Cute Coffee Girl was working there. And yes, once more, she wasn't but floppy hair guy that recognizes me was. (In fact earlier this week Cute Coffee Girl asked me what my name was, I was so surprised that I neglected to ask her what her's is. Bad Ryan. I figure she was probably just being nice as opposed to being unable to resist my manly charm, but I can dream.) Then I got rained on.
I guess that NBC were saving the athletics for tonight's prime time show. Of course they started off the show with a quick bout of leg humping and crotch grabbing. Apparently this is a sport. They call it freestyle wrestling. If you missed it; imagine an act of sodomy, between two men, and then stick leotards on them, that gets you pretty close to the mark. What a crock of shit. Although it was slightly better than the Greco-Roman wrestling I saw, which consisted of two fat men hugging for a few minutes. And they get the same medal as for the marathon or the decathlon or one of the other more worthwhile events. Who is it that grows up and wants to be a leg humper in the Olympics, actually I can answer that question as the medal winner was called Cael and his brothers were Caleb, Colin and Charlie (the names may be wrong but all 4 of them began with 'C'). So there you have it parents to be, don't name all your children with the same initial, because if you do they'll grow up to be leg humpers.
Kelly Holmes? Very impressive. What else can you say? You're 34, this is your 6th middle distance race in the last 8 or 9 days and you break your national record and win Olympic gold. Très impressionnant.
As for me? I spent most of the day wandering around in the hot, sticky weather. Breakfast was taken at the Northstar cafe. It's one of these modern places that sells good local food in a nice, open environment. Being as this is a stylish modern place in the Short North, while I was there I think I was one of two hetrosexual males in the establishment. After breakfast I had my weekly Saturday CD shopping spree. This week brought Badly Drawn Boy ('cause I quite like him), Jamie Cullum ('cause he's a phenom, as they'd say over here), Gary Jules (purely for Mad World from the excellent Donnie Darko) and Creedence Clearwater Revival (to hear what the original version of Bad Moon Rising sounds like, I only know Thea Gilmore's version). Afterwards I popped in to the Brenen's coffee shop on High St and had a double espresso. Yes, once more, the main reason that I had the coffee was to see if Cute Coffee Girl was working there. And yes, once more, she wasn't but floppy hair guy that recognizes me was. (In fact earlier this week Cute Coffee Girl asked me what my name was, I was so surprised that I neglected to ask her what her's is. Bad Ryan. I figure she was probably just being nice as opposed to being unable to resist my manly charm, but I can dream.) Then I got rained on.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Professing my love for Miss Portman
After lolling around in the bar most of yesterday afternoon, surfing the internet and writing my last entry (it took a little longer than usual, can't think why), I decided to have a walk over to Grandview. Grandview is one of the more tarty, liberal neighbourhoods in Columbus, much like the neighbourhood I live in to be honest. The reason for this exciting adventure, was to visit the Drexel theatre. The Drexel theatre is, I suppose, an 'art house' cinema.
The film that's playing at the moment is Garden State. The only reason that I wanted to see this film was Natalie Portman, but that's more than enough reason to see a film. I saw her give an interview on the Daily Show a couple of weeks ago in which she mentioned the film, I don't really remember anything about the interview except she looked pretty. Seemingly though the title stuck in my mind.
My hopes weren't particularly high when entered the cinema — which is a very pleasant little one screen, old fashioned place — as the film was written and directed by some guy, Zach Braff, who's apparently in some TV show I don't watch and know nothing about, called Scrubs. And I have to say I was very pleasantly surprised. The film has a lot of nice set pieces a few of the shots looked a little to formulaic, but on the whole it looked pretty good. There were quite a few places that made me smile and a few that made me chuckle. Mr Braff was fairly convincing as the somewhat detached actor. All in all it was a nice little movie. I now want to go and get the DVD when it comes out.
As for Miss Portman? She was utterly gorgeous. She was playing a somewhat quirky, out going girl. I'd have fallen in love with her in about three minutes. Obviously I'd have wanted to sleep with her instantly, but after three minutes talking to her I'd want to spend clothed time with her. During the film I found out that she can look sexy in a black bin bag and unbelievably cute while raising her hand. (By the way, in keeping with my IMDb age obsession, she was born in 1981 — so not too old or too young for me.)
In fact I am currently so enamoured with the young lady that I've spent most of this evening fantasizing about being introduced to her Jewish parents as her boyfriend. This changed into fantasizing about writing a script in which the me character is introduced to the her character's parents and discomfort, comedy and romance follow. Then of course I'd get her to play the her character and I'd, obviously, play the me character and then she'd fall in love with me and introduce me to her parents. I'm fairly certain this is not a 'normal', healthy obsession.
Even through all of this crazy fantasizing there is a little part in the back of my mind that says, anybody who owns the Leon DVD shouldn't be allowed to fantasize about Natalie Portman.
The film that's playing at the moment is Garden State. The only reason that I wanted to see this film was Natalie Portman, but that's more than enough reason to see a film. I saw her give an interview on the Daily Show a couple of weeks ago in which she mentioned the film, I don't really remember anything about the interview except she looked pretty. Seemingly though the title stuck in my mind.
My hopes weren't particularly high when entered the cinema — which is a very pleasant little one screen, old fashioned place — as the film was written and directed by some guy, Zach Braff, who's apparently in some TV show I don't watch and know nothing about, called Scrubs. And I have to say I was very pleasantly surprised. The film has a lot of nice set pieces a few of the shots looked a little to formulaic, but on the whole it looked pretty good. There were quite a few places that made me smile and a few that made me chuckle. Mr Braff was fairly convincing as the somewhat detached actor. All in all it was a nice little movie. I now want to go and get the DVD when it comes out.
As for Miss Portman? She was utterly gorgeous. She was playing a somewhat quirky, out going girl. I'd have fallen in love with her in about three minutes. Obviously I'd have wanted to sleep with her instantly, but after three minutes talking to her I'd want to spend clothed time with her. During the film I found out that she can look sexy in a black bin bag and unbelievably cute while raising her hand. (By the way, in keeping with my IMDb age obsession, she was born in 1981 — so not too old or too young for me.)
In fact I am currently so enamoured with the young lady that I've spent most of this evening fantasizing about being introduced to her Jewish parents as her boyfriend. This changed into fantasizing about writing a script in which the me character is introduced to the her character's parents and discomfort, comedy and romance follow. Then of course I'd get her to play the her character and I'd, obviously, play the me character and then she'd fall in love with me and introduce me to her parents. I'm fairly certain this is not a 'normal', healthy obsession.
Even through all of this crazy fantasizing there is a little part in the back of my mind that says, anybody who owns the Leon DVD shouldn't be allowed to fantasize about Natalie Portman.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
The homeless hug
I forgot to mention that yesterday I was hugged by a homeless man. I didn't give him any money and he hugged me. It was somewhat surreal. It does make me wonder what he'd have done if I did give him money. Scary thoughts spring to mind, but that's probably just my mind.
Sunday afternoon hangover
Yesterday I went round to a friends house for a house warming and poker party. I got rather drunk and lost the princely sum of three dollars. I'm not quite sure why I got so drunk. Admittedly, it probably had a lot to do with quantity of beer and whisky that I consumed. I didn't mean to drink so much, but that is often the case.
I think it all comes down to how quickly I drink my first beer. Yesterday I drank my first beer very quickly, probably too quickly. I'd popped into my bar for a quick beer before I went to the party. Essentially I was just checking to see if any of the pretty barmaids were working. They weren't, but I had a beer anyhow. While I was sat at the bar drinking my first beer. Greg, the owner, bought me another beer. So, I had to polish off two beers in short order to ensure I wasn't late for the soirée. From that point on I was on the slippery slope to drunkenness. Having said that though it was the whisky that really finished me off.
From what I recall, I wasn't exceptionally offensive. But then again my idea of exceptionally offensive may be quite different to someone else's. Plus of course, there is always the possibility that I don't remember some part of the evening. I think I remember most of the evening up to the dissolution of the poker game. But then again maybe I don't.
I'm not entirely sure how I got home. Well I know I walked home, but I don't know when I did and how I left the party and why my left arm is all scratched up this morning. I seem to recall throwing up somewhere or other along the route from their place to mine. But it's all somewhat hazy. I don't remember actually getting to my apartment and falling asleep. Somehow the beer compass pulled me through. Seemingly what I did when I walked in my apartment was to drop my keys on the floor, kick off my sandals, take off my trousers and fall asleep/pass out on my futon (in the sofa configuration).
I have no idea when I got home. I woke up around 11, feeling like the beer monkey had robbed me and shat in my mouth. Which is to say I didn't feel particularly good. I succeeded in getting up, having a shower and going downstairs to the bar for breakfast (eggs on toast not hair of the dog). Breakfast was something of struggle. The last piece of toast nearly beat me. But in the end I was victorious.
Then I went upstairs and watched Paula Radcliffe break down in the marathon. Seeing her sat on the side of the road crying was a pretty painful picture. With all the pressure and expectation on her, as Britain's best chance for an athletics gold medal, and as I was one of the expectants (or whatever the correct word is) it was not very comfortable seeing her sat there. Thankfully, apart from lingering a little too long on her sat by the road, I thought the American commentators handled the situation with a lot of decorum. And that's not a word that I find myself using to describe a lot of American commentators or journalists.
I think it all comes down to how quickly I drink my first beer. Yesterday I drank my first beer very quickly, probably too quickly. I'd popped into my bar for a quick beer before I went to the party. Essentially I was just checking to see if any of the pretty barmaids were working. They weren't, but I had a beer anyhow. While I was sat at the bar drinking my first beer. Greg, the owner, bought me another beer. So, I had to polish off two beers in short order to ensure I wasn't late for the soirée. From that point on I was on the slippery slope to drunkenness. Having said that though it was the whisky that really finished me off.
From what I recall, I wasn't exceptionally offensive. But then again my idea of exceptionally offensive may be quite different to someone else's. Plus of course, there is always the possibility that I don't remember some part of the evening. I think I remember most of the evening up to the dissolution of the poker game. But then again maybe I don't.
I'm not entirely sure how I got home. Well I know I walked home, but I don't know when I did and how I left the party and why my left arm is all scratched up this morning. I seem to recall throwing up somewhere or other along the route from their place to mine. But it's all somewhat hazy. I don't remember actually getting to my apartment and falling asleep. Somehow the beer compass pulled me through. Seemingly what I did when I walked in my apartment was to drop my keys on the floor, kick off my sandals, take off my trousers and fall asleep/pass out on my futon (in the sofa configuration).
I have no idea when I got home. I woke up around 11, feeling like the beer monkey had robbed me and shat in my mouth. Which is to say I didn't feel particularly good. I succeeded in getting up, having a shower and going downstairs to the bar for breakfast (eggs on toast not hair of the dog). Breakfast was something of struggle. The last piece of toast nearly beat me. But in the end I was victorious.
Then I went upstairs and watched Paula Radcliffe break down in the marathon. Seeing her sat on the side of the road crying was a pretty painful picture. With all the pressure and expectation on her, as Britain's best chance for an athletics gold medal, and as I was one of the expectants (or whatever the correct word is) it was not very comfortable seeing her sat there. Thankfully, apart from lingering a little too long on her sat by the road, I thought the American commentators handled the situation with a lot of decorum. And that's not a word that I find myself using to describe a lot of American commentators or journalists.
Sunday photo time
I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this. I'm not entirely sure when I wrote this. I'm not entirely sure why fuck-me has a hyphen. I'm pretty sure this isn't the only obscenity scrawled piece of paper in my flat. I'm also pretty certain that it makes a statement about what's going on in my mind. I'm not sure what the statement is.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Friday afternoon hangovers
Something is wrong when it gets to four o'clock on a Friday afternoon and you're still hungover. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, but something is definitely wrong. Friday afternoon you should be looking forward to having your first beer of the weekend, not looking back and feeling the effects of your last beer of Thursday night. I'm sure it's all my own fault one way or another.
In completely unrelated news, I can't remember if I posted a link to this description of a trip through America by one of the Football 365 editors. The guy who wrote the piece, John Nicholson, is something of a northern monkey, but he does every now and then have some brilliant descriptive phrases. Case in point, his description of one of the mountain folk he saw in northern California:
His current column is an account of a gut who got dumped because he was watching Match of the Day while he was 'on the nest'. I particularly liked the part where the guy suggested they do it doggy style, so both he and his missus could enjoy the footie...
In completely unrelated news, I can't remember if I posted a link to this description of a trip through America by one of the Football 365 editors. The guy who wrote the piece, John Nicholson, is something of a northern monkey, but he does every now and then have some brilliant descriptive phrases. Case in point, his description of one of the mountain folk he saw in northern California:
Here's one typical example: A male of the species, apparently hairless, Mid-forties; a big fat face like an 18-month-old baby; weighs at least 20 stone. Walks down the street wearing a huge pair of denim shorts that stretch from his knees to his armpits and are held up with rope braces hooked through the belt loops. I'm not making this up. He's bald, shirtless but has big black boots on and pristine white socks. It's 100 degrees in the shade.
I'm so shocked that I can't take my eyes off him. It's like a car crash. His wife/mother/ape thing is 4ft 10", wears glasses so thick they make her eyes the size of a boxer's fist and appears to have got caught up in some old curtains. I guess it was a dress once back in '65 maybe. She's staring around her wildly and thrashing her arms about as though fending off a flying fish attack.
His current column is an account of a gut who got dumped because he was watching Match of the Day while he was 'on the nest'. I particularly liked the part where the guy suggested they do it doggy style, so both he and his missus could enjoy the footie...
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Any sporting questions?
Can somebody explain to me why I care about the number of medals Great Britain win at the Olympics?
Today I found myself watching, with interest, the show jumping round of the three-day eventing. We are talking about a sport where a load of rich people in silly clothes prance around on horses trying to jump over little wooden gates. And yet I sat there watching hoping that the GB team would get a medal. And they did. So, I now find myself hoping that some German woman I've never met — or heard of before today — gets disqualified for some infringement I don't understand, just so Britain can win it's first gold. It is so pathetic.
I also find myself watching the sailing results carefully, hoping that Ben Ainslie and co. can get us some gold medals. I don't even know what a Finn, Laser or 49er is... but still I care. At least I don't feel too bad about hoping for Pincent to get a fourth gold medal in the rowing... 'cause it's a manly sport, quite possibly the most manly of sports.
In case you were wondering, I am sat upstairs in my flat trying to work out when I can go downstairs and have a beer. Do you think I can go yet? What about now? Or maybe now? They installed beer taps today. I could go downstairs and try some draught beer. Plus they've got one of their pretty bar maids working tonight. Oh woe is me, woe is me, woe is me. Fuck it I'm going to go have a beer.
Today I found myself watching, with interest, the show jumping round of the three-day eventing. We are talking about a sport where a load of rich people in silly clothes prance around on horses trying to jump over little wooden gates. And yet I sat there watching hoping that the GB team would get a medal. And they did. So, I now find myself hoping that some German woman I've never met — or heard of before today — gets disqualified for some infringement I don't understand, just so Britain can win it's first gold. It is so pathetic.
I also find myself watching the sailing results carefully, hoping that Ben Ainslie and co. can get us some gold medals. I don't even know what a Finn, Laser or 49er is... but still I care. At least I don't feel too bad about hoping for Pincent to get a fourth gold medal in the rowing... 'cause it's a manly sport, quite possibly the most manly of sports.
In case you were wondering, I am sat upstairs in my flat trying to work out when I can go downstairs and have a beer. Do you think I can go yet? What about now? Or maybe now? They installed beer taps today. I could go downstairs and try some draught beer. Plus they've got one of their pretty bar maids working tonight. Oh woe is me, woe is me, woe is me. Fuck it I'm going to go have a beer.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Sunday photo time
And here's my Sunday afternoon photo. It's a piccie of the front door of the Hubbard School, which is just a few blocks away from my flat. But what's that on the big purple door...
Yep, it's a don't-you-go-bringing-your-gun-into-my-school sign. Why do they need this sign? And why is it limited to those "deadly weapons" that you knowingly are carrying? Is there really anybody out there who thinks it's a good idea to take a gun into a school? And are these people the kind of people who will obey a sign? How many people unknowingly carry deadly weapons or dangerous ordinance? Damned if I know... not sure if I want to know.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
On tasting defeat, moralism and ice cream
Today I paid $20 to watch an understength Man Utd lose to an underwhelming Chelsea. But still it was the first proper game of the season and I had to watch it... didn't I? The only really disappointing thing is that I paid the $20 to a cable operator instead of converting them into overpriced alcoholic beverages, as would be the norm if I were in the UK or Geneva. Hopefully this loss will force the odds on United winning the title to be a little longer, then I can make more money when the do win. (Still not addicted.)
The fun and exciting thing that I did yesterday afternoon was to go for a walk up High Street. And it was fun and exciting... well okay it wasn't, but it could very well have been and that would have shown you. I had the idea of having sushi for lunch at this restaurant (it just took me three attempts to spell restaurant, my first two attempts yielding yesterant and resteraunt... don't expect great things from this post) that my boss had mentioned the other day. As it turns out I didn't have sushi as the place looked a bit too fancy for me to wonder into on my lonesome.
Before I got to not have sushi I stopped in to the Brenen's coffee shop near campus. If I'm honest — and I am, on occasions — the main reason that I went in was because I thought there might be a chance the pretty girlie who recognizes me at the campus Brenen's might be working there. She wasn't instead the less pretty, to my mind at least, guy who works in the campus Brenen's was there... he also recognized me and knew what I wanted, double espresso in case you were wondering.
Instead of sushi I ended up having an overpriced sandwich in a tarty little bakery/patisserie place by the name of Mozart's. On the plus side they have a self playing piano and a wide range of cakes and tarts and that sort of thing. But the main reason I ate there was that they were two doors down from Denise's. Denise's is an ice cream parlour. They sell an ice cream that goes by the name of Mint Hot Chocolate. The hot in the title comes from the fact that they make it with cayenne pepper. In fact the girl selling me the ice cream, the owner's daughter I believe, felt the need to warn me about this before I bought a scoop... obviously I was all macho and waved off her concerns. It was very nice ice cream, not too hot... but then again I have been known to eat wasabi sandwiches so my opinion is probably questionable. Who'd of thunk it? Sticking cayenne pepper into ice cream, whatever next? I want to go back and have some more. I'll be good though.
Moving away from food and into films, there's a couple that I've seen recently: Man on Fire and Collateral. Both of which were okayish actionish films. And both of which had me wondering about the false moralism (if that's the correct word) present in films. I don't think it's giving too much away to say that lots of people get killed in both films. And through all this mayhem and violence I don't remember a single female getting killed. In fact there were occasions where women were explicitly not killed. I want more films where the filmmaker has the courage to randomly, arbitrarily kill women. I'm not talking necessarily about women that have done bad things, although that's good too, but just kill some of them. I'm fed up of this bullshit no women and children code. If they're in the way, bye bye.
So there we are add that to the list, in any film that I make we will have pretty girlies saying `cunt' and women — pretty and not — dying, possibly painfully. I fear I'm starting to sound like a deranged serial killer... honest governor, I'm not... no really, I'm not.
The fun and exciting thing that I did yesterday afternoon was to go for a walk up High Street. And it was fun and exciting... well okay it wasn't, but it could very well have been and that would have shown you. I had the idea of having sushi for lunch at this restaurant (it just took me three attempts to spell restaurant, my first two attempts yielding yesterant and resteraunt... don't expect great things from this post) that my boss had mentioned the other day. As it turns out I didn't have sushi as the place looked a bit too fancy for me to wonder into on my lonesome.
Before I got to not have sushi I stopped in to the Brenen's coffee shop near campus. If I'm honest — and I am, on occasions — the main reason that I went in was because I thought there might be a chance the pretty girlie who recognizes me at the campus Brenen's might be working there. She wasn't instead the less pretty, to my mind at least, guy who works in the campus Brenen's was there... he also recognized me and knew what I wanted, double espresso in case you were wondering.
Instead of sushi I ended up having an overpriced sandwich in a tarty little bakery/patisserie place by the name of Mozart's. On the plus side they have a self playing piano and a wide range of cakes and tarts and that sort of thing. But the main reason I ate there was that they were two doors down from Denise's. Denise's is an ice cream parlour. They sell an ice cream that goes by the name of Mint Hot Chocolate. The hot in the title comes from the fact that they make it with cayenne pepper. In fact the girl selling me the ice cream, the owner's daughter I believe, felt the need to warn me about this before I bought a scoop... obviously I was all macho and waved off her concerns. It was very nice ice cream, not too hot... but then again I have been known to eat wasabi sandwiches so my opinion is probably questionable. Who'd of thunk it? Sticking cayenne pepper into ice cream, whatever next? I want to go back and have some more. I'll be good though.
Moving away from food and into films, there's a couple that I've seen recently: Man on Fire and Collateral. Both of which were okayish actionish films. And both of which had me wondering about the false moralism (if that's the correct word) present in films. I don't think it's giving too much away to say that lots of people get killed in both films. And through all this mayhem and violence I don't remember a single female getting killed. In fact there were occasions where women were explicitly not killed. I want more films where the filmmaker has the courage to randomly, arbitrarily kill women. I'm not talking necessarily about women that have done bad things, although that's good too, but just kill some of them. I'm fed up of this bullshit no women and children code. If they're in the way, bye bye.
So there we are add that to the list, in any film that I make we will have pretty girlies saying `cunt' and women — pretty and not — dying, possibly painfully. I fear I'm starting to sound like a deranged serial killer... honest governor, I'm not... no really, I'm not.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Saturday morning at the centre of my universe
For those of you who are wondering the centre of my universe is (currently) the bar/cafe downstairs from my apartment... but that's just because it's where I happen to be right at the moment. Okay, in all fairness, it's where I happen to be quite a lot of the time.
I'm very excited. Today was the start of the new Premiership season. So once more hopes are high, bullshit talking is at it's maximum and I'm contemplating how much money I should gamble on Man United. It's so hard to decide. I've already spent something in the range of 25 English pounds on various fantasy football teams... and this is a big decrease from the amount I frittered away on fantasy football teams last year. But still what to bet on? Should I bet on United winning the league, the F.A. cup, the Champions League, all three or some strange combination of them, or Ruud being the top scorer? Decisions, decisions, decisions. Ho hum, I'm sure I'll work out some way to throw my money away. But I'm not addicted... no never....
Then there's the Olympics. Sadly, I fear that the United Kingdom are going to do particularly bad at this Olympics. At least we have Paula Radcliffe and Matthew Pinsent, and his rowing buddies, and Nicole Cooke... still my hopes are not high. Hopefully there will be one or two people out there who surprise me and do well. The better the British team do the more likely, I think, people will be to get behind London's bid to host the 2012 games. And I think it would be great to have the games in London, it could really help to renovate a whole section of East London that's been in need of a shot in the arm for some time. Plus it would just be cool to have a big event in London.
Continuing the sporty theme of this post, I'm very interested by the whole fight over who Jenson Button will drive for next year. For some reason, that I no longer remember, I've always been a fan of the Williams formula one team; much more than I've been a fan of any particular driver. At least that was true until Williams signed Juan Pablo Montoya, so I was really disappointed when Montoya announced that he would be joining the Mclaren team for next season. And a couple of months ago Ralf, I'm not as good as Michael, Schumacher announced he was buggering off to Toyota. No great loss, but I thought who the bugger is going to drive for Williams next year? So they went and signed Mark Webber and Jenson Button, two of the most exciting young drivers out there. It should make for a very interesting year next year.
Switching from sport to alcohol, I successfully managed to avoid drinking last night. It did take some effort, but I'm pleased that I managed it. I was helped by the fact that most of yesterday was spent feeling hungover due to Thursday night's excesses. There I was trying to work and talk to my boss and portray an image of competence, all the while my head is swimming and stomach churning. It made for an interesting day.
And on the subject of interesting days I should probably go and do something to ensure that today is, at least, partially an interesting day.
I'm very excited. Today was the start of the new Premiership season. So once more hopes are high, bullshit talking is at it's maximum and I'm contemplating how much money I should gamble on Man United. It's so hard to decide. I've already spent something in the range of 25 English pounds on various fantasy football teams... and this is a big decrease from the amount I frittered away on fantasy football teams last year. But still what to bet on? Should I bet on United winning the league, the F.A. cup, the Champions League, all three or some strange combination of them, or Ruud being the top scorer? Decisions, decisions, decisions. Ho hum, I'm sure I'll work out some way to throw my money away. But I'm not addicted... no never....
Then there's the Olympics. Sadly, I fear that the United Kingdom are going to do particularly bad at this Olympics. At least we have Paula Radcliffe and Matthew Pinsent, and his rowing buddies, and Nicole Cooke... still my hopes are not high. Hopefully there will be one or two people out there who surprise me and do well. The better the British team do the more likely, I think, people will be to get behind London's bid to host the 2012 games. And I think it would be great to have the games in London, it could really help to renovate a whole section of East London that's been in need of a shot in the arm for some time. Plus it would just be cool to have a big event in London.
Continuing the sporty theme of this post, I'm very interested by the whole fight over who Jenson Button will drive for next year. For some reason, that I no longer remember, I've always been a fan of the Williams formula one team; much more than I've been a fan of any particular driver. At least that was true until Williams signed Juan Pablo Montoya, so I was really disappointed when Montoya announced that he would be joining the Mclaren team for next season. And a couple of months ago Ralf, I'm not as good as Michael, Schumacher announced he was buggering off to Toyota. No great loss, but I thought who the bugger is going to drive for Williams next year? So they went and signed Mark Webber and Jenson Button, two of the most exciting young drivers out there. It should make for a very interesting year next year.
Switching from sport to alcohol, I successfully managed to avoid drinking last night. It did take some effort, but I'm pleased that I managed it. I was helped by the fact that most of yesterday was spent feeling hungover due to Thursday night's excesses. There I was trying to work and talk to my boss and portray an image of competence, all the while my head is swimming and stomach churning. It made for an interesting day.
And on the subject of interesting days I should probably go and do something to ensure that today is, at least, partially an interesting day.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Round-ended scissors and other nonsense
Tonight I decided to be clever... or at least partially clever... or maybe just less stupid than usual... or maybe even more stupid than usual. I can't really tell.
The reason for my clever/stupid conundrum is that I am currently sat in the bar writing this entry, as opposed to getting drunk before trying to compose my thoughts. So, it's possible that this will be a more coherent post than my usual drunken nonsense. On the other hand I'm sat at a bar with my laptop, which is both somewhat sad and somewhat dangerous (spillage is a distinct possibility at some stage of the evening).
Round-ended scissors. I'm reading a book by some guy named Michel Houellebecq (allegedly pronounced Wellbeck... but what do I know), the book is The Elementary Particles. It's quite good. All about sex (well it is written by a frenchman), repression, the human condition and all sorts of interesting stuff. Anyhow, I read yesterday about a boy in school cutting up some card using "round-ended scissors". For some reason the thought of those little round-ended scissors that you use in school caused a sort of pleasant nostalgia to wash over me. Don't know why, but for a couple of moments it gave me a warm glow... and no I'm not a closet paedophile.
While I was watching CNN this morning, I only do it once or twice a week when I have some time to kill before heading off to work, there was a report on the Scott Peterson case. He's the guy who's on trial for murdering his wife; she's the wife who disappeared at sea last summer. Anyhow, they were talking about the case today on CNN, and they mentioned that yesterday the court was told how a few weeks after his wife's death he added a porn package to his cable TV. And I thought what the fuck has this got to do with the price of fish? The guy's wife is dead. He clearly isn't getting any. So he needs a little help to tug one off and get him to sleep of an evening. I don't think that this has any real bearing on his guilt or innocence. But then again I'm not an American juror... which given my predisposition to hate everyone in the world is probably a good thing.
I think I'll quit while I'm a little bit ahead.
The reason for my clever/stupid conundrum is that I am currently sat in the bar writing this entry, as opposed to getting drunk before trying to compose my thoughts. So, it's possible that this will be a more coherent post than my usual drunken nonsense. On the other hand I'm sat at a bar with my laptop, which is both somewhat sad and somewhat dangerous (spillage is a distinct possibility at some stage of the evening).
Round-ended scissors. I'm reading a book by some guy named Michel Houellebecq (allegedly pronounced Wellbeck... but what do I know), the book is The Elementary Particles. It's quite good. All about sex (well it is written by a frenchman), repression, the human condition and all sorts of interesting stuff. Anyhow, I read yesterday about a boy in school cutting up some card using "round-ended scissors". For some reason the thought of those little round-ended scissors that you use in school caused a sort of pleasant nostalgia to wash over me. Don't know why, but for a couple of moments it gave me a warm glow... and no I'm not a closet paedophile.
While I was watching CNN this morning, I only do it once or twice a week when I have some time to kill before heading off to work, there was a report on the Scott Peterson case. He's the guy who's on trial for murdering his wife; she's the wife who disappeared at sea last summer. Anyhow, they were talking about the case today on CNN, and they mentioned that yesterday the court was told how a few weeks after his wife's death he added a porn package to his cable TV. And I thought what the fuck has this got to do with the price of fish? The guy's wife is dead. He clearly isn't getting any. So he needs a little help to tug one off and get him to sleep of an evening. I don't think that this has any real bearing on his guilt or innocence. But then again I'm not an American juror... which given my predisposition to hate everyone in the world is probably a good thing.
I think I'll quit while I'm a little bit ahead.
Monday, August 09, 2004
A short essay on incompetence
Why is it that some people are, seemingly, trying to make my life harder? Don't these people have anything better to do than to waste my life?
Of course they do! They have lots of other peoples' lives to waste.
I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that, in this latest example at least, this has nothing to do with any US government agencies. Instead it has to do with elastic-trickery, or more specifically with American Electric Power.
When I moved into my, conveniently located above a bar, apartment I called up the power company and told them I'd just moved in to the flat and asked them to change the billing to my name. I had to call them two times, as the first time 247 ½ didn't exist... she could find 248, but being as that's on the opposite side of the road it wasn't much help. The second lady I spoke to managed to find my address, and then set about requesting lots of information from me about when and who and with which number... all the usual gubbins.
A few weeks later and I received a bill. I noticed that the bill didn't specify my apartment number... this didn't concern me overly. A week later and a letter is sitting in my mailbox addressed to "The Occupant" of "247 ½...., Es". I think Es? What's Es? Could it be east side? The letter informs me that some scallywag (I'm paraphrasing here) has been using electricity at this location without informing AEP. Apparently, if they are not contacted within 5 days then the power will be disconnected.
Being the cunning genius that I am, I figure they had probably given me my neighbours account, leaving mine in delinquency. Being the power loving, dutiful alien that I am, the letter provokes me in to calling them — on the telephone and nasty names... although not calling them nasty names on the telephone, 'cause that would be rude — to sort out the mess before they turned off my power. Thirty minutes later, on about the fifth or sixth repetition of my story, we have a breakthrough and the lady I'm talking to works out that I'd been given an account attached to the wrong meter. If I were a religious man at this point I would have praised those gods which I believed in. Instead I just muttered swear words under my breath.
So now I sit and wait and wonder "What have they fucked up now?". Only time will tell.
Of course they do! They have lots of other peoples' lives to waste.
I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that, in this latest example at least, this has nothing to do with any US government agencies. Instead it has to do with elastic-trickery, or more specifically with American Electric Power.
When I moved into my, conveniently located above a bar, apartment I called up the power company and told them I'd just moved in to the flat and asked them to change the billing to my name. I had to call them two times, as the first time 247 ½ didn't exist... she could find 248, but being as that's on the opposite side of the road it wasn't much help. The second lady I spoke to managed to find my address, and then set about requesting lots of information from me about when and who and with which number... all the usual gubbins.
A few weeks later and I received a bill. I noticed that the bill didn't specify my apartment number... this didn't concern me overly. A week later and a letter is sitting in my mailbox addressed to "The Occupant" of "247 ½...., Es". I think Es? What's Es? Could it be east side? The letter informs me that some scallywag (I'm paraphrasing here) has been using electricity at this location without informing AEP. Apparently, if they are not contacted within 5 days then the power will be disconnected.
Being the cunning genius that I am, I figure they had probably given me my neighbours account, leaving mine in delinquency. Being the power loving, dutiful alien that I am, the letter provokes me in to calling them — on the telephone and nasty names... although not calling them nasty names on the telephone, 'cause that would be rude — to sort out the mess before they turned off my power. Thirty minutes later, on about the fifth or sixth repetition of my story, we have a breakthrough and the lady I'm talking to works out that I'd been given an account attached to the wrong meter. If I were a religious man at this point I would have praised those gods which I believed in. Instead I just muttered swear words under my breath.
So now I sit and wait and wonder "What have they fucked up now?". Only time will tell.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Curiosities
It's a funny old world. Or maybe it's a game of two halves. Or maybe I'm talking utter nonsense. It's hard to say for sure.
The reason that I am spouting this particular brand of nonsense is Tim Booth. Or maybe it's James. Or possibly Booth and the Bad Angel. To elaborate, today I discovered that Tim Booth is the lead singer of James. My first encounter with Tim Booth was the song "I Believe" which he wrote and recorded with Angelo Badalamenti. It was very good... sadly my copy of the cd is in London and I'm... well not.
Now, let us go back to last year. Last year I saw the film American Wedding. In fact I saw the film at the wonderful Cinelac in lovely Geneva... it's an open-air cinema on Lake Geneva... and it's very nice. Anyhow, the point is that one of the songs that accompanied the film (possibly over the opening credits) was a cover version of "Laid" (originally) by James. Recently I bought this song from itunes.
If we fast forward to this evening, we will find me lying in bed listening to the (excellent) Mark Radcliffe show on Radio 2 (the old fogies radio show). Tonight his guest was Tim Booth, and I thought oh Tim Booth of Booth and the Bad Angel. At some point during the interview/session it became clear that Mr Booth had been the lead signer of James. And then I thought maybe that's why I liked both Booth and the Bad Angel and James's "Laid" so much.
Later on, we'll find me downstairs in the bar... again. And one of the open mic guys plays the sing "Laid"... just minutes after my realization of who Tim Booth and James are. It was all very spooky. In fact it was much more spooky than The Village. Sorry M.
The reason that I am spouting this particular brand of nonsense is Tim Booth. Or maybe it's James. Or possibly Booth and the Bad Angel. To elaborate, today I discovered that Tim Booth is the lead singer of James. My first encounter with Tim Booth was the song "I Believe" which he wrote and recorded with Angelo Badalamenti. It was very good... sadly my copy of the cd is in London and I'm... well not.
Now, let us go back to last year. Last year I saw the film American Wedding. In fact I saw the film at the wonderful Cinelac in lovely Geneva... it's an open-air cinema on Lake Geneva... and it's very nice. Anyhow, the point is that one of the songs that accompanied the film (possibly over the opening credits) was a cover version of "Laid" (originally) by James. Recently I bought this song from itunes.
If we fast forward to this evening, we will find me lying in bed listening to the (excellent) Mark Radcliffe show on Radio 2 (the old fogies radio show). Tonight his guest was Tim Booth, and I thought oh Tim Booth of Booth and the Bad Angel. At some point during the interview/session it became clear that Mr Booth had been the lead signer of James. And then I thought maybe that's why I liked both Booth and the Bad Angel and James's "Laid" so much.
Later on, we'll find me downstairs in the bar... again. And one of the open mic guys plays the sing "Laid"... just minutes after my realization of who Tim Booth and James are. It was all very spooky. In fact it was much more spooky than The Village. Sorry M.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Insight into my twisted mind...
Yesterday was very exciting. I went to the cinema. Okay, so I went to the cinema all on my lonesome. But then again what else does one to on a boring Sunday afternoon once one has recovered from Saturday's night excesses — my black pudding, bacon and eggs helped with the recovery. I went to see M. Night Shyamalan's The Village... I didn't guess the twist. But then again I'm not very bright and I tend to just sit there and let films wash over me. I sort of guessed a couple of the turns but not the twist. I thought it was a pretty good film. Not amazing. But pretty good.
The first thing that I did when I got home was to check who the pretty girlie was on IMDb. And the first thing I did after finding out her name, was to look at her age. This is what I do every time I see a pretty girlie in a film or TV show. Why do I bother? It's not as if I'm ever going to meet any of these girls... and yet still my transient fantasy needs to be bolstered or diminished by me knowing their ages. For the record Bryce Dallas Howard was born in 1981.
Last night I went downstairs to the bar. Yeah I know: surprise, sur-fucking-prise. In fact from about 9:30 until 10:00 I was pacing back and forth throughout my flat — it's a very good flat for pacing — until the arbitrarily appointed hour at which I could go downstairs and have a beer was reached. I think my logic was that if I waited until two hours before it closed I couldn't get too drunk. Sadly (and happily), this logic failed. I ended up sat out the back of the bar with my two neighbours (one of whom happens to be the landlord) drinking beer and bullshitting politics until three in the morning. We then spent the next thirty minutes continuing the bullshitting in the corridor outside my flat.
Needless to say it was very difficult to make my 11:15 meeting. Even though I got out of bed at 9 o'clock it took such a long time to shower and eat breakfast that I ended up 5 minutes late. Breakfast was particularly difficult as my stomach wasn't fully co-operative. But after many small bites and much pacing I was victorious over the cereal.
Now I'm debating whether to go downstairs to the bar or stay up here and watch the Daily Show. At the moment I'm leaning towards the bar... but that was probably self-evident.
The first thing that I did when I got home was to check who the pretty girlie was on IMDb. And the first thing I did after finding out her name, was to look at her age. This is what I do every time I see a pretty girlie in a film or TV show. Why do I bother? It's not as if I'm ever going to meet any of these girls... and yet still my transient fantasy needs to be bolstered or diminished by me knowing their ages. For the record Bryce Dallas Howard was born in 1981.
Last night I went downstairs to the bar. Yeah I know: surprise, sur-fucking-prise. In fact from about 9:30 until 10:00 I was pacing back and forth throughout my flat — it's a very good flat for pacing — until the arbitrarily appointed hour at which I could go downstairs and have a beer was reached. I think my logic was that if I waited until two hours before it closed I couldn't get too drunk. Sadly (and happily), this logic failed. I ended up sat out the back of the bar with my two neighbours (one of whom happens to be the landlord) drinking beer and bullshitting politics until three in the morning. We then spent the next thirty minutes continuing the bullshitting in the corridor outside my flat.
Needless to say it was very difficult to make my 11:15 meeting. Even though I got out of bed at 9 o'clock it took such a long time to shower and eat breakfast that I ended up 5 minutes late. Breakfast was particularly difficult as my stomach wasn't fully co-operative. But after many small bites and much pacing I was victorious over the cereal.
Now I'm debating whether to go downstairs to the bar or stay up here and watch the Daily Show. At the moment I'm leaning towards the bar... but that was probably self-evident.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Childish giggle...
Just thought that I'd share this childish giggle. This is the name embossed upon what is now a bar/brewery place called The Elevator... or something like that. After reading what Clinton liked to do with his cigars, I'm not sure I'd buy one from the Bott Bros.
Bugger! The Kitten.
Before I start, I'd like to draw your attention to the exclamation mark in the title. As I am not trying to increase the closeness between man and cat.
I don't know how, but somehow I forgot to mention the kitten in either of last night's posts. There was a kitten in the bar last night. I don't think I've ever been in a bar with both live music and a kitten. It was terribly cute.
I never quite worked out why there was a kitten in the bar. Something to do with the landlord's daughter... "Here Dad, here's a kitten". But it was a terribly cute kitten.
I think that all bars should have kittens. Well at least all bars where kittens wouldn't get trampled to death by drunken revellers. So that's probably about three bars.
Anyhow it was cute. Lots of people went, "Aww. Look at the cute kitten".
I don't know how, but somehow I forgot to mention the kitten in either of last night's posts. There was a kitten in the bar last night. I don't think I've ever been in a bar with both live music and a kitten. It was terribly cute.
I never quite worked out why there was a kitten in the bar. Something to do with the landlord's daughter... "Here Dad, here's a kitten". But it was a terribly cute kitten.
I think that all bars should have kittens. Well at least all bars where kittens wouldn't get trampled to death by drunken revellers. So that's probably about three bars.
Anyhow it was cute. Lots of people went, "Aww. Look at the cute kitten".
Oops.
I forget to mention that I horrendously burnt the pizza I tried to cook for my dinner this evening. Not very interesting, nothing amazing happened, no great revelations. It just completes the previous post's title.
A smart man would have just edited the previous post's title... but nobody ever accused me of being smart. Except the barmaid who called me a genius the other night. Although I expect at least one of us was drunk.
A smart man would have just edited the previous post's title... but nobody ever accused me of being smart. Except the barmaid who called me a genius the other night. Although I expect at least one of us was drunk.
Containing parties, pizzas, politics, racism, alcohol, pretty girls, homosexuality, alcohol, music, sherbet and congealed pig's blood
So here we are, slightly inebriated once more, talking drivel. I meant to write an entry before I became chemically enhanced (alcohol... unsurprisingly), but once more that proved to be beyond my meager capabilities.
Before I forget I just want to mention the word twunt. Which I recently discovered courtesy of Scary Duck (who's tagline is "Not Scary. Not a duck"). Twunt! What a wonderful word. So good that I broke out the exclamation mark, of which I'm normally so wary. Twunt. (For those of you who's minds are elevated slightly above the gutter, twunt is a combination of twat and cunt... both of which mean the same (in an unrelated matter this talk of guttering reminds me of an assertion I made one evening whilst drinking (duh!) in London: "I am the gutter. The scum and detritus of society flow above me.", which at the time seemed hilarious.)).
Last night a friend of mine had a house warming party. She's a grad student and she owns a house... it seems wrong somehow. It was all very nice. On the way there the German guy who gave me a lift stole my neighbours pro-Bush sticker as a house warming gift for the Democrat home-owner. I brought alcohol. There was laughter and vulgarity and all those good things. At one point in the evening somebody was talking about some bloke or other that had graduated from Princeton, where they had, and was an African-American. So I, sarcastically, interjected "and he can both spell his own name and count to ten", highlighting the ridiculousness of mentioning his colour when talking about his achievements. Which stunned the liberal crowd into silence for a few moments before they realized that my comments where not entirely serious. When realization dawned, I was warned that in certain parts of town that comment could get me shot... and I thought, if they display the same lack of appreciation of tone and context as you (seemingly educated) folk, you're probably right.
After I, eventually, managed to get up today and leave my house I went to the record shop with the cute girl. That is I went alone to the record shop in which the cute girl works. I thought that maybe I'd get to speak to the cute girl after narrowly missing out last week. I was wrong. She was there when I walked in the store (after all I'm in America and it's a store not a shop), sadly, after I'd picked out my Scissor Sisters, Madvillian, M83 and Gothic Archives records... she had left. So, once more, less cute girl served me. In all honesty she might also be moderately cute if she ever fucking smiled. I've recently come to the conclusion that I expect people to smile when I give the money. And if they don't smile, then I'm not happy. Besides girlies look pretty when they smile. It makes me feel much more validated and worthwhile.
I also walked into a Gay book store today. The girl working in there didn't smile at me either. In fact she looked at me with thinly veiled hostility. Either she was a man hating lesbian or she didn't like the look of me or she didn't like the way a dripping wet (it was raining) man was walking through a store filled with paper based products. Anyway it was enlightening.
If you recall (I'd place a link here if I could be bothered) there is a Gaelic shop in the North Market. Well it calls itself a Gaelic shop even though all its products are imported from the UK... grrhh America's obsession with Ireland. I bought a sherbet fountain, which was great, and some black pudding, which I'm looking forward to enormously for breakfast tomorrow.
Before I forget I just want to mention the word twunt. Which I recently discovered courtesy of Scary Duck (who's tagline is "Not Scary. Not a duck"). Twunt! What a wonderful word. So good that I broke out the exclamation mark, of which I'm normally so wary. Twunt. (For those of you who's minds are elevated slightly above the gutter, twunt is a combination of twat and cunt... both of which mean the same (in an unrelated matter this talk of guttering reminds me of an assertion I made one evening whilst drinking (duh!) in London: "I am the gutter. The scum and detritus of society flow above me.", which at the time seemed hilarious.)).
Last night a friend of mine had a house warming party. She's a grad student and she owns a house... it seems wrong somehow. It was all very nice. On the way there the German guy who gave me a lift stole my neighbours pro-Bush sticker as a house warming gift for the Democrat home-owner. I brought alcohol. There was laughter and vulgarity and all those good things. At one point in the evening somebody was talking about some bloke or other that had graduated from Princeton, where they had, and was an African-American. So I, sarcastically, interjected "and he can both spell his own name and count to ten", highlighting the ridiculousness of mentioning his colour when talking about his achievements. Which stunned the liberal crowd into silence for a few moments before they realized that my comments where not entirely serious. When realization dawned, I was warned that in certain parts of town that comment could get me shot... and I thought, if they display the same lack of appreciation of tone and context as you (seemingly educated) folk, you're probably right.
After I, eventually, managed to get up today and leave my house I went to the record shop with the cute girl. That is I went alone to the record shop in which the cute girl works. I thought that maybe I'd get to speak to the cute girl after narrowly missing out last week. I was wrong. She was there when I walked in the store (after all I'm in America and it's a store not a shop), sadly, after I'd picked out my Scissor Sisters, Madvillian, M83 and Gothic Archives records... she had left. So, once more, less cute girl served me. In all honesty she might also be moderately cute if she ever fucking smiled. I've recently come to the conclusion that I expect people to smile when I give the money. And if they don't smile, then I'm not happy. Besides girlies look pretty when they smile. It makes me feel much more validated and worthwhile.
I also walked into a Gay book store today. The girl working in there didn't smile at me either. In fact she looked at me with thinly veiled hostility. Either she was a man hating lesbian or she didn't like the look of me or she didn't like the way a dripping wet (it was raining) man was walking through a store filled with paper based products. Anyway it was enlightening.
If you recall (I'd place a link here if I could be bothered) there is a Gaelic shop in the North Market. Well it calls itself a Gaelic shop even though all its products are imported from the UK... grrhh America's obsession with Ireland. I bought a sherbet fountain, which was great, and some black pudding, which I'm looking forward to enormously for breakfast tomorrow.
Mexican flag...
The painting on the side of the Mexican market next to my apartment building. Isn't it cute. Basically I'm just testing to see if this whole photo-posting nonsense will work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)