Brasil, oh Brasil

This: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/5042418.stm, sent to me by my boyfriend, has made me think a lot. Therefore I am posting it here.

Things have been nothing short of tumultuous lately. It's almost getting old. I think I am getting senile due to having a rather strange sleep pattern, although I thankfully haven't woken up in the night for the past 2-3 days. I really need to drink all the water I'm going to drink by 8pm from now on... Satkirat and I have had some 'issues,' not so much with each other as with ourselves. Call it a huge great Venn diagram of insecurity; we can both be exceedingly hyper/over-sensitive at times, and this is effectively the perfect time for blow-ups. TOM has paid me a visit (all of you should know what that means by now!) so the Deranged Psycho Bitch tendency is... somewhat more accessible than it would be normally.

I have been working a fair bit - three days a week, four last week, and I haven't been paid for probably about 9 or 10 days. That means I'm owed at least £357. That's no small amount, and I have been spending stupidly recently. Stupidly is the keyword here. I bought something like 11 tops from Uniqlo for £77 (pretty much). Hello, fucking idiocy! The worst thing is that I didn't think at all when I was doing it. There was no rebellion, no need, and no realisation that "hey, I bought about five or so tops already...!" I just bought them because my brain had become fried from being out all the time, and all day, and probably because I had nothing better to do. Boredom really is a killer. When I got to the till and they calculated the sub-total, I was like "Shit!" Then I figured it was too late to back out, so I went ahead and bought them all. I am going to go and return about 6 or 7 of them tomorrow. They're brand new after all.

Before this, I had spent £28.50 on 19 pairs of knickers from Primark, which I most deffo could not return. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. I am totally gutted now, but I am going to make a scene in Uniqlo if they refuse to accept back their BRAND NEW TOPS. My bf was right; I just went from spending hardly anything to spending too much, and it fills me with fear. I was more than a little horrified at how my self-control evaporated in the presence of boredom.

It caused unpleasant situations, and showed me that I need to fill my time with other things. Things like reading The Watchmen, watching Chungking Express, and listening to Gilles Peterson's sessions in Brazil online (I heard some of the last show on the radio...). I quite like Brazilian music, although I've mostly just heard baile funk and bossa nova. Bossa nova might be 'middle-class music' but it makes you so happy! Anyone who doesn't believe me should just listen to Aguas de Marco by João Gilberto (it may feature Stan Getz, I think it does). He sounds so merry, like a giant bunch of fresh cherries :-D. Bebel Gilberto (yes, she's a relation, she's his daughter!) generally makes you feel that the world is beautiful and calm.

Speaking of happy music, I cannot help it - I like Lily Allen. She does look ever so slightly (endearingly, say I!) porcine on her Myspace page: http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic
Still, she makes music that is a bit snarky and makes you smile. She's Keith Allen's daughter (the man behind dumbass football-based hit Vindaloo), but don't hold that against her. She is summer! She also looks a teeny weeny bit like one of the winners of Strictly Dance Fever. That show is starting to depress me, because it showcases the worst thing about the mentality of the British viewing public. We love the underdog, oh yeah, we fucking LOVE the underdog. In all fairness, the gap between the two final couples was narrower than it's ever been, but logically considering what the prize is, I feel that history repeated itself one time too many.

Every goddamn series, the couple who are better suited to win don't win. This has happened on Strictly Come Dancing as well (although that's nowhere near as fun, especially because it's basically a vehicle for slebs to fawn all over each other). The couple who were consistently good, Darren and Lana, weren't quite as good on the night of the final, and lost. Never mind that they actually tried to take a risk. Darrien and Hollie - who ARE excellent dancers - performed their perfect-scoring milonga again, and then played shamelessly to their strengths (Hollie's a street-dancer...) during the freestyle. They won. They deserved to win, but the other couple actually deserved the prize itself more.

You see how bizarre it is? It's just yet another dialectical situation; does the ability to perform better on the most stressful night of the competition make you better suited to be a professional dancer? Or does being a consistently versatile and excellent performer count? Perhaps Darren and Lana are actually thus better off doing the professional-dancer-competition-celebrity route then, because they can take that many strings to their bow? Who knows? One thing I do know is that I prefer this kind of moral dilemma to several others. Even if it does involve swimming-costume-leotards, kneepads and dangerous dresses...

Too Much Contradiction

I started laughing the other day when I was listening to the new Christina Milian song, 'Say I.' Before being vilified for doing so, I would like to point out that:
a) I was ironing, and had been for a while, resulting in Frazzled Brain Syndrome. This is where your music taste heads to some tropical island for bask-sunning, and you enter the zone of 'School Disco' and 'guilty pleasures.'
b) The other options were: weird 80's-sounding pop, music that sounded like it was being played underwater, weird 80's-sounding music that sounded like it was being played underwater, and Duncan James singing clichés in a froggy voice that rendered them even more painfully obvious. I had the dubious pleasure of watching him repeat this on Strictly Dance Fever, and granted myself my first toilet break.

Anyway, there is a really great bit where she yelps:

(and I quote:)
you want to dance then get down
you tryna chill then sit down
do what you wanna to do
don't let nobody tell you what you're suppose to do

Thank you,
http://www.lyrics4all.net/c/christina-milian/so-amazin/say-i.php

I just love that hypocrisy! Blimey, when it comes out of nowhere, in a POP SONG of all the things, you know you've got to be on your guard. It is almost sublimely ridiculous that she failed to notice those two sets of directly contradictory lyrics placed right next to one another. Still, the girl can't help it, just like she can't help having a cute face which is somehow at the same time sexy to men. Although that might have more to do with her clothes' frequent habit of disappearing. Bad, bad denim-leotard-swimsuit thingy! (= video of When You Look At Me, where her cleavage made its full debut).

Moving on from 'the black Britney' (Whoever dubbed her that was surprisingly accurate...), let's hear it for Indonesia! In response to your puzzled looks, I stake http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/5001786.stm

Banning public kissing? BANNING PUBLIC KISSING?! I almost laughed when I read that. It's a dangerous thing, that public kissing. You know, it could... it could.... give people ideas! Because civilised people in civilised countries don't do it! I hope you can spot the sarcasm in my tone. No, I'm sure that in places such as India, Africa and Indonesia, people don't like kissing in public. They just get pregnant three, four, five, six times... or more... and thus is born a strong and functional family unit, where girls are always manual labourers and guys just take whatever they can get. Calling those women 'homemakers' would be a little too glamorous for me.

I am so fucking DISGUSTED I can't even think. There was that, and then there was - is - this. It is a transcript of a conversation with my 'friend' Colin (friend being used in the loosest sense of the term). I'm sure you can guess who I am:

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
haha, my friend challenged me to remix an arctic monkeys track
it's really funny

DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why?

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well I hate them...so I'm making it really cheesy and happy

DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why do you hate them again?

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
cos they're a walking cliche, and I really dislike the guy's voice

DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why are they a walking cliche?

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well it's like if you gave a bunch of chavs with semi-musical ability some instruments, and they went off on one singing about how they don't like their shitty town. which seems to be the fad for the theme in all indie songs these days. I guess it's best to appeal to the lowest common denominator if you want to hit the big time

DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Have you listened to them?

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
fo sho
I have to all the time
and all the chavs get up and sing loudly and cause trouble
I suppose that's meant to pass as irony

DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Hmmm.
What's meant to pass asirony?
as irony*

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
chavs singing along to songs that are cashing in on the disgustingness of chav culture

DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Hmmm.
I don't really have anything to say.

Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well why would you
they're just a dumb band
I wouldn't even be bothered if they didn't play them everywhere I go out with mates

Jesus H. fucking Christ! (Sorry, Christians). I wouldn't have minded if he had just said he liked them, but you SEE that arrogance? It's quite stunning, really. I'm being very diplomatic here, going to Annoying Child mode and asking "Why?" to everything. He labels Arctic Monkeys 'chavs' presumably because they're working-class (although they're not exactly typical working-class, are they?) and probably just because people he considers chavs like them. I just looked through their album tracklist, and there is nothing about, I quote, 'their shitty town' or anything 'cashing in on the disgustingness of chav culture.' As is the case with such people, I think he's lashing out because:
a) they've got a success he can only dream of for now, and
b) he's got more in common with them than he wants to admit.

Colin is obviously pretty snobby, but he's not exactly loaded or anything, and his family are barely middle-class, so it's pretty rich of him to insult working-class people, just because he's intimidated by those in his area. Of course, his area might as well be the world for him, right? Myopic is the word. That's the most terrifying thing: there's a mix of Pathetic Old Bastard Fart-Head and stupid, spoilt useless little brat in Colin. He can be good company, very occasionally. Granted, this is usually when I can't get to anyone else to talk to them first. Hilariously enough, there seems to be a vague current of snobbery, or maybe just disdain running through the Arctic Monkeys' album too. Like father, like son, kid - like father, like son! *evil laughter*

Anyway, I have been at work all day, and thus I am lacking appropriate brainpower to prolong your misery with this post. Fly, my pretties, fly!!!

P.S.: I DID, as a point of principle, look up Rudolph Nureyev, and for your viewing pleasure have enclosed the following. http://www.christies.com/promos/nov05/7141/images/7141_lot45.jpg
Ooer, I say, ooh! RE: Boys who WORKIT: YES, YES, THRICE YES *nods like loon*.

Boys who WORKIT

Rudolph Valentino is sex. He really is. Most of youse probably won't be able to see what the fuss is about in any of the images online. I have to admit that that's completely understandable. I don't know what it is that is so goddamn attractive about him. His androgyny is definitely appealing to me; I find him a lot more interesting than many of the fey indie-boy types who are touted today. I remember seeing him onscreen at some point - and I just thought: "Who is THAT?!" very excitedly. That's extraordinarily weird for me, because I have never been one to get overwhelmed by anyone's looks. The longest crush I had on a sleb was four days (Leonardo DiCaprio), and it was only because my best friend liked him. I know, I know... but I haven't been that sad since. Rudy's the violently passionate androgyne (I know - not a real word. It should be, though.) as opposed to the slightly girly boy. They have their appeal and all, but they're just not as sexy.

Well, me being me, I got him mixed up with Rudolph Nureyev in my head (bear in mind, I don't actually know what Nureyev looks like, so it's a reasonably easy mistake to make!). Although he apparently embarked on a dance tour, so I'm not going to get the following connection from nowhere.

Men who dance. Why is it so very hah-hah-HOT?! (Those are representative of gasps, if you were wondering). Or rather, men who dance well. I find it ridiculously sexy, and I was thinking about it, and I am not the only one! Take Anton Du Beke for example - star of Strictly Come Dancing, v. famous professional ballroom dancer and dance coach on Strictly Dance Fever. He really seems to have a way with the ladies, despite looking ever-so-slightly Transylvanian (read: vampirical :-D). He has a fairly long-ish head and a VERY pointy chin. And yet! He seems to have some kind of indescribable charm that makes all his partners and many of his female students go all girly. Check this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2004/12/21/ftdance21.xml He is charming, and he does have a good sense of humour, as evidenced by the footage of him training one of my fave couples, Darrien and Hollie, on Dance Fever last week. He was trying to make Darrien more manly and Holly more ladylike.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/strictlydancefever/dancefever/news/2006/05/13/32186.shtml Boy, did it ever work. Darrien - I mean, not even Darren, for God's sake - is practically camper than the cast of Queer Eye... They showed him celebrating his birthday on the show, and he was all "I love Kylie!" However, the boy does dance well, and Anton did a number on his and Hollie's American Smooth routine. He also did a number on the cute and pixielike Hollie, who got all giggly and giddy whenever she danced with him - the shot of him going "Holl-ie! Go, girlfriend!" was priceless. My sister has commented (accurately) on how many of the blokes on the show have weird, fleshy faces and girly voices, and Darrien is no exception to this.

But hot damn! He and Hollie danced amazingly, and I (perversely enough) found their routine simmering. I could see a hell of a lot of passion in it, which was odd because American Smooth is generally supposed to be smooth, beautiful, lovely etc. It's a romantic dance. I have re-watched it several times, and I love it - the music, the costumes - it all works fabulously. The more I watch it, the sexier Darrien becomes. Perhaps because dance is so difficult. It is like acting, except that you're dancing and acting at the same time. You need to be the conduit for the music while mastering it. You need to let fly the full range of appropriate emotions while keeping yourself under tight control. You have to make the audience feel intensely, but only what you want them to feel, and you need to mind yourself. The man must lead, and so real grace and skill is needed. It is, then, much like finding male actors attractive, except that captivating male actors seem to be in short supply currently (well, for me anyway) and they don't, can't, have the same anonymity (read: mystery) that male dancers do.

So, returning to my first-ever post, dance expresses a range of paradoxes. When it is done well, I find it as unifying as World Cup football. The best thing is that it doesn't pit any group against any other group - apart from the obvious fact that couples are dancing against each other. Though at the time of performing, the competition aspect has very little influence. Another interesting thing is how people can within themselves recognise quite clearly what constitutes good dancing and a good performance without the kind of argument that would precede similar reactions to music (for example). Just watch the clip of Darren and Lana's Flamenco. Dear Lord, that was f****** FANBLOODYTASTIC. I started shrieking and applauding, I couldn't help it. I've also watched it maybe six times since... it's just a really fantastic, passionate performance. It makes you dance and want to dance, which is all you can ask for, really.

Anyway, I am sorry for being dead for so long, but I had exams and really bad insomnia to contend with. Plus my love-life was getting ridiculously unbalanced. It's all good now though! So I'll be back (as Arnie says. Anyone who hasn't seen the bit with him as Hamlet in Enemy of The State really should. Just that little bit. Hilarious). Dr. Who is kingly, and you can download it to your PC off the BBC website - do it people! Do it, do it, do it! TOOOOORCHWOOOOOOOD!

A Tale of Two Amrits

People! Permit yourselves to fall about (laughing? Cringing? We'll see) once I have described some of my latest adventures to you. And don’t be scared to comment - I’d love some indication that my readership does exist outside of my imagination. :-D This is a cautionary tale (kinda) about how being very honest can backfire on you. As you do (when you are SupaFly, anyway), S------- was trawling the Internet, when he found an innnteresting *cue Mr.Burns-style-finger-action* website and Myspace page. The page is called Village Indian, I offer a link to it on this blog. The Myspace is here: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=49931394

Me being me, I fired off an excitable introductory email first, and thought later. I asked lots of questions, which probably made it seem like I fanced him. Oh God. Now, he doesn't look all that on his Myspace - very skinny - but I decided to go VI and look at his picture there too,, to compare and see what I was 'up against,' if you know what I mean (which you probably don't...). Schiessenhauser! He looked v. good, and slightly as if he had stepped out of a 'conscious' hip-hop video.

It would seem that The Spectre of Fey Skinny Indie was returning. I have these phases where I get all wiggly about the likes of Alex Kapranos, and er... that's it so far (see the link for this post above!). I went extremely self-conscious and giggly, and texted my cousin about it, and also forwarded my email to my bf. See, I am a complete child - there was no imagining relationships with him, or any such rubbish. It was more:

'He's pretty.'
*tittering*
'He is!'
*more tittering*
*giggles all round*

Yes, I know. I am such a terrible girl. My cousin and I just compared his two pics and died laughing for about 10 minutes when I went to her house. However, my sense of honour eventually overcame all else. I emailed apologising, and enclosing a song I really like. Here is his reply:

'Ha. No, no worries, I've been too swamped to write you a response. Even then though, I get so many emails and such, I make it a habit to keep 'em to music (unless and until I meet people). Anyway, thanks for the Brazilian Girls! They actually got their start right down the street from me here in the East Village, at a fun club called Nublu. Born out of impromptu experimental jam sessions. They're great!A few bands we're loving here this week are Love Is All, Cloud Cult, Land of Talk - and The Walkmen were amazing last night!-A'

I was understandably freaked out, like BLEEPING HELL, he is a celebrity of the miniature variety! I got even more awed, and vowed to rarely email him. I have made good on this; he is, as he says, a busy guy. I mean, the dude goes to a gig virtually every damn day and / or night. I blame S--- - I related all this to him, and he went something like 'Well why would I worry about you fancying him?! Maybe I was worried that I would fancy him!'

Need I say more? I have always found that boy funny... ;-)

Why, oh why?

This isn't a funny post, for which I am profoundly apologetic. It is, however, quite a shockingly compelling one (I hope).

WTF?! So, what you freaks want is Lolita?! Just read the goddamn book and jerk off to it! The saddest of the bunch has to be Davecat (being born with a name like that was never going to work for him). I totally agree with the psychologist's verdict, and I also admire his professionalism. I would be so tempted to humiliate them even further! When I read this, I had a fleeting feeling of wanting to kill those men. Was this being affronted at their perverse sexual transgressions? Not really, and I suppose it's almost a good thing, if they stick with it and a teenage girl escapes in the process. I'm not saying they would definitely be rapists if they didn't have those dolls, but the motivating drive most definitely seems to be there. No, it was more out of pity for them. You want to escape rejection and the effort of a real relationship so bad, you might as well die. Although that is VERY extreme logic coming into play...

On a thankfully lighter note, Have I Got News For You is back!http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Have_I_Got_News_For_You I love that programme, so much. The first few episodes of The Daily Show made me think it was better, but I prefer HIGNFY. It's more consistent humour-wise - although I suppose that's what happens when you only have to do it once a week as opposed to every day. I don't make a point of being a fangirl, but I can see myself going very pink and girly if I were to meet Paul Merton. Ian Hislop, I'd just want to give him a hug, and maybe even kiss his cheek. HE'S SO CUTE! He just reminds me of a kind of small, super-intelligent impish thing, with his round face and quick wit. Paul - I just love him. He's got that Capricorn thing down. He acts dozy, but he's totally NOT - it's not exactly a new comic device (Shakespeare's Wise Fools!) but he does it oh so well. His surreal little spin-off tangents - "Debenhams is shite," for example - are what make Friday night fear fever all better.

Alright, you've had your fun. Off back to Diderot!

Ackk ackk ackk

How depressing to see that despite all the hopeful eye-widening about Playboy being published in Indonesia, it has been taken as a prompt excuse for hardliners to attack it and the offices of its staff. I watched the footage of people throwing rocks at the windows, and listened to the reports of all the staff having deserted the building, thinking: Damn, what did Playboy ever do to you? It’s just a magazine! Maybe that is the problem… sex has become way too limited for these people. It’s about as fun as breathing: essential to live, but you shouldn’t think about it too hard, and you should definitely not enjoy it. Looks like morbidists (is it a word? No? So?), and extremists have something in common… Still, at least the editor is defiantly refusing to stop publication (you GO!) and the first edition sold out. Take that, you would-be-hand-holding-banning-extremists! Did anyone else just get confused by what I wrote…? Lol.

I was here going to launch a rant against the media and the current situation(s) with the NHS, but I no longer have the strength for it. That first paragraph was actually meant to be posted quite some time ago – with an appropriately-timed post of course. Instead it is time for some personal whines. I hate being bitter and / or uncertain about my feelings. My bf told me that he can’t see me until the 2nd. I tried to coax him round, and he just went “No,” straight out. For some reason, I was unable to prevent this from souring my mood. I pretended like I was fine with it, and texted saying that I would see him in a month’s time. Later I sent him a highly immature text, and then a just plain vindictive one, telling him I hated him.

And now what? I know I’m supposed to ring him, and apologise, but frankly, I don’t want to. I’m supposed to be past the point where my pride presents a problem, but I’m not. Maybe it’s just an equality thing; I can’t help thinking where he gets off telling me what to do. Why can’t I throw my weight around? But yes, you say; when I tried to, he just accepted it, making a dig about how my being mad wasn’t going to get a rise out of him. I couldn’t help thinking: Well, excuse me, when did I start dating a brick wall?! I am, like most people of a vaguely creative persuasion, having that problem where reconciling reality and the ideal becomes a real nuisance. Part of you thinks “I shouldn’t have to put up with this. I deserve better!” The other (larger) part of you thinks: “This is a compromise. Why are you being ridiculous? How selfish is it to fly into a tantrum with someone because they want time to revise for their exams? This isn’t even a real flaw, and you should be appreciative of what you have: an amazing, intelligent, funny fella who COOKS.”

So tell me, why does that not cut the mustard for me? WHY ISN’T IT WORKING?! Why can’t I let this go, and agree that he needs his revision time, and I mine? Well, there are actually several reasons for that...
1) I have really bad insomnia at the moment. I can’t remember when it started, but it was on and off before that anyway. I’m not sure when I slept last night, but when I checked my progress (how long have I been bored stiff and unbearably awake? OH, IT’S 4 A.M.! So that’ll be 19-and-a-half hours then…), it wasn’t looking good. I don’t think I slept after that either.
2) There is NOTHING to eat in the house. I mean, literally nothing. The other day, do you know what we had for lunch? Pasta made with a watered-down ready-made sauce (which wouldn’t even have been there if it hadn’t been for my foresight several months earlier) with grilled tofu, fake chicken pieces and kidney beans. The sauce was tomato and had mushrooms in it. Mmmm! Doesn’t it sound fantastic! If that was all we were eating, I swear to God I would have chucked it on the roof, just like I used to do with my cheese-and-mango-chutney sandwiches in primary school.
3) A combination of the two has made me feel extremely witless and unable to concentrate. My exams are two weeks away and I cannot focus at all. I can’t even cry properly. I CANNOT MAKE TEH EYE-WATERS! When you go from eating fruit all the time and being happy and energetic, to having to eat junk and then reducing your diet drastically because you can’t hack eating junk, it really does make you feel shite. I napped for an hour today without even realising, and I’m dreading everything. My essay, my exams, my sister’s imminent engagement… God.

It’s 7.30 p.m., and yet again I’ve done nowhere near enough. I feel a desperate cry for help emerging; what will take for sleep to come to me?! I exercise; I try not to eat too late (although I have limited control over that)… what else? It’s hard to avoid stressing, but I don’t even think I’m doing that too much…

Oh well, I have my cousin and The O.C (and Doctor Who, which is back at last!!! And Strictly Dance Fever) to see me through this time. Next time, I’ll be more fun, my dear blog!

Cheese, glorious cheese

Halloumi cheese is utterly, utterly great. I can’t sing its praises enough. I was slightly suspicious of it when I found out that it makes a good grilling cheese, as paneer does, and well – hello, Mr. Flavour? You dead in there?! Let’s just say that it has some things in common with mediocre varieties of mozzarella, taste-wise.

Yes! I am a cheesyphile. I like trying cheeses. I’m not freakish about it; I mean you won’t find me breathing heavily over tablets of Gloucestershire Cheddar, or snuffling wetly up against a fine Roquefort, too close for comfort, in a tailcoat. I do however like trying new varieties when I can because cheese is quite important to me, being a veggie, and because good cheese generally tastes rather good.

(Although, I DID have a ‘moment’ in Marks & Spencer in my lunch-break at work once, where I saw these packaged sticks of cheese with herbs in that you could buy for your lunch, and I got excited, and my ‘colleague’ Zoë went “Ughhh… you’re weird!” “Thank you,” I replied mentally. I have, however, noticed that such replies do not seem to endear me to people, so I attempted some kind of explanation, and then just headed off in search of mousse).

Anyway, halloumi cheese is made of cow, sheep AND goat’s milk, comes with wet stuff in the packet (whey? Curd? Whurd?), and has mint in it, but the mint takes on a whole new life in its presence. It tastes just as delish the second time I have it as much as the first. That’s MAJOR. It also proved to have (possible) interesting side-effects, as I drank two glasses of water before eating some and had a ‘Lemon Cheesecake’ yoghurt, and my butt started fizzing. MY BUTT STARTED FIZZING. Before anyone gets grossed out, nothing happened, AWRIGHT?! *puts on Vinnie Jones forehead* It was just quite amusing.

Today, when walking back from buying my lunch at work (low-fat spinach and ricotta cannelloni with a pack of low-fat sour cream and chive crisps and a chocolate sponge pudding for dessert, OH YEAH), I saw a poster for Ice Age 2 on the side of a bus.

Before anyone gets scared that this is me being funny – I saw a poster for Ice Age 2 on the side of a bus, and you know what, I actually felt quite pained. I felt like I could almost be a film critic. Any longer, and I might have started making pained French-type sounds and gesticulating wildly with my hands, while actually speaking Italian exactly like the snarky pizza chef in The Simpsons. I understood all the critical whining about ‘slapstick’ taking precedent over anything else in the film. The advert showed the hapless squirrel from the first film’s face in close-up, fearful as his reaching for the ever-elusive acorn prompted the ice beneath him to break. “He Never Thaw It Coming,” the bus announced gleefully to me.

I wanted to cry, I really did. And not for the bloody squirrel either. It was just like “WHYYYY? WHYYYY DO THEY THINK WE’RE SO DUMB?!” Any second then and you would’ve expected Charlie Chaplin to pop up, dancing very disturbingly and trying to smack me over the head with his umbrella. He is slapstick for so many. Yet he couldn’t be more different from Ice Age 2. I thought of the sketch we watched in RTI (one of my English courses – stands for Reading, Theory, Interpretation) tied in to The Communist Manifesto, where Chaplin plays a man who becomes so obsessed with getting his work of tightening nuts with spanners right that he ends up going INSIDE the actual machine, and comes out having tightened all the internal bolts. He then chases after his co-workers, tightening their noses, then spots a lady going past and runs after her. Luckily, she escapes. He stands on the street, and then we see a big woman (not big as in fat) coming towards him, the two large buttons on her chest prominent and obviously symbolic.

It sounds very much in poor taste – exploitative, overly simplistic and arrogant. However, not just the context in which we watched it – as supportive of Marx’s argument that work eventually alienates the labourer from himself – but the expression on Chaplin’s face made all the difference. He has always fascinated me because he is a legendary comedian, but I often thought his eyes were quite sinister. He never really smiled when making other people laugh, and there was a terrifying kind of blankness to his eyes, as if he was not even exerting himself, more detached and doing it for fun. Chaplin laughs at us as we laugh at him. Yet in this film, there was a hint of fervour, of delusion threatening to overtake that blankness. It was now just sad – he was completely gone from reality.

I think that was what made it so funny for us. I don’t think the element of Schadenfreude at this man’s collapse was what did it. It was that it was terrifying. The best comedy tends to be tinged with darkness. I don’t know whether that’s a cliché or not, and I don’t care. It’s very true for me. Just like the line about having to suffer to be beautiful. I got my eyebrows threaded yesterday. Eye-watering anyone?

Oh well, my top guilty pleasure (The O.C) is on its way, so I am OFF. Byebyeees!

Spatulalalas

‘Lo peoples, I have decided to grace your snippet of remaining weekend with my presence. Ow, I cut myself on a soup can. Damn innocuous-looking Potato and Leek! How creamy and weirdly beige you looked. How saltily you tasted. How bloody you rendered the side of my right first finger. Erlack.

I ended up sucking a bit of my blood. Does this make me a vampire? Or more specifically, an Am-pire? This makes me recall both Amperes and umpires. I think one measures pressure and the other’s a unit of it…

Oh, I’ve done it now. I can hear various scientific communities being roused to action to kill me with their spatulas. That would, quite literally, be a flat and possibly powdery death. Flat and powdery like… floury mashed potatoes. Which, as anyone knows, aren’t actually flat. Damnation!

I seem to be slightly nutso from lack of sleep. This is partly because of my bf; he and I are both so very clever, and because we are verr verr clever, we choose to argue at 11p.m. at night.
For two hours or more. When I have to get up for work at 7.15 a.m. the next morning...

Yesterday we set some kind of new record, where he cried several times, and we talked until 2.30 a.m. How I keep my brains about me at such a time of the morning is quite anyone’s guess. Generally, I do druggies proud with the sort of things I produce when I am required to converse at these times. Things like, to the tune of Karma Chameleon by Culture Club: “Lalalala, chameleon…” then I toot the kazoo bit, much as other people might blow raspberries. On another random tangent, my mutti hath procured an umbrella named “Feed My People” from somewhere / nowhere in particular, and I could not help thinking that it would be mildly humorous to use it to try and split a loaf of bread into slices, much like Moses (“Let my people go…”) with the Red Sea, but I’ll just stop now…

What are you looking at me like that for? :-D Anyway, returning to not only airing my dirty laundry, but having it dragged backwards through a bush by the neighbour’s dog with me still attached (now isn’t that a grand image?!), my love life has been more loco than moi recently. It would do Road Runner proud, the way it hath pinged about everywhere. We’ve been on and off something like 5 times in the past two days. Us being us though, we love each other too much to be off for real. It’s more like long silences, vaguely psychotic moodswinging, and reticence...

All is good now, thus I resemble some kind of small, energetic rodent – Oh my God, I just saw a highly-toned stomach on the TV! This can but be one of various Indian TV award ceremonies – Vatika Star Parivaar Awards (on the ever-popular Star Plus!). These tend to run for about 3 hours, and not actually be very much about the awards. It’s actually an excuse to watch various randoms dancing onstage to Bollywood golden oldies and current hits. They do several of these award ceremonies around the same time. Why?! How many beautiful, maniacally-grinning people do you want to see bouncing at one time?!

HAHAHA, this girl (who is surprisingly odd-looking in real life) just won an award which she clearly wasn’t expecting, and she had the best look on her face. It was a cross between: “Oh my God, I’m a social leper now,” and “Who weed on the floor?!” :-D

I also just saw a woman with DYED RED (that means rusty orange) HAIR, and half of her head was covered with silver stars. Covered, I tell you! She could’ve stood in beautifully for the American flag if it wasn’t so terrifying / 'WTF?!'.

One big quibble I have with India is the way they dress there. Bootcut flares? On MEN?! Why would you do that? It’s so wrong. So, so wrong! They also tend to love wearing all white – this little actor man who they showed dancing in a preview was dressed in an attempt at a biker jacket in red plastic fantastic (sorry, I mean, PVC or vinyl… God knows what it really was). With random sparkly silver dots. Underneath was a white vest, with matching tight white trousers. The overall effect was of a grasshopper, gone badly wrong. Now he actually is dancing, and I for one was completely fooled. I thought he was performing some kind of elaborate exorcism ritual with intense concentration. Guess those pants are tighter than I thought…

They wear muscle shirts a lot there too. It’s hilarious. You almost want to model the female equivalent – you know, the ones that are always in the shops and assume that you have no discernible breasts, and if you do, make your arms look like hams and your boobs like lifebuoys – and point your bazookas, I mean basoomas, threateningly at them. Except that they would probably enjoy it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have DANCING! I still can’t help being both frightened and awed by it. I could probably record this, slow it down, turn it a bit grainy and black-and-white, then unleash it upon the ‘Net to great success: “When Fitness Videos Go Bad.” Just when you think you’ve got the blokes’ amazing aerobic manoeuvres pegged – oh I know that, it’s from Karen Voight’s Strong Smooth Moves! – they turn up the energy, and then it’s Stampeding Rhino Attacks, Aaargh Help Me Before He Stamps On My Foot, It Dies And I Need Amputation.

Too long, too long! I’ve surprised myself! Oh well, it is 22:44 (funny, dat!) so I bid ye goode nighte, and urge thee to bed ye selves, oh me giddye Godde’s pyjarmas.

Carry on crapness

Slightly continuing yesterday's theme of people murdering Shakespeare, the adverts for the Clay Oven that come on Star Plus (#1 Indian channel that I'm pretty sure is free in India, but that you can pay for and get on Sky here, as my parents have) are ridiculous. They seriously have to be seen to be believed. There are some that ape well-known Indian love stories (such as that of Devdaas, and Anarkali). Then - why, oh why did they do it?!! - there's a couple with 'Romeo' and 'Juliet'.

'Juliet' (who also doubles as Anarkali, interestingly enough) is dressed, for some reason, in a bright, salmon-pink gown with big sleeves, with several buttons and a string of beads the exact same colour. Why do I feel that the vintage / boho look (the Indian appropriation of it, nonetheless) was not what Shakespeare would have envisaged in the sixteenth century? She also has a TIARA on - I don't recall her being royalty (even rock royalty! ;-P).

I really wish I could find a link to these adverts... if anyone does, let me know. Anyway, the bulk of my criticism is being reserved for Romeo, who I shall now duly tear into. He's wearing a lilac poet's shirt in some kind of silky material. He has a 'curtains' haircut. He could well pass for a 40-something, and is probably in his late thirties. C'mon now, that's just sad. At least Juliet looks like she could be early twenties! Last but not least, he is one of the ugliest guys I've seen on Indian TV, and that's saying something. They really don't seem to have quite as much of a yen for good-looking, fair-skinned guys as they do for pretty, fair-skinned girls. Funny that...

But Romeo - Romeo has SIDEBURNS and GOOFY TEETH. He also seems to have difficulty with adequate facial expressions (I feel as if he would probably rather gnaw his lower lip - he seems to be fighting the urge to do as such). When Juliet gets cross at him in the second advert (which isn't as bad as the first, but still quite rubbish), he grins in this painful way. PAINFUL, people! As if he's trying to think, but it's hurting him. It probably is, if he has any realisation of just how bad the script is, and it would with a script that utterly shite:

*crappy music that sounds like a very muted choir in the background*
*Romeo appears beneath Juliet's balcony*
*some confusing scuffle of movement takes place in which you could SWEAR that Juliet had just lifted Romeo clean over the balcony - Well, she does look rather stout in that other advert - and that he nearly kicks her in the face while getting down*

ROMEO: Oh, my darling Juliet, this wait is getting more and more painful now! [He seems to slur on 'getting' - have performance pressures pushed him to drink?!] I wonder, when this wait will get over?

Get over? This wait will 'get over'? What, has it broken up with someone? Or is it physically trying to get over a hurdle? Good freakin' grief.

JULIET: [almost breathlessly - clearly she's been waiting a while for this moment...] It's obvious, Romeo - when you book our wedding at the Clay Oven!

[Sappy grins all round, followed by never-more-timely product placement].

Correct me if I'm wrong, but Juliet comes across in Shakespeare's play as quite demure and diligent - she's all eager to marry Whatsisname-the-Nurse-fancies for her parents at one point (OK, so it's acted, but on the whole, she DOES try to keep them happy). She and Romeo have a coy, then tender interaction; not one so painfully fake that you could pick it up and whack your grandmother across the face with it. I myself was so profoundly embarrassed for the scriptwriter that I gawped in stunned amazement the first time I saw it. Then, as it sunk into my brain, I burst out laughing (in horror!). The first time my sister saw it, she went 'Oh my God,' as if physically pained, and irritated, (followed by something I can't remember which has been dubbed over with mumbling in my mind), 'so crap!' This may have been followed by a question as to why they were doing this.

The second advert will now be laid bare for your pleasure, with my mental commentary being interwoven into it:

JULIET: Oh Romeo, where wert thou when thy love Juliet DRANK POISON?!

ME: Sock it to 'im, girl! Er... I mean... did she really say that thy, or was it 'your'?

Eh, she probably just gave up half-way... Oi, referring to yourself in the third person does not make you sound clever, authentic, or Elizabethan.

She is looking well for someone who just 'drank poison' and had to pretend to be dead for several hours...

Since when was Juliet the voice of Romeo's conscience? Quite a creepy development if you ask me...

If Romeo looked like that, why would you wait so long for him anyway?! I'd marry the other guy, love!

ROMEO: [gazing geekily upwards with the same expression from the first advert - so geeky it's unforgivable. Is he on Prozac?!] Oh, my darling Juliet, [grrr!] I was busy! Planning our wedding at the Clay Oven.

[Juliet grins with relief] - Why?! She's getting married to Sideburns Central!

Since all this will no doubt be getting to you as much as it got to me (:-P), I'm now going to tell you of a way to cheer yourself up during outbreaks of level-5 cabin fever, Post-Cacky-Advert-Traumatism-Syndrome, or just of good, plain ol' insanity.

Changing the words to songs in your head! What else did you think I would say? This is best done with songs you don't like - I mean, with so many forgettable bubblegum tunes, your new words can craft a masterpiece instead of the usual collage of "baby" "uhh" "love" "need," etc. I decided to do this to I Want It That Way by the Backstreet Boys, because I realised it had infiltrated my brain at a time when I was defenceless (i.e., just woken up).

So. This is how the new version would go:

NICK: Sell me limes -

THE OTHER 'BOYS': Ain't nothing but a cheesecake...

NICK: [upping the intensity] ... sell me limes!

THE OTHER 'BOYS': [hot on his tail] Ain't nothing but a cheesecake!

NICK: [about to burst a lung] SEELLL ME LY-EEMES!

ALL THE 'BOYS': And I never want to hear you say! I baked it that a-way...

As Georgia Nicholson would say, cheers, thanks, goodnight!

Stop Murdering Shakespeare!!!! (Bards: No, Birds: Maybe...)

The abundance of capital letters in the title is in homage to the Bard himself. Some of you may think, wtf mate? Why does she rant on about the dead writer-man?

The Guardian understands how I feel! - well, obviously not The Guardian as such, but its writer(s), because I remember seeing an article in the Guide about how they really need to just leave poor old William be: http://film.guardian.co.uk/features/featurepages/0,,1746686,00.html

w00t w00t, yup, I found it. Apart from the fact that Amanda Bynes does make a very weird-looking boy (I thought she looked more like some strange pig-hedgehog hybrid, myself...), I wish that they would also stop showing white kids trying to act as if they're black in films. We all know people do it; we don't need to be reminded in some of the most painfully embarrassing examples ever. Imitation might be the most sincere form of flattery, but really, why do you need to flatter if your admiration is honest? And, furthermore, why would you insult yourself and black people, by making a huge fool of yourself? All it does is make people pity you.

I have to say as well that I'm sorry, but I really don't think that Americans should do Shakespeare. Granted, some of them do it well (Marlon Brando), but I highly doubt Shakespeare imagined people with American accents reading his scripts aloud. European and non-European, yes (hello, Othello, The Tempest...) but American? Perhaps if it was just acted better, and interpreted more imaginatively, and NOT filmed in a teen-movie context, it might work. Some people liked O, and 10 Things I Hate About You worked as a teen movie, if not as a reworking of Shakespeare. Plus, there's the biggie which has yet to be matched: Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet. I personally wasn't blown away when I watched it, but I think my sister deliberately forwarded half of it (sex! Naughty!) and I was unable to hear, understand, and now, remember most of it. Then again, I hadn't read Romeo and Juliet then, so I guess I wasn't going to understand anything too soon.

We've just found out about the first bird flu outbreak in Britain. I must admit, I find it all rather amusing. I don't know what it is that seeing dead birds sprawled about like shower curtains does to me. I think maybe it's the ridiculousness of it all, that something so pathetic-looking can pose such an immense risk to humanity. God, that sounds arrogant. Part of me wants to shout: "You eejat!" but I'm not sure whether it would be at the hapless dead creature, or ITV News. I mean, they're acting as if it's a surprise. Puh-lease, 'the experts' were going on about how it was almost definitely going to hit Britain at some point, and you believe them on other things! It was highly amusing to see them announce that this evening that some kind of room had been set up, where "I will take your questions," the bloke announced, with his hands folded behind his back. There was something almost comedic in the near-eagerness of his eyes in comparison to the dramatically intense bloke before him, who was grey-haired, long-faced and made me think for some reason, that he might be Welsh. I think he may even have been wearing a fleece. God, it doesn't get any more rustic and authentic than that!

Returning to the Outbreak Room man (I'm quite sure that that was what he called it...), I just wanted to laugh when he said that. What questions are going to be asked? Who's going to ask them? Farmers who think they might be at risk? Wouldn't they be more likely busying themselves with mass culls and sealing-off of land? Bored housewives from Basildon? "You're more fly than flu..."
"Excuse me? Do you have a question for the big, important, anchor-man?"
"Yes. Just how big are you?"
*** DIALLING TONE***

I think I've had enough Eminem moments for tonight. Before I go, I have a question: can I dance gleefully using dustbin lids (oh pweese, oh pweese, Mister Puddy-Tat, I've always wanted to since I saw Stomp!) because I'm a vegetarian? That was pretty much what I did during E.coli / foot-and-mouth / BSE.
However, you say, it'll make not much difference if the disease finds a way to get into humans, because it'll pass from human to human.
Oi, I'm not so stupid that I didn't know that.
Still, I guess that proves moany ol' Morrissey right because meat WILL be murder: if the disease gets into humans, how else will it be transmitted except by the consumption of an infected bird? Maybe we all need to try going really green for a while. And oi in front, I don't mean with nausea!

Emo, oh noes

So... I suppose I should explain the title of this blog. I wish it was interesting or enigmatic. In some ways it is both. I chucked out the name I had in mind after deciding it was just too... too. My bf was asking tersely what name I wanted. Kelly Rowland entered my mind, singing "Get there steppin'!" from Lose My Breath by Destiny's Child.

Kelly Rowland. Lose My Breath. Search me as to how that got there, but hey, why not?

So, I selected that as a name. After choosing it, it entered my mind that this was actually a pretty good name because it expressed a paradox. I mean, the phrase is generally used in a dismissive, slang-y way to tell someone to get going quickly. Kind of like "Get on the bus," which, incidentally, is the title of another Destiny's Child song. However, if you think about it, getting there by stepping wouldn't be at all fast, would it? You'd do better to just walk normally.

"Expressed a paradox." Oh, I know, don't I sound so full of it? But really, I can't help it. Living in a house full of hypocrites and studying mythology, which is apparently full of paradoxes, does that to you. You become bitter, and the realisation of how hard it is to be unique only makes you more unhappy. You want to be truly different by not being a hypocrite. But then, you learn that according to Marx, contradictions are what make progress happen in the world, and some of Freud's blathering about how tender love masks powerful hostile impulses in the unconscious makes horrible sense to you.

From all the intellectual blah, I will progress swiftly to the emo-style whinging. I am not so happy at the moment. Not so happy at all. I'm learning that even though I've liked to talk (a LOT) since childhood when I feel comfortable around people, silence is the only weapon I really have. Silence is like a disembodied voice, and the Internet has given me a body in which to house it. So my blog has appeared. It is rather strange to put what is pretty much a diary on the Web. Still, at least this way it can't be left lying around, and get picked up by a member of my family, or something.

This is my space away from my friends, my family and my boyfriend. I should exploit it to the fullest. That's why I'm rambling on. There's not really any such thing as someone who'll listen attentively to you any more. My cousin is the closest thing I have, but I end up depending on her way too much, which I don't like. I seem to be ironically doomed by a strong desire for independence struggling against an even stronger need for love. That's all kind of love, not just the romantic kind. That's not exactly going well at the moment, though. I recently had a little spate of sadness and confusion over a teacher of mine, whom I think I may have loved.

Before anyone gets het up, it's not what you think. He was a father figure. He encouraged me to write, read my poetry, and critiqued it too. It was somewhat like a whirlwind - he literally just burst into my life for two years, as my sixth form tutor - but what a difference it made. And just like a whirlwind, I could only truly appreciate what had happened after I left. I gave him a book I thought he would like a few days before we left. He looked at it and went: "Aww, that's so sweet. If you weren't a student, I'd hug you." I just stood there, thinking: Hug me! Please! But I smiled and said something insignificant, and went away. And he probably still doesn't even know how much he helped me.

Thus, being funny has never been so difficult, as it is now. For a while, my bf made a big thing of losing his identity, but I think I may have lost mine in the process of trying to restore his. Right now, I'm very odd with him. I'm starting to wonder what he was like when I first ran into him after ages, a long time ago in 2002/3, because I don't remember any more. I know that's really quite sad and horrible. I don't feel good about it either. What drew me to him? What did I admire? Surely I admired his forthrightness and his humour. He hasn't felt up to being funny for a long time though, and his directness can seem just too much. I really don't know why I feel so estranged from him at the moment. It's largely to do with my insecurity, but that excuse doesn't exactly satisfy me. You also get fed up of having to take the blame on yourself all the time - it takes two, after all. I feel recently that if he was my friend, I would have strangled him by now. I'm not on my period either. We've fought a bit - on and off in the past two days, I think.

Yesterday we had a really ridiculous fight (although most of them are). Today we had a 'disagreement,' but it was 'resolved' when I apologised to him twice (for phoning him later than I said I would...). But I don't really feel like it has. Au contraire, I just feel weird and detached from him. I haven't told him I love him once today. And you know what, part of me feels like so what? If I told him that, he would get hurt. But I can't help it - I get fed up of being wrong all the time, and being held back by all the responsibilities everyone wants to chain to my wrists and ankles. It's so good to be able to take things out of a moral context so that they just are. I can be honest without having to worry about other people all the time. Otherwise, it's just like "you're selfish, you're self-obsessed," until eventually, you begin to believe it too.

This is stupid long now, so I'll stop for tonight. Good night, o blog. I hope I sleep for once tonight. Lord knows I need it; Totem and Taboo is killing me very, very slowly.