Betamax blogging

I've decided not to close the year with a Best-of-2008 list because, quite frankly, I haven't read/heard/seen enough genuinely new stuff to fill 10 slots, let alone 10 things that have filled me with such enthusiasm and/or loathing that I can stack them in any particular order. Instead, I've been having one of those tedious internal debates about whether to herald 2009 with a bells-and-whistles redesign for Cultural Snow. I've barely done anything to the default design I picked when I started blogging three (!) years ago, leaving it, as Cath Elliott puts it, looking "too much like a Penguin Classic". I do sometimes feel a bit inadequate when I see the lovely pictures and clever squiggly bits with which the rest of you decorate your sites. I haven't even bothered to add on one of those doodads that tells me when the rest of you have updated. (I did try it, but it made a horrible mess all over my dashboard.) I've just bunged a few widgets down the right-hand margin, and if the spacing goes a bit wonky I just go off and make another cup of tea and hope the Blog Fairy will sort it all out.

So what's stopping me from creating Cultural Snow 2.0? Well, sheer bloody indolence for one thing; as well as a distinct lack of confidence in my own technical and creative abilities, the dashboard disaster being pretty much par for the course. And I've always been a late and nervous adopter of technological innovations, although I recently discovered that I was only the third person in Bangkok to sign up to Twitter.

I briefly considered following Mr Frith's lead and putting a call out to a hip young designslinger, although that would inevitably create tensions: as well as being indolent and incompetent, I can be a bit of a control freak when I put my mind to it, a lethal combination. But I've also come to the conclusion that now everyone else has a bells-and-whistles blog, mine no longer looks primitive and creaky; it looks minimalist and a wee bit retro. And I'm also reminded a little of Aunt Percy.

Aunt Percy (real name Persimmon) was a character in one of my favourite childhood books, Clement Freud's Grimble. She lived in a tower block where the flats didn't have numbers; instead, they were all painted different colours to distinguish them. Aunt Percy's door was buff. Unfortunately, because all the doors were exposed to the elements, the paint gradually faded, until all the doors were buff. One resident suggested that they should put their names on the door, but Aunt Percy objected. She'd made the right choice of door colour to start with, so why should she have to bother with putting her name up? So all the others put their names on the doors, and underneath they put "and Aunt Percy doesn't live here".

So when Grimble goes round to Aunt Percy's flat for his dinner, because his parents have unexpectedly gone on a cruise to Peru, he knows to look for the door with nothing on it.

Not quite sure where I meant to go with that.

Anyway, in the current turbulent circumstances, the best of good wishes alone can't hope to ensure a happy new year, per se; but let's hope that 2009 will at least be interesting. Even if your front door isn't.

Dying the death

One of the reasons I stayed on at my secondary school into the sixth form was a desire to take part in the house play competition. As far as I recall, it was the only event in which the four houses (all named after English naval heroes, which gives you some idea of the environment in which I existed for seven years) battled each other in circumstances that didn't require a communal shower afterwards.

The normal process was to choose something sub-Coward, or Rattigan on a bad day; if you had a couple of actors who could attempt a non-specifically northern accent without sounding Sri Lankan, you might select from that unjustifiably crowded field, the School of Hobson's Choice.

We (Charlie, Rick and I) didn't want to play safe. A few years before our number came up, one enterprising soul had staged the first act of Ibsen's An Enemy of the People, which was a bit of a disaster, but a brave disaster. We wanted to follow that example, either to triumph, or to go down in a blaze of incomprehension. We elected to put on Woody Allen's play Death (now probably better known as the source material for his underrated 1992 expressionist comedy thriller, Shadows and Fog). I can't remember why we dressed the hypnotist as Aladdin-Sane-era David Bowie, or gave the murderer a Fulham scarf to wear; or indeed why we chose 'Spread A Little Happiness' as the introductory music; but something seemed to work. The judges retired to a more salubrious venue, and the following morning the headmaster announced that we'd won.

It was a few days later that I discovered none of the judges had thought our production was the best. All had placed it second, then disagreed wildly about the merits of the other three plays, enabling us to come up through the middle. Despite our strivings, we'd achieved the one thing we dreaded most: a beta-plus; a polite verdict of all-round competence.

When, several years later, I put on a show at the Edinburgh Fringe, the critic from The Scotsman described it as "unbelievably atrocious". I was delighted, and notwithstanding the entreaties of my colleagues, put the quote on the posters; attendances doubled in the second week.

Merrily on high

A persistent urban myth holds that when the sodden corpse of the free jazz saxophonist Albert Ayler was fished out of the East River in November, 1970, it was discovered that he'd been tied to a jukebox. Which surely suggests a particularly bleak parlour game, or maybe the pitch for a radio programme, Desert Island Discs reimagined by Chris Morris: if you were plunging towards a cold, dark, watery, inevitable doom, which records would you want to be playing on the lump of chrome and glass and bakelite that was dragging you under?

Albert Ayler: 'Bells' (1965).

Oh, Merry Christmas, by the way.

404 = P45

As the economic indicators get so gloomy that Survivors starts to look like a documentary, global capitalism is having to find stylish and innovative methods of making people redundant. I discovered the other night that one major Asian newspaper is so terrified by the notion that spurned employees might deploy editorial depth-charges, the IT department is told who's for the chop before the victims themselves find out. The first indication that you're on the scrapheap isn't an ominous summons to the boss's office, or even the appearance of a security guard with a cardboard box; your computer just freezes, leaving you gazing at a glassy microcosm of what your own life has suddenly become.

But how do they get rid of the IT guys?

Peppermints and daisy-chains

Adrian Mitchell, 1932-2008.

PS: An appropriately rabble-rousing tribute for CiF.

PPS: Uh-oh. Only caught bang to rights by Attila the Stockbroker.

What's it to yah?

I'm trying to compile a list of people who haven't recorded a version of Lugubrious Lenny Cohen's 'Hallelujah', but it's tough. So far I've come up with:

preposterously diminished dart-chucker Andy Fordham;

the late Kathy Staff off of Last of the Summer Wine (who did record a ska-tinged version of Cohen's 'Paper Thin Hotel' in 1979);



that brilliant bloke who threw his shoes at Dubya;

the Ood, or at least one of them;

and former union boss and transcendent erotic icon Rodney "Would lady comrades please keep their knickers on until composite 11 has been debated" Bickerstaffe.

I'm pretty sure that's it. Unless you can think of any more...

PS: Sensible overview of the my-version's-better-than-yours thing from Daniel Finkelstein in The Times.

That baby's ready to tend bar.

Hmm. Con: I am married to someone who has seen neither The Usual Suspects nor The Untouchables. I asked, "Are there any other 'U' movies you need to tell me about?"

Pro: The very bestest husband in the whole world bought me a Garmin Nuvi for xmas. I want to lick it, marry it, have children with it. If you know me at all, you know I cannot find my way out of a mall parking lot. No, wait...you know I cannot find my way out of a public bathroom. I get turned around with such embarrassing ease that I am no longer embarrassed by my shame.

It not only guides me everywhere (and that bossy American chick is soon to be replaced by a saucy Australian or UK man) but I can tell it restaurants I want (or it will find some for me), nearby gas stations, entertainment, anything you could possibly want except perhaps where I might find an empty parking spot downtown on a Friday night the weekend before Christmas. But picky picky.

I think the pros have it, especially considering the cons simply mean I get to watch both of those movies again. And best of all, he has somehow made it this far with no one having spoiled The Usual Suspects for him. Weird.

Sit on this

I've always had the greatest admiration for good salespeople and marketing bods, because it's something at which I'm utterly hopeless. It's a combination of my crapness with strangers, my principled loathing for shopping and consumerism of almost any kind and my utter inability to feign enthusiasm about anything whatsoever, including things I quite like. So I'll say at the outset that Sally, who works for the modern furniture retailer Regency Shop, does good sales. I'm not quite sure why a retailer specialising in modern design should be named after a period of the early 19th century, but hey, maybe that's why I'm not in marketing.

I'm also slightly befuddled as to why Sally contacted me and asked me to put a link to her Beau-Brummell-meets-the-Bauhaus emporium on my blog. To be fair, she does offer a hint:

"I realize that you have knowledge of barcelona :)... it'd be swell if you can place our barcelona chair link on your blog..."

Now I do have a cursory knowledge of Barcelona, having visited the place somewhere between once and three times; well, precisely between once and three times, as in twice, the last being more than eight years ago. It's jolly nice and I hope to go back, this time maybe for more than three days. But I don't know why this should give me any particular insight into a particular piece of furniture about which the only thing I know is that it was designed by Mies van der Rohe. And I'm not even sure how Sally knows about my limited knowledge of Barcelona; a trawl of my blog turns up one reference, in which I make a passing reference to the city in a post otherwise devoted to Cambodia.

But Sally's not done; in a final twist, she clarifies that the Barcelona chair that Regency Shop offers at the very reasonable price of $345 (plus shipping) isn't actually a Barcelona chair, presumably to avoid paying pesky royalties to the Mies van der Rohe estate:

"we call it the ibiza chair."

So Sally wants me to give a mention to this chair, because it's named after somewhere I haven't been. Or, more specifically, because I've been somewhere it's not named after. And you know what? I did!

Told you she was good.

PS: More conceptual Mies stuff here.

I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing

Been listening to the Pet Shop Boys' recent Radio 2 show, which opens with 'Left To My Own Devices'; as always, that line, surely their most celebrated, leaps out: "Che Guevara and Debussy to a disco beat".

It's memorable, but does it actually mean anything? There's an implication that Neil Tennant is announcing his own aesthetic manifesto, a fusion of politics (Che) and high art (Debussy) in the guise of apparently throwaway pop fluff. Although maybe these are just words that sound good. But if not, why choose these particular indicators? Apart, of course, from the fact that Che and Claude don't look entirely unalike, as can been seen from the attached pics. It's a linguistic formula ("A and B to a C beat") that could incorporate any combination of unlikely bedfellows as 'A' and 'B', where 'C' signifies a specific musical form; although I reckon the word would have to have more than one syllable: "...to a ska beat" sounds oddly abrupt.

So...

• Architecture and pessimism to a rocksteady beat

• Pogle's Wood and Julie Burchill to a foxtrot beat

• Darwinism and mumbling to a trad jazz beat

Some of which sound like the sort of thing that Nietzsche might doodle in the margins while trying to get his head round a difficult Sudoku; or maybe they're just candidates for the space under the blog title.

The only potential downside is that constructions inevitably become clichés: think of "X is the new Y"; or the profoundly tired "M is like N on acid". So we'd better have fun with it before the wheels fall off. Over, as ever, to you.

I can't talk to that guy. I went to private school.

Wow, so we're getting ice for the second time this year already and it's not even Christmas! This is weird. We don't normally see winter til January.

I would prefer it if my husband were also home already, as even on my ride home (I brazenly went downtown after work to indulge in fettucine alfredo and Shiraz) the bridges were accumulating black ice. I-35S was fairly lucky, but I-35N seemed to have at least 3 severe accidents in the 10-minute time span that is my drive. What can I say, Texans love to drive on ice.

But now that I am home, I am snuggled up in my hot delicious spa with a big fat cup of Earl Grey and the first disc of season 4 of Cheers on my laptop. Even if I bombed the fuck out of my test and don't ever go to law school, by god, I will have that spa.

And this clip totally made my morning. I giggled on the way to work thinking back on it. Thanks, dad!

Shelling out

I was eight years old when I went abroad for the first time, a family fortnight in Brittany. To prepare for the experience, my parents took us to a nearby French restaurant, where I entered into the spirit of things by ordering escargots. The starters duly arrived, but mine wasn't among them.

"Daddy," I hissed. "Where are my snails?"

"They take a little bit longer," he explained. "The chef has to go to the churchyard next door and pluck them off the gravestones."

Despite that trauma (which would probably nowadays see my father being prosecuted for child abuse - did you see the story about the teacher who was sacked for telling children that Santa Claus didn't exist?) I grew to love the little rubbery buggers, ordering them whenever the opportunity arrived. But gradually, I realised that what I really loved was the vast quantities of garlic and butter and parsley in which the snails were cooked, and they slipped from my culinary Top 10.

Fast forward rather more years than I'd care to think about; to Saturday night, in fact. I'm reviewing a new French restaurant in Bangkok, in the most excellent company of Charles Frith. Escargots Bourguignon is on the menu and hey, what the hell, let's have some. Although the garlic and butter is present, it's a restrained, elegant version of the dish, not a full-on vampire killer; as a result, you can taste the snails.

"I think these snails must be frozen," I say. "They don't taste of anything." And then the sickening, shuddering realisation kicks in. Maybe snails really don't taste of anything anyway.

It's as if you're a music fan in the late 1980's, and you've just invested in this new-fangled compact disc thingummybob; you splash out on the complete works of your favourite artist on CD. And when you get them home and play them, you realise that what you loved about your old records was the smell of the vinyl, the static as the disc came out of the sleeve, the pop as the stylus made contact, the crackle and the buzz, the familiar label going round slightly more than once every two seconds. And the music you thought you loved was pretty bloody ordinary.

The naked truth: postscript

Just an addendum to my earlier witterings about The Fermata; I read the book last weekend, in a beach hut near Pattaya, east of Bangkok. From the window, I could see lots of (Western) people in various states of undress: bikinis; topless; those tight thongs that German males of a certain age deem to be appropriate beachware. Now, all these people knew they were lurching towards nakedness; but did they know that, by Thai cultural standards, they were exceeding the boundaries of decency? Several Thai families were on the same beach, swimming fully clothed, as is the Thai way. When a scantily-clad farang loomed into view, they just looked in the other direction, feeling awkward but not wanting to make a fuss; as is also the Thai way. Unless the Westerners were being particularly crass and insensitive (possibly believing that with the Thai tourist industry in such a dire state, the locals should be pathetically grateful for their mere presence) I presume that they just didn't know the effect their unclad state was having, the message it was sending.

By watching the Westerners parade about with their nipples twinkling in the sun, the outlines of their genitalia clearly visible, was I being another Arno Strine; seeing them exposed to an extent they didn't necessarily realise? Should I have alerted them, like the serpent in Eden, awakening Adam and Eve (or Helmut und Heidi) to their own fall from grace? Or should I have just watched from a distance, hoping that none of them reads this?

Pointless

I'm intrigued by the story of Daniel Hoevels, the Austrian actor who slashed his own throat on stage after a real knife was substituted for a prop. Apparently, the audience applauded ecstatically at the gory effect, then stopped pretty quickly when they deduced that his commitment to art had gone just that little bit too far. As Andrew Lloyd Webber's lyricist said, "human kind / Cannot bear very much reality."

If only it had been the duel scene from Hamlet, which might have offered even greater potential for amusing blade-related misunderstandings.

Less than Jake

Apparently, Brokeback Mountain was shown on Italian TV on Monday night without the gay bits. Which is more ludicrous than Hamlet without the prince. Paris without the Eiffel Tower? Jethro Tull without flute solos? Your turn.

PS: More disappearing homosexuals here.

The music of the spheres

'Genius' is a debased word, but Oliver Postgate had it to spare. I salute his memory with a raised glass of green soup.



PS: Cracking Martin Rowson cartoon in the Graun.

Virgin on the ridiculous

My premier post on Prospect magazine's First Drafts blog. (Awaits collective CiF-style rumination as to whether it's a *proper* blog or not.) Thanks to James Crabtree for the invite. Probably NSFW, by the way:

Before they soundtracked the fall of Communism with the sappy power ballad Wind of Change, the German rock band Scorpions were probably best known for their album covers, which pushed the boundaries of adolescent “ooh-aren’t-I-outrageous?” tedium even by the remarkable standards of European heavy metal...

For full metal mullets and non-ironic lighters aloft, follow this link.

PS: And for a bit of kiddie-porn hysteria that makes the above look entirely sensible, go here.

The naked truth

I've been reading The Fermata, by Nicholson Baker. I think I've read most of Baker's fiction over the years, but for some reason this had slid between the cracks; a phrase that seems fairly appropriate because Baker has two obsessions - sex and language - and investigates them in the minutest detail. "Between the cracks" would probably send him off on a twelve-page discursion about metaphor, cliché and some woman whose bum he accidentally groped, or thought about accidentally groping, in a Dairy Queen on the outskirts of Baltimore in 1979. Perhaps with footnotes.

The Fermata is the peculiar tale of Arno Strine, who discovers a talent for stopping time. (Those of you who've seen Heroes will know what I mean, and will also have further evidence as to how startlingly unoriginal - yet strangely enjoyable - this mash-up of The X Files and The Tomorrow People really is.) Strine uses his gift for two purposes: to get his work done in apparently superfast time (he's a temp typist); and to look at women's bodies.

This makes Strine sound like a pervert, and he is, but (by his own perception) a fundamentally decent, thoughtful pervert. He does actually like women, and would be mortified if anything he did upset them. He looks at their bodies; touches them; even masturbates in their presence; but then ensures that everything is returned to normal when time restarts, so that they never feel violated. Sometimes he seems to overstep his self-defined mark, mysteriously introducing sex toys into the lives of strangers, but his motive is always to bring happiness. Sick he may be, Patrick Bateman he ain't.

Baker adds to the moral confusion by having Strine write pornography, which is offered to us in the course of the narrative. We're distanced from it (it's fiction within a fiction) and Strine's motivation is supposedly honourable; he offers it to the women he sees, to excite them, to bring him joy, although he also masturbates while writing it. But it's definitely porn, not erotica (don't ask me what the difference is, it just is) and can be read as such. Should a reader appreciate Baker's gift for aping the tropes of Hustler and Penthouse? Or enjoy a discreet hand shandy of his/her own? (Incidentally, Mary Gaitskill in the back-cover blurb describes The Fermata as "Rabelaisian" which is one of those glorious critical references that's taken on a life of its own; people who've never read a comma of Rabelais know what he's like because of all the other writers who've been described as Rabelaisian; essentially, people who write about morally suspect things with such joy that you can't hold it against them. There's a similar phenomenon in rock journalism; everything the Stooges and Captain Beefheart ever recorded could be permanently wiped, and their reputations would be unaffected. But we're veering into Baudrillard territory there, and I did promise you a holiday from that.)

The crucial thread throughout the story is that Strine keeps his gift a secret, so none of his 'victims' (and I debated long and hard - ooh, there he goes again - about whether or not to use those quotation marks) know they've been spied on, undressed, fondled. Which, of course, raises all manner of questions about supposedly victimless crimes. If you never know that a man across the road is watching you undress through the curtains, is there a problem? If I don't know that the CIA is reading my e-mails, is there a problem? Because his gift is so bizarre, Strine can only discuss it with his acquaintances as a hypothesis, a parlour game, a piece of conversational fantasy; I know it's crazy, but what would you do if you could stop time? Even in its theoretical state, they tend to be repulsed by the potential invasion of privacy, so he keeps the secret from everyone but the reader until the end of the narrative. And when he does genuinely attempt to persuade someone that it's true, there are unexpected consequences.

The only thing that Baker doesn't address is the notion that maybe everybody has these powers. Since nobody knows when Strine stops time, how would Strine know when someone else stopped time and undressed him? And stepping back a little into the realm that we desperately call 'reality', Baker has constructed a fictional possibility. How would it be if everyone in the world knew that possibility wasn't a fiction; except for Baker? He's merrily playing with the creative possibilities of time, unaware that everyone else in the world is groping his bum.

Yoko Ono...to see the apartment!

Well, that's over with. Omg, that was a very big pooch-screwing on my part. I almost sort of freaked out at one point it was so catastrophic. But then the first section after the break was so comically easy I wondered if there was something wrong with it. Sadly, one section does not five great sections make. At least one of two particular sections is experimental and won't count. I have a section in mind I'm totally praying doesn't make the cut.

The Cayuga White from Cornell is fucking spectacular, however. Goddamn.

And I am defusing by decorating my tree and putting up lights inside. As Triana knows, you just can't have too many Christmas lights and they really do make everything better.



Also watched Planes, Trains and Automobiles, which is still pretty damn perfect. And now? Jeffrey. Seriously, I have yet to encounter the grumpiness that Jeffrey cannot remedy. Ahhhh.

Good morning! Welcome to another day of higher education!

So I was making a fire last night out of one of my old high school yearbooks (which had nothing to do with not having newspaper and everything to do with wanting to burn those fuckers). I was getting a lot of joy from the tearing out of pages and whatnot when I, perhaps due to some obligatory masochistic impulse, still felt the need to read the signed back pages. And then I found an entry that totally floored and confused me.

Not that my friends weren't witty or funny, but those yearbook entries always tended to lack intriguing content. It was startling, like finding filet mignon in a strawberry ho ho. Except not gross.

And I had no idea who "Rog." (the signee) was. I was appalled I might not recall who this infinitely cool person was. The Al Pacino reference really caught me off guard, as I did have a friend who was obsessed, but her handwriting was atrocious, so I ruled her out.

Sweet Spank,

I already miss you and your toffee-sticky fingers and shapely knees. Even though we'll still share the same city, I'll no longer see that flash of your dazzling smile in the hallway. Life's a bitch! Well hey, if anyone ever tells you to "kiss my [squirrel]" like I did when we first met, you just do to them what you did to me; what a reaction. But don't take them on any parking lot trysts; repetition is death. And I'd be jealous. I'll never forget all the guys you scoped...and tackled...and if you ever find the right one again, THIS time find out his name in the morning.

Please never forget Big Al's words of wisom..."When in doubt...*" So just go out there, my little sugarpop, and start your own teddy bear factory and never look back. (And never sleep in leather.) Please try to get over your desire for callipygian young men--there just aren't enough to go around, you know, and I'm afraid you'll steal mine. Or at least the one destined to be mine. Or whatever. But anyway they're simply all merely tentiginons and thelyphthoric, so to hell with 'em. But hey, "I'm supposed to be doing promotion here." Blah. Yearbooks always make me sob and I'm only wearing my tweed briefs (nothing to wipe my nose on) so I'll sign off now. Good luck, sugar pop!

Your comedy partner,
XXX
XX Rog.

*In Scent of a Woman, Al Pacino advises his cat, "When in doubt, fuck."

But anyway, there you have it. I was stunned. And I'm sure it's because I was stressed and tired and thinking in high school mind-frame, but of course I still know the very witty person who wrote this.

My sister Alex! We did have an overlapping year together in high school, but I have no doubt this was written at home in a full-on tonuge-in-cheek-fuck-this-yearbook-shit gesture. It stood out from the tripe then and it really does now.

The handwriting was obviously familiar, and of course "squirrel" totally seals the deal. Ok, that and the Pacino line. But whew! It just confused me to read something that made me laugh hysterically in my own yearbook, it was so gloriously out of place.

(And hey, Alex, just for you, this is post #666, wewt!)

Lost your bottle?

I've been flicking through a new Bangkok business magazine called Director (I know, it's a pretty rock 'n' roll life I lead) and came across a piece about Diageo, and how they're dealing with restrictions on alcohol marketing in Thailand. The most delicious part of the rules is that advertisers can't actually refer to the products, only the brand. So you can't show a bottle of Johnnie Walker (Diageo's big seller in the region) or even suggest that Johnnie Walker might be something that someone might want to drink. All you can show is the quintessence of JohnnieWalkerness, and quietly hope that someone will be encouraged to buy some whisky on the back of it.

Zanita Kajiji, Diageo's VP (Marketing), says:

All that's left is to focus on the brand... About the positive messages associated with that brand. That makes it easier for someone else to say exactly the same thing, and you then can't differentiate the product for the consumer.

Uh... I would have thought the exact opposite was true. How many consumers can really tell Johnnie Walker Red Label apart from any other big-selling Scotch (Bell's, Teacher's, 100 Pipers) in a blind tasting? Especially when it's consumed, as is usually the case in Thailand, with copious amounts of ice, soda and often slices of lime? Surely all that distinguishes them is the brand, so the marketing restrictions actually make things easier, by doing away with the mundane reality of product, that so often gets in the way of a good ad. I'll let someone else explain:

Scared? Hell, no. I'm looking FORWARD to it. My only regret, Carol, is that the plan isn't more violent.

Yes, I'm pretty sure the hot bartender just saw me snap my fingers at my computer (a gay finger-snap, in case you need clarification) while he was collecting my pizza remnants.

For the record, one glass of wine is really more than enough, I don't care if your therapist's appointment is that night.

That's my mom's most favorite piece!

Ok, wtf. I'm at Uno's and normally they are so on the ball. But apparently if you come in before 5 it's just to drown your sorrows in beer and wine? Cause I have a glass of wine and NO ONE has checked on me in 20 minutes. I'm all, hey, I've got a doctor's appointment to get to, y'all wanna feed me maybe?

And I didn't even read this whole article that Emily sent me cause I heard it on the news this morning and it's fucking depressing. Just MORE INCENTIVE to get the fuck out.

Speaking of which, I went to check out my LSAT test center cause I have no sense of direction and I'm the sort of person who needs to stake out the room beforehand. (Yes, I pass it nearly every day on my way to booze it up, but bite me.) Apparently as soon as you enter the building it's anal-patrol time security-wise, so no worries about not being able to find the room. But they were all, "Hey, were you the one whose husband called about being taken to see the room?" In retrospect I should have been ALL INTO THAT. "Maybe, or no, but can I see the room?" I know I could have, but who cares really. I am amused that someone is that...um...troubled?...that her husband has to call about getting her "in" to see "the room." Word, woman.

Dude, it's like they're afraid of me here. ASK ME IF I WANT PIZZA, BITCHES. I TRIPLE DOG DARE YOU.

Anyhoo. GUESS WHAT! GUESS who I'm gonna go see! No, you'll never guess. It's too awesome. Totally. Well, Alex and I (and my hubby) are going to go see (assuming the ticketmaster site doesn't screw up or hate us, you never know)...oh yes, wait for it...goodness me, ROBIN FUCKING WILLIAMS, ohmygodyes. It's like the time I was dirt-ass poor in Austin and then Paul Simon came to town. It's not "Can I afford it?" it's "What can I sell besides my body? Unless I have to and then that might actually be an option?" Anyone who wants in on that action should say so by Saturday, baby.

History today

Who says bodice-ripping can't be educational?

The first piece I ever wrote for Cif was about Thailand; specifically about the coup in September, 2006. There were a few more articles along the same lines, but eventually I drifted away from the subject, because it felt as if I was wrestling with smoke. Every time I came to a conclusion, something bizarre happened that challenged all my previous preconceptions. Only last month, I wrote a feature for another publication, quoting a senior figure in the Thai tourist industry thus: "and so long as they don't blockade the airport, it doesn't matter". The day after the magazine went to press, the PAD – bitter opponents of former prime minister Thaksin Shinawatra and all his works – blockaded the airport.

Deciding that I'll never understand this place, I watched the first couple of episodes of the civil war drama The Devil's Whore instead; at which point a dim lightbulb popped up above my head...

Further oaths, muskets and heaving bosoms to be found here.

(Picture from 2bangkok.com)

I smell ice cream.

For the record, my eyes are broken and can't even READ anymore. Fuck this noise.

I bit myself shaving.

It's Wednesday and I can feel the crazy oozing out a little here and there. My big test is Saturday. Did you know they fingerprint you for this test? You can bring your #2 pencils, a juice box and snack (but don't even LOOK AT IT unless it's during the ONE 15-minute break), and your prayers and that's it. Oh, and your test ticket and government-issued ID.

I had to register with LSAC's site (well, I didn't HAVE TO, but the law schools PREFER IT) which was $117. And the LSAT test itself is, I forget, maybe $120? It's just like Leo says, man, they fuck you at the drive-thru.

I have 5-7 schools in mind for applying, which should come in around $350-500.

So I thought I'd drink a little.

Just kidding. But I will be doing quite a bit Saturday night. I figure after my test (it's probably going to run around 5-6 hours?) on Saturday I'll hit the Flying Saucer around 2pm (the test is right across from the Water Gardens, so I'm five minutes from FOOD and more importantly, BEER) for a VERY unhealthy lunch (say it with me now: CHEESE FRIES) and then I'll head home to defuse with some xmas decorating, if there's any left (we're getting the tree tonight). And I am then making my way up to my roof to drink my Cayuga White--the wine made with grapes grown at Cornell. There may or may not be a cigar involved. I would almost smoke something else if a girl was hip enough to have such connections, but oh well.

Then Sunday? My ass is going to (assuming I'm not incredibly fragile from the previous day) hit the theater ALL DAY LONG, BABY. The Spirit Award nominations have me itching to see Rachel Getting Married. (I have a secret crush on Anne Hathaway but don't really seek her out since she tends to be in CRAP.) Gonna follow that up with The Changeling and Australia, in whatever order suits the times. They're all at Grapevine Mills, so anyone (Alex?) wanting to is more than welcome to join!



Kinda want to save this one for last because I'm a little precious that way.

How do I love thee? Let me count the bubbles in this Aero...

Small Boo and I have long complained that it's damn near impossible to remember which commodity goes with which wedding anniversary. I mean, all the obvious ones for the big numbers: silver; ruby; gold; they're pretty easy. But the earlier ones are impossible. Which one's paper? China? Leather? And are they different in other countries? Anyway, we decided to create a definitive list, on the basis that we're right and everyone else is wrong, unless they agree with us. But we got bored after about a dozen. So you lot are going to have to finish it.

1 year: dental floss
2 years: belly-button fluff
3 years: pencil shavings
4 years: papier maché
5 years: corduroy
6 years: Arctic roll
7 years: dog hair
8 years: nail varnish
9 years: cough sweets
10 years: xylophones
11 years: gravel
12 years: assorted souvenirs from Radio One roadshows 1974-1979
13 years: over to you...

I want you to take away the hope because that's the thing that's killing me.

So there is this girl at work who is new and she actually reads. It's weird, I know, but work with me here. And she reminded me that Denis Leary's new book is out and she thinks it's hysterical. So let's take a moment here.

A) There is a girl at work who reads.
B) She likes Denis Leary.
C) The name of the book is Why We Suck.



So this girl is okay by me. And she's from Seattle, so that seems to be a good thing if you ask me. I was looking at schools in that neck of the woods (Washington and Oregon) but all the write-ups were trying, as kindly as possible, to say, "Well, it's a good school and all...look, it's good for getting jobs in the area." Like, "He's nice, but I would only take him to the Chinese take-out place near my house after sex." Like that.

Anyhoo. So I made a request at the library (they had it!!) and I'm #3 in line. I hope I get it before Christmas, it seems appropriate.

Especially after trying to get home Sunday. I was trying to merge onto the highway in Denton to get to Fort Worth and it was wall-to-wall traffic at the merge. So this douchebag mothercuntstain would NOT let me in. I honked at him and he was ON THE PHONE but he managed to honk back. So no big, whatev, fuck you, I'll just cruise along slowly here on the shoulder and get in behind you. Beautifully, so choice, so in-the-holiday-spirit, the shit-stain of a loser behind him? Yeah, he wouldn't let me in either. I was half a second away from getting out of my car and gesturing wildly to everyone around me. So I was reconciled to driving on the shoulder for a good little while til they managed to pass.

Gotta love it.

This is why I need to read a very not-so-subtle Denis Leary book this time of year. To keep me from pulling out my mutherfuckin' shotgun.

Oh! And I saw Milk this weekend. It's at one theatre here (the arthouse I used to work in, naturally), but I'm over it, I can attend. It was really fucking good. My sister and I had only mild disagreements about its approach. First of all, it's a Gus Van Sant film. And I was SO GODDAMN PROUD to find that he is still capable of making yes, a LINEAR AND COHERENT film. Someone get the man a goddamn cookie.

It is, full stop, all about the acting here.



Everyone is FABOO, especially Sean Penn, and I am really not the huge Sean Penn fan. He is just SO SERIOUS. This role was so different from ANYTHING I'd ever seen him do, and honestly? He was ADORABLE. If he brought me to that line of thinking in the introductory scene alone, we can just say he's gifted, okay?

And Josh Brolin? Seriously. I simply cannot recall the last time I saw someone with so many fingers in so many pies. Go him. As long as he is keeping my woman, Diane Lane, happy and rolling in dough, I will totally support him.

Alex and I discussed how linear and by-the-numbers it is. It is a fairly standard bio-pic. I really enjoyed the cinematography but she felt it only added to the distance felt by the audience. That whole moment-captured-in-amber feel. And I agree with her, but I like that sometimes. While I don't normally go for standard and formulaic, I also really don't trust Van Sant to know a happy medium. He only does extremes, from what I can tell.



And considering the topic (most certainly in light of the timing--I will join everyone and their dog in saying I really, really wish this had come out before the vote on Prop 8), I am totally happy not to be swayed by its simplicity. I found the performances more than enough. Every once in a while, I am really quite easy to please.

And I say that Milk was easily one of the best of the year (not that I've seen much), due entirely and exclusively to performances and the topic. That is pretty hard to do--I honestly didn't think the screenplay or the director did anything terribly noteworthy. And I could be talking out of my ass, but for what it's worth, I say go see it: it's a good fuckin' time. Totally cute, entertaining and to no one's surprise, quite sad and depressing.