Lesson no. 1 in 2010

Me: Why are you looking out the window like a freak?
Mum: I'm not a freak, I'm watching squirrels!

Presents I like

My grandparents (big Lady Gaga fans btdubs) just get me ya know? Noone else woulda picked out this little gem of a head wear piece for me



Now I wanna join the circus.

Wow, you guys talk like grown-ups!

Dudes. I am totally bummed by this Tai dying shit. That's seriously effed my shizz UP. Only thing I can think of doing right now is downloading and listening to ADOAA podcast. And maybe get crunk in honour of my gurl Brittany Murphy. However, as someone older, can I please give you some advice? It is one thing to spark up a doobie and get laced at parties, but it is quite another to be fried all day.

Quite.

Note to self

"Real love doesn't make you act crazy. The reason we act crazy when we are infatuated is because we want it to be real so badly -- we want to jump over the distance of time that makes real love what it is. That's the trick of romance: The crazy infatuation love is so much brighter and turns so many more corners so quickly. Much more exciting than the real thing. But real love, at its finest, makes you feel like you are bursting open, like this: Like hearing a beautiful song, or reading a beautiful poem, or hearing a wonderful story, and the tears come and you don't know precisely why. It doesn't hurt; it hurts in a way that isn't hurting, that we don't have a word for. Largeness. Enormity. It takes a real strength, a real grace, to stand up straight in the face of that. Especially if you're not familiar with it."

I honestly don't know if I'd be the person I am today without Jacob Clifton, he's everything you want from a writer; funny, wise, and honest. Every time I reach a new apex in this crazy little journey we call life he's there with some new words of truth that help me interpret what I've just experienced - it's more than a little eerie in fact.

Anyhoo, just remind me of this next time kay?

Missing you like candy

Just watching this AWFUL 10 year old dance movie (that I'd been craving to see and have been downloading over the last 3 days and now it's complete I'm the happiest I've ever been. Might watch it again later. Sandy Cohen as the head of a prominent dance school? Number of lols = incalculable) and this song came on when the kinda main girl goes to this gay little dance class and I'd forgotten how much I love this jam.



Mandy Moore is my homegurl.

Oh snap!

I am naturally proficient in this already (we're gonna need a bigger 'OBVS!') but in case any of y'all need some hints and tips, the internet is now providing lessons in it. I'm not sure why the school system has not yet taken it upon itself to teach us the basics of snapthology but at least we now have some guidance on the correct etiquette when dealing in this ancient and life-affirming practise. Listen up divaettes:


(Via)

This is an important day.

*No Jokes

When it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun

It's really difficult for me to communicate effectively just how much I love Lady Gaga. My love is true and real and undying (for now).

The only thing I can liken this feeling to is when I see those pictures of cute puppies or kittens and I just want to squeeeeze them and squeeeeeze them because I love them SO MUCH. That's me and Gaga right there. Everything about her - the clothes, the interviews, the music, the body. Rarely does one see such a perfectly put-together pop package. Every fiber in my soul vibrates with happy that she exists.

Part of this is that I have this deep love affair I have with witnessing someone working out all the elements and putting them all together in a way that actually works. So many times in life you come across someone or something where everything you could want is there but just not utilized effectively enough, or has one small ingredient missing that causes it too just miss the ark and become merely ordinary when it could be extraordinary. Last year the bro and I would every so often stumble across a bar (headphones rock bar in Barcelona), a hostel (The Loft in Budapest), or a restaurant (God bless you outskirts of Prague where everything was a gazillion times cheaper and cooler) where someone had totally tapped into the zeitgeist of particular European cities and clearly really understood their audience whether by design or happenstance (a result of which was us having about fifty billion brilliant business ideas of which I can remember precisely one - opening a diner like Luke's because the world needs somewhere you can get coffee and pancakes from 6am to 11pm that isn't affiliated with MacDonalds like, yesterday) and I loved that. I loved that there were these little corners where something approaching perfection existed and I get that same feeling whenever Lady Gaga comes into my life. She totally gets it. She understands the importance of being silly. That frivolity is not triviality. That high art and low art are as vital as one another.

I think I felt this way about Britney a million years ago. Man I was in love with her. She had kind of a weird face, a very aesthetically pleasing and beautifully proportioned body, and made pop music that actually made my heart beat faster (check, check, check on the Gaga list) but Britney always gave the impression of one being controlled by outside elements whereas Gaga appears to be a creation of her own fair hand.

Whatever your own feelings might be about her nothing will dissuade me that she is as close as pop gets to transcending every boundary we have in place that keeps the men from the women, the talented from the fame hungry, the intelligentsia from the philistines.

Plus, you know, she can really wail. Whilst wearing elephants on her head no less.

Facts

I have never heard a Hall & Oates song I didn't like.

Two tribes go to war

A month ago I went to see Simon Amstell doing stand up in Truro , where, interestingly I found that it doesn't matter where you go in the UK every Wetherspoons on a Friday night is filled with the exact same people. Which was comforting and depressing in equal measure. There is the River Island tribe in stripey shirts and the occasional shouts of 'whey!' to ensure their dominance is signaled to the other pub patrons, there are their older counterparts - good, hard, British men who smoke and make comments to the girls that are decked out in tiny skirts and tinier tops, there is the underage punk/goth kids who have (presumably) been thrown out of every other establishment and are thus left with the only option of entering the one pub in the land that is the antithesis for all they believe in but, crucially, is the only one that will serve them without ID checking - though, to be fair, having grown up in a provincial English town myself, your choices are limited as far as 'alternative' entertainment goes at that age - unless you know someone with a car willing to drive you around for free (in my case these persons were known as 'Mum' and 'Papa Mikey') it's Wetherspoons or Wetherspoons for cheap Friday night entertainment if booze is your only consideration (once 'good atmosphere' and 'pleasant surroundings' enter into the equation you are old enough to transport yourself wherever your heart may desire and have the appropriate paper work to not run the risk of being turned away so Wetherspoons frequenting becomes less of a necessity). Then of course there is me and my friend who wanted quorn chilli and a pint of cider to while away the time before Simon Amstell took to the stage. Once again an oddity wherever we may be. That is until other Amstell fans start showing up in tight jeans and colourful sweaters and ironic 'Neil Diamond' t-shirts and curly hair (none of which I have but I clearly have more to do with this tribe than any of the others - we share shy looks at recognition at one another when we pass in the pub and later, when we are in the venue, our eyes occasionally meet again and we nod imperceptibly).

I just can't decide whether I like that. That I can be sure I know what I'll find in a Wetherspoons no matter where I am in the country on a Friday night OR if this signals a supreme lack of imagination on our fair isle as to the tribes we each sign up for and what that entails. Regardless, the show was intensely inspiring and sort of proved that, every now and again, there exists an individual unlike anyone else. (That person is me)*

*Jokes.

Secret

If you ever want to see me cry (not something I would recommend but you never know) then make me listen to this:


The other way is get Miss Frank out of the X Factor. SPANISH RAPS ARE SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN TO BE THE BEST. Also, where is my girl group that does rapping (Spanish or otherwise) on the middle eight breakdown? NOWHERE THAT'S WHERE. We needed Miss Frank you idiots! (Not you, everyone else).

Oh Lady Gaga...

... you is crazy. But I loves ya because of it, not in spite of it. And also I love that you wear nests on your head.


Perez Hilton on the other hand (seated behind) can go suckafuck like, yesterday.

Three rules to live by

I've already posted this on my facebook but I'm placing it here as well so I don't have to log on to facebook to easily find it. A bit of background, there's a new Apatow movie coming out called Funny People. They're doing LOADS of virals for it (all of which I fear will be better than the actual film itself). Randy is a fake comic in the style of Dane Cook who will be featured in the movie and this is a fake documentary they made for the fake comic. You see? Simple is as simple does my friends. Anyhoo, his DJ is my new hero. Here 'tis:

Raaaaaaaandy - Part 1 (Funny People) from Aziz Ansari

I'm going to get a black eye soon if I don't quit do DJ Ol' Youngin' impressions and yet I don't care. It never stops being laugh out loud (llol = literally lots of love) funny.

What did you do today?

I totally got interviewed on a community radio station by a woman called Mildred French FOR MY JOB.

My job is so weird.

But yeah, for realz. Mildred French of Angel Radio interviewed me and played some kickass old person music and now I am kind of in love with Mildred French. She was one of the coolest ladies I have ever met. You know how there is only a select number of people who are as awesome as you and me? She's one of the few that get to share our limelight. Think the looks of Bea Arthur tumbled around with the sensibilities of a feisty Countdown contestant. One of the ones that isn't intimidated by being on telly and jokes around a little with Carol (post-Carol Countdown isn't actually Countdown so don't even worry about it) when selecting the letters and numbers. You know the ones I mean? The humble ones who are ridonkulously sharp and win all the fucking time but in a very pleasant 'I'm not taking this thing too seriously but I kind of know how good I am' way. Now you are approaching Mildred French levels of cool. I basically want to be Mildred French when I grow up and will definitely be stealing her name for my sitcom.

Also, I know right, ooh a middle-class white indie girl getting all cited bout a Spike Jones/Dave Eggers production based on a beloved children's book that made you wanna draw strange and beautiful pictures from a very young age even though you couldn't even stick that out once you started 'cos you FAIL AT EVERYTHING. Yeah, well, fuck you 'cos eeeeek!

Be Seeing You

Patrick McGoohan's dead. Long live Patrick McGoohan.

By chance, or fate, or boredom, whatever, I only discovered The Prisoner a couple days ago when channel hopping (for the first time in about two months I sat in front of a television with spare time on my hands and let happen what comes naturally) and saw the last half of the episode 'The Chimes of Big Ben' on ITV4.

It blew me away.

The whole shebang - the sets, clothes, writing, acting, directing, premise - it's all phenomenal. So, me being me, I got obsessed, downloaded all 17 episodes and researched the shit out of it. McGoohan (who conceived the show as well as starring in it, writing 6 episodes and directing a few too) summarises it as thus:

"I think progress is the biggest enemy on earth, apart from oneself… I think we're gonna take good care of this planet shortly… there's never been a weapon created yet on the face of the Earth that hadn't been used…

…We're run by the Pentagon, we're run by Madison Avenue, we're run by television, and as long as we accept those things and don't revolt we'll have to go along with the stream to the eventual avalanche… As long as we go out and buy stuff, we're at their mercy. We're at the mercy of the advertiser and of course there are certain things that we need, but a lot of the stuff that is bought is not needed…

…We all live in a little Village… Your village may be different from other people's villages but we are all prisoners."

Seriously. That's the kind of shit no-one can judge me for getting obsessed with right?

I've been in a Village of my own making recently. At the mercy of forces beyond my control. I haven't been living my life for me but for someone else. What's worse is that I haven't minded this one iota. The not writing, the flaking out on friends, the not getting to wear jimbly-jambly's (pajamas for all those not versed in Sazztalk™) and catch up on my beloved Gossip Girl. It's all been my own choice that I made in the hope of giving enough life up for someone else so that they would want to live again. I'm still struggling with this idea - how much to give versus how much I need for myself. There's no handbook that answers questions like this for you.

Anyway, regardless, I'm still not ready to start writing these feelings down. Instead watch where (I'd put good money on) David Lynch got a whole bunch of inspiration:



Now go hunt down the rest of it for no other reason than Patrick McGoohan's dead.

Long live Patrick McGoohan.

Me and Fred and John

Last night I had a sex dream about Fred from The B-52s.

I hope this goes without saying but this was fairly unexpected.

I was in Egypt (?), at a vinyl fair (!) and singing ‘Wig’ to myself (… no, that’s a fairly common occurrence actually) whilst I perused the Nancy Sinatra offerings (ditto) and who should be behind me but Fred and Keith of The B-52’s. They did not look like they look here:

Fred (second from left for you heathens that don't instantly know) was way chubbier and more heterosexual. Keith looked like the guy that Sharon Osbourne uses as the singing coach in the post-audition/pre-glitzy stages on X-Factor (he’s the one with the dyed facial hair and an undeniable air of creepiness surrounding him. Got him? The one that could be Billy Connolly if Billy Connolly was American and a bit gay. Yes. That one).

Anyway, they offered me autographs (I was too stunned and excited to speak) which were written on a cocktail napkin (presumably they kept a stash with them for such purposes – i.e. whenever they overheard someone in a dream singing B-52’s songs to themselves) and when they handed them back I noticed they’d each given me their telephone numbers (if I concentrate I can even read Fred’s number: (303) 555-6061, at least I now know how to get hold of Fred in a dream emergency). I wasn’t that bothered about Keith but the fact that Fred was willing to give me his number, hotel room, and indeed his signature, in blue biro on a sleazy airport-lounge bar napkin made me feel like I might burst with joy. I was to be a B-52’s groupie. (I would like to make it clear that although I am a B-52’s fan, I have not now, nor have I ever, been attracted to ANY members of the B-52’s). (Alright, MAYBE Kate). I pretty much jumped him right there and then. He was wearing the same kind of outfit as in the Love Shack video, his shirt in particular was jazzy to the max. This only fuelled my passion further.

Anyway, I get to work this morning and, for a laugh, google the B-52’s to find out that THEY ARE EMMINENTLY RELEASING A NEW ALBUM.

Now I have to wonder if each of the band are going round every B-52’s fan’s dreams and sexing us all up so as to recall and re-ignite our B-52’s fervour. As far as a publicity campaign goes, you can’t really beat invading people’s dreams. The biggest advertising execs in the world would KILL for that kind of exposure. As such I’m giving 17 kudoses to the B-52’s. Well done them.

The other thing that has got me in a tizz recently is this guy:

This youtube video in particular I don’t just find amusing but incredibly soothing. There’s something about a bad wig coupled with a New Jersey accent that gives me an instant ‘Ready Brek’ glow. I can’t explain it. The first three times I watched it I just sat there open mouthed in (what I can only describe as) horror but I guess is more akin to intense intrigue. On the forth spin (I should mention this was over a few weeks, not all in one go, but I kept thinking about him in inopportune moments for whatever reason… getting out of the shower, putting a petrol nozzle in my car, sat outside a pub in Cardiff having a rollie and watching two young men homoerotically grappling to the point of knocking over a flower pot, that kind of thing) I laughed like nothing else. I then investigated ‘mittymoo’s’ other offerings. His ‘Debra’ character is particularly disturbing. If you’ve ever subjected yourself to an episode of ‘The Hills’ you’ll realise quite how note perfect he’s got it. And again, I could watch and listen to him being Debra all freaking day (although the sellotaped nose puts me off a bit). It hits a button in my psyche that I didn’t realise wanted - or indeed needed - hitting. I don’t find ‘The Dance’ quite so addictive but it did have me shaking with hilarity (I think an element of that was due to the fact that I was terrified in a way I’ve never been terrified before). But yeah, I’m intrigued and I can’t stop thinking about him. That means its love right?

All the words you said to me, still vibrating in the air...

... but I guess they meant shit really innit.

Fuck.

Thoughts of a boy very nearly caused me to use this space as a place to post some really bad teenagery emo poetry. And then I remembered I'm:
a) Not a teenager
b) Not emo (up to a point)
c) Not lame (up to a point)

So I didn't. I think we can all spend a little time thanking little baby Jesus for helping us avoid that little disaster (not that he did anything. Firstly, he's a baby - babies do literally fuck all except emit wave after wave of bodily secretions and sleep. Neither of those things helped in this situation. Secondly, he's not alive - and even if he was, please see point 1. Oh sorry, did you think he was the son of God? Riiiight, well I'm afraid I've been meaning to have a little chat with you about this. See, what it is, and I really want you to listen now... No eyes back here. Stop getting distracted by shiny things. Come on, focus. Alright. See, what it is, and this may come to a shock to you - I know I was surprised when I found out - but... well... the thing is... is... He's not. Glad we talked this one out).

Actually, in all honesty we can thank Slut Machine for helping us avoid that little disaster. My new mantra is 'What Would Slut Machine Do?' (which is inevitably either get shit--faced, or take advantage of some poor unsuspecting young man, or just be plain wicked awesome... often all three) and then I feel alright again. We all need role models and she's mine.

It's funny how inspiration can hit you though, how every now and again I have this burning need to got this thing out of me and onto paper (please note: when I say this it's less 'scene-from-Aliens' and more ethereal artsy fartsy). Transmit all my thoughts from up here *waves around head area* to here *points to keyboard*. Trouble is, when I do feel like that, it never turns out very good. It turns out all teenage and emo and lame. I think the best thing, is if I've got something to say to somebody I just have to go and say it. Because honesty is always the best policy. Right? RIGHT?

Right.

(isn't it?)