The Doll's House

2003-05-31T18:05:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Column #3 - Underwear

Dear readers, it may or may not have escaped your notice that I am a student, and shall remain so until this July, when they give me a rolled up piece of paper to hold for a photograph in unflattering robes and pretend it is a degree. It may perhaps also have eluded you that not only am I a student, I am the type of student who steals traffic cones, thinks kebabs are legitimate sources of nutrition, and will take any opportunity to dress in a silly manner and act like a fool. In short, I am delta chi tau through and through, I honestly won't believe I have graduated until I wear a sheet and get rat-arsed, and as such the events of this Friday night should not have fased me in the slightest bit.

But for heaven's sakes, somebody has stolen my underwear!

I don't mean one of my housemates or a guest has taken my panties surreptitiously from my drawer, or even that some perverted type has sneaked a freshly worn g-string from the floor of my room or washing basket. No no gentle reader, what I mean is that someone, on the night of Friday May 30th 2003, opened my back gate and took three pairs of clean black lace panties from my washing line, leaving untouched my socks and the copious amount of assorted black clothing that hung forlornly with them. Some nefarious soul has removed three pairs of only a total of fourteen pairs of black underwear.

Now, it wasn't particularly good underwear, you understand. My mother bought me one of them, but to be honest though it was comfortable and one pair was a gift, its loss causes me no great pain. Even the fact that somebody has breached the security of my house and taken my personal property does not bother me perhaps as much as it should, possibly because I myself has librated items of council property in my day. But the question that I find myself asking is - WHY?

I would like, in my deeply Romantic heart, to think that perhaps some impoverished woman of approximatly my size was in need of underwear, and thus removed my garments for her own use being unable to afford her own. I would not even mind if it were that a groups of students not unlike myself purloined the panties in question under the influence of some fermented product. But some deeply buried part of my tormented psyche lingers through these ponderings, lamenting the fate of my undrwear in the hands of some grubby creature with a fetish for Persil non-bio and black lace. In my mind's eye I see the items in question in his feverish grasp, inspiring him to new heights of frenzy and degradation.

Perhaps it is a little vain of me to imagine my underwear as masturbatory inspiration, but I feel it is rather a neccesary reaction. I tend to suspect the worst in any situation, and in this one, the worst is most definatly that of your underwear falling into the clutches of a derranged madman. It could be one of my neighbours - I rarely close the curtains at night, meaning that when I happen to remove my clothes, anyone who cares to cast an eye towards Box Five can see my underwear if they so wish. I cannot help allowing my mind to wander freely in a land where my neighbours are derranged sex-starved fetishists who have gazed at those black lace panties from afar, awaiting the chance to liberate them from my washing line. No matter the vanity of the situation, the plain fact still remains that someone, without my permission (lord knows I always ask permission when removing female lingerie. They get rather annoyed when you don't ask) has laid hands upon my underwear.

So don't be too surprised, my dear reader, when you see the sign on the back gate of my house demanding their return - unsoiled and undamaged - and assist me in an Underwear Amnesty.

2003-05-28T16:25:00.000-07:00

I've got a brand new online journal, an' I'll give you the key!

www.blurty.com/users/operaghost/

That's the new actual journal. Columns will carry on here, PD will continue to be updated, it was just time for a change, you know? Just don't ever forget The Doll's House, it's not dead - just not daily either.

2003-05-28T06:33:00.000-07:00

My Spirit And Your Voice

Hearing is believing,
Music is decieving
Harsh as lightning,
Soft as candlelight

Mood : Cranky
Music : "Another Lonely Night" Gladys Knight and The Pips

The last lyrics quiz answer was "Heaven's Light" from Disney's "Hunchback of Notre Dame" and I'm presuming nobody bothered as it was just too damned easy, I refuse to put the next line in of the one above, as that *really* gives it away, but go on, I'm wondering how many people know that version. If you're thinking it looks familiar, try reading it aloud and listen to the rhythm.

Big thanks before I start to Awesome Man for his random hugs, tea-drinking chats and generally being - well, Awesome... and now I'm afraid it's time for a ramble.

You know, I've been thinking about something. A dangerous practice, and one sure to warrant medical attention when you find out what it is I've been thinking about. But right now, anything but thinking about my horrific Philosophy exam is good. As you well know, music is one of the main driving forces of my life, without my music I truly think I would be less of a person, or at least an incredibly different person, and though I love many kinds of music for many different reasons, what I tend to focus on is quality of voice.

I don't mean just technical ability. One can be a virtuoso, but still not be counted in my list of great voices, like Sarah Brightman (yes, I actually have a physical list, I'll get to that) purely because of a lack of passion, of feeling, of purity, technical precision isn't everything;

"Elle a fait le progrès merveilleux et ceux-là qui elle ont entendu ont prophétisé qu'elle serait le plus grand chanteur dans le monde. Pendant ce temps, le père mort; et soudain, elle a semblé avoir perdu, avec lui, sa voix, son âme et son génie. Elle a retenu seulement, mais seulement seulement, assez de ceci entrer le conservatoire, où elle ne s'est pas distinguée à tout..."

Many apologies to those of you who couldn't read that. I'll be happy to supply a translation upon demand, but I just felt for some odd quirky reason, possibly because I'm feeling cantankerous and just enjoy the book better in the original language (for one thing it makes the style far far less clumsy) and felt like quoting it. But in any case, what I'm actually getting around to is that I have come to a disturbing conclusion about my list of the Great Voices. There is a distinct lack of males.

Now, I have noticed that many women preffer to listen to female singers. This is no great sin, simply a matter of taste, but I happen to love a beautiful male voice, and that is why I find it so puzzling that in the compilation of my list I have seemingly ignored the men. Here is my list as it stands, voices I love for their sheer power and richness;

Billie Holiday
Ella Fitzgerald
Eartha Kitt
Peggy Lee
Shirley Bassey
Michael Ball
Judy Garland
Eva Cassidy
Kate Rusby
Maire Brennan
John Lennon
Demi Moore
Frank Sinatra
Paige O'Hara
Bette Midler
Richard White
Michael Crawford
Jane Horrocks
Tom Hulce

That last one may look a little surprising to you, particularly if you have partaken of such deadly fruits as "Animal House" or Ken Brannagh's "Frankenstein" or even (lord forbid that you should be as hooked on this film as I) "Amadeus" but Tom Hulce actually has a wonderful singing voice, he's a very light top range tenor, very clean and pure, and his only real vocal fault is a heavy vibrato, but it can be easilly excused. I'm aware also that many of you may not know Paige O'Hara or Richard White - if not, I suggest "Beauty And The Beast" since they are both in it, respectively as Belle and Gaston. Richard White was also of course the Phantom - in fact I've just noticed I have three Phantoms on my list, which isn't really surprising as it takes an exceptional voice to really pull it off, not that I'm stroking my own fluffy ego here at all. Did you know that Michael Crawford is also a phenomenally gifted pianist? Try and listen to his "Carol Of The Bells" it's simply stunning. Demi Moore also requires Disney to appreciate - Hunchback this time, also starring Tom Hulce, and Jane Horrocks.. well Jane Horrocks is astonising, truly. Watch Little Voice. But justification over with, doesn't that list look a little too tipped towards the fair sex to you, dear reader?

I just don't understand it. If anything my prefferences tend away from the soprano range, which is possibly why I have the dark voices such as Shirley Bassey and Eartha Kitt on my list, but some of the others are most definatly up there on the top C's, and I cannot stand a note too high. My hearing extends far higher than normal into the upper registers, which is why you will find me with organ music on when my head is feeling tender, yet I don't see a single natural baritone on there. How strange.

Veering wildly away from topic, I've also developed an odd affection for swing, which I blame wholey upon Jim Carrey, it's all his fault. If I didn't love "Hey Pachuco" (which was in "The Mask") so much, I would probably never had downloaded quite so much by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies. Some of the blame must also rest upon the wiry shoulders of Mr Al Yancovic however, whose version of "Zoot Suit Riot" ("Grapefruit Diet") sent me running to Kazaa Lite for the original. There's nothing wrong with liking swing, it just seems to sit awkwardly with my adoration of opera, but then again so does my strange passion for German techno.

As I have been modifying that list as I go along, I've noticed that I've come up with more and more men on it, thus making this entire ramble rather more random and pointless than usual, but never mind, we shall press bravely onwards, because I really should be revising and right now I am running dangerously close to a migraine. That isn't like me at all I know, but shaking my funky stuff to Sir Mix-A-Lot isn't at all like me either and that's been happening recently too.

Kazaa is brilliant for one's musical tastes. You end up downloading a lot of random music that you would otherwise perhaps never have heard purely on a whim because you wanted one song in particular and found all these others, it's wonderful. Now, I refuse to disparage anybody's musical taste, just because I happen to find a great deal of dance music thoroughly irritating and repetitive (indeed, much like this 'blog at times) does not mean it has any less musical value than any other kind. People value different things in music - and all I need from it is that it makes me feel something, which I think is basically what most people want really, though I could be entirely wrong. Any kind of music can do that for me - anything from Wagner to the Vengaboys, and yes I really do listen to them occasionally, they are very happy and uplifting in an entirely different way to, say, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

Have you ever noticed that is in no way night music? At least not by my definition. For a start it's a major key piece, which I tend to associate with a sunny morning or afternoon, and it's just far too full of the joys of Spring to be night music. The Mass in C Minor, THAT'S night music. I've realised Eine Kleine has really grown on me, which I would probably formerly have taken as an indication that my musical taste had taken a rapid downturn, but which I now simply regard as my taste broadening. In my opinion, this is always a good thing. I've realised now that I have entirely deviated from the subject of this entry, and will simply close it with something that I know in my heart of hearts to be the absolute truth;

"Hey Jude" is one of the best songs ever written.

2003-05-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

The (Incredibly Late) Sunday Column

I would try and make excuses for why I haven't actually written a Sunday Column until Tuesday morning, but I really can't you know. I haven't been sleeping well and frankly exams are a living nightmare. I *could* have fired up that rant I have stored up about Dario Argento's Phantom but I think I'll save that for when nothing at all is niggling me. For now, I think I will once again roll out the bandwaggon and get out my trusty trampoline, for this morning, The VVR joins the Great Pan-Blog Debate....

The Great LURPS Argument

It is never a good idea to start a column with quotes from something else. It just looks like you don't have anything good to start off saying, so that is why I am writing this explanation, to make it look as if I do. Now, right, Mike's 'blog. I am not a regular reader of this particular corner of the Web, for no reason other than that it already takes me an hour to get through the 'blogs that I do read, but just recently, I noticed people had reacted not directly to what Lucretia had said as I fully expected, but to Mike's commentary on it. Having engaged in a litlle light debate with people via M'amselle's diary message board, I decided to read the offending article myself. I have seen things that have been festering at the bottom of my washing bin unbeknownst to me for three months that caused me less disgust. Let's just indulge my ego for a moment here shall we?

That is great, we are very very placid and laid back. Then there is the smoking, or lack there of. no one does it, this is good

Pardon me *lights a Berkeley menthol and offers one to Byron, Stoney, Louis and Cuzzin* but I think you'll find that is just factually innacurate. Quite a few of us (if only in my case occasionally) indulge in a flirtation with death in the form of burning paper and dried leaves. Indeed, it would be very good if we all didn't smoke, I utterly agree with this, much as I enjoy my tar-sticks, it would be far better if we didn't, but the fact is that we are (shock horror!) a cross section of a varied and thriving University community. By its very nature the University is incredibly diverse, and it is fair to assume that at least some of those diverse peoples will indeed smoke.

In the barcrawl on friday i saw 2 distint groups (with like 10 metres between) those in the corner and those in the middle.

Yes, and if you will have noticed, those groups basically also divided into "People who are on LUBBS, mostly programmers, who wanted to have a discusion about tech" and "People who are randomly chatting" and if I remember correctly "Ziggy, Fluzz, The VVR and Maggot playing a silly pub game in the middle" - think of it as a chat room with lots of different areas, would you want to try and have a conversation about one thing in a room for general chat? No, you wouldn't, you'd annoy everyone else there who was there for mindless chatter, and so you'd take it elsewhere. It's not anti-social, it's actually very considerate.

people in a lot of black, males with long hair, wearing T-shirts which say "SPAM" and "i used up all my sick days, so called in dead"

The SPAM shirt is Maggot's, but I'm in confusion over the other. You see, Mike has an ex girlfriend who I know owns one of those shirts, if it's her you mean Mike, shame on you for digging at an ex for their fashion sense, you should do it upfront if at all. On the other hand, I do know of someone else who owns that shirt.

Me.

Right, now it's personal. Let me put this incredibly simply for you; I do not consider going around with shirts that say "Serial Killers Are People Too" or "Hold My Beer While I Kiss Your Girlfriend" (and yes I own both of those too) any more silly, cliquey or statement-making than going aroung with "Bench" or "Kappa" writ large across one's bosom. Believe me, If I found a shirt that was really comfortable, that I liked, that was cheap, and that would wash well - and it happened to say "Bench" on it, I would wear it just as surely as I would wear the same shirt emblazoned with the words "I'm Not Crazy, Ask My Camel, Steven" and yes it most likely would be black. Black, as most people know, goes with anything, is appropriate for almost any occasion, will not show stains of most things (though an obvious flaw has arisen in the penchant recently displayed for White Russians among the Alternate Society members) and can be purchased in any style you so desire. I happen to favour velvet, leather, PVC and fishnet, but Monsieur le Vicomte may be more commonly seen in cotton or silk, Dark Ambition in lace, you get my point don't you? Black is practical, black is slimming, black is low effort, black is versatile, black is easy to wear all day and jazz up quickly with some nice make up and jewelery for an evening out, and let's face it we all lead busy lives. I wear black because I like it, and for some of the reasons above, and if I like a shirt I will wear it no matter what it says across the front, provided it doesn't say "Hitler Is My Lord And Saviour" or something equally offensive. Does my Sick Days shirt cause offense? Does Maggot's SPAM shirt cause offense? I am militantly against man consuming meat, but *I* don't find his shirt offensive. I never take sick days myself, but I'll wear that shirt, because I like the shirt, damn you, just like Byron likes her incredible eye make up.

Just what is being suggested here? Are we all to deliberatly change ourselves because we want people to think we are just like them? Or are we individual people who happen to enjoy sci-fi, roleplay, writing, whatever and so socialise with others of the same interest group? I rather think the latter, which brings me to our close-knit sense of community, as embodied through our little Rituals.

It's Friday night, you are sitting in County bar, spirits are high in both senses of the term, though when I partake I tend to preffer a good pint of the Evil Brew myself, you are happy and among friends. First, a pause to reflect on what "friend" is; A friend is someone you can talk to, most commonly you share many interests with them (though not always. This evening I sat and consorted with my mistress with a young man with whom I share only two things; the fact he lived with my ex, and an interest in obsolete computers, and whom I count as a friend) a friend will not judge you. Someone among your friends shouts "TIGHT!"

Well there's only one thing to do.

You shout "DIRTY!" and so it goes on, until we all get sore throats, and does the entire bar turn at stare at us? I think not. Oh certainly one or two people will be thinking "bloody weirdos" but tell me honestly have you never thought that about someone? I know I have. Picture the same scene, only you're on a College bar crawl and it's your College song, girls vs. boys. Same result. What in blue blazes does it matter what people think? We're enjoying ourselves, we're not harming anyone, if someone complained to us with a good reason we'd stop doing it or at least discuss their reasons with them. LURPS as a society is not dying, PULSAR as a society is not dying, every year we get new members and every year we grow and change. The Tight/Dirty chant is new to me, it didn't happen when I was a Freshman, proving that we are not some static unchanging pool of people stuck in outmoded roles, we are individuals who have our own ways of having fun, and as long as nobody is hurt, what is the harm in that?

It seems to me (without getting into a personal attack) that what is the true problem here lies in Mike's statement that he has consciously changed himself. Evidently he is not happy at all with the way he was percieved, and has now changed. Somehow, he has inextricably linked the way he was with the behaviour of LURPS and PULSAR, and thus because he was not happy with that, he is now not happy with our behaviour. Well that's just foolish. Now I am going to get into a personal attack I'm afraid. Godwin dictates that I say what I think with as much tact as possible. Here is what I think; Yes, Mike, you did have a silly image and yes you did play up to it. Now that image and your behaviour has lost you something you valued a great deal, and after this upheaval you (rightly) blamed your behviour. But this has gone too far. We don't all act like such fools that we lose a relationship over it, and the LURPS/PULSAR way of behaving, if there even is one which I strongly doubt, is not to blame. Personal difficulties cannot be blamed on society, but responsibility must be accepted by the individual alone.

And after that, I think it's high time I went back to Plato.

2003-05-26T17:23:00.000-07:00

Just One More

You know you're bored when you start not only taking Quizilla tests but *making* them..... Enjoy, kiddies!

http://quizilla.com/users/WhoAmI101/quizzes/Which%20Canonical%20Romantic%20Are%20You%3F

2003-05-26T13:38:00.000-07:00

Blog Of The Day #2 - At It Again...

Well y'know... punjab lasso, nice suit. *grin*

You are Brian Molko!

Who are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Go on, worship me, I really don't mind...

You are Psychic!

What's Your Magic Power?
brought to you by Quizilla

I am there inside your mind! I AM EVERYWHERE!!!!!

You're the smirk,a frown-smile hybrid that's a
little bit cocky and usually associated with
evil or arrogant,but attractive people.You
probably just don't give a damn,but it's
everyone else's fault if you don't because
you're too awesome to have any real faults.

What Kind of Smile are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Well that was obvious.

Period Goth

What Kind of Goth Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

OK I think I'm done now...Oh alright one more. These things are addictive!

you can say that you like Mozart, but not obsessed
like. You pretty much enjoy his songs and
that's about it.

How Mozart obsessed are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Well that's good to know... for someone who uses "Amadeus" as screen name in some places *ahem*... though mainly that's because of my irritating laugh, and because it's my favorite film.

I think my mouse may be dying....

2003-05-26T07:43:00.000-07:00

Dammit I should read my guestbook BEFORE I write an entry.... well done to Erfalaswen who got the lyrics competition right! Here, have a haddock.

2003-05-26T07:39:00.000-07:00

Heaven's Light

I knew I'd never know, that warm and loving glow
Though I might wish with all my might,
No face as hideous as my face
Was ever meant for heaven's light.
But suddenly an angel has smiled at me
And kissed my cheek without a trace of fright
I dare to dream that she might even care for me

Mood : Weary
Music : Track Down This Murderer

Bank Holidays seem a bit pointless when one is at University you know. The Uni doesn't observe them, so lectures and other events go on ahead as if there was nothing different, only the banks on campus are closed, the bus service to campus is even worse then usual, and if you don't have any lectures there's no option but to stay home because barely anything is open. I'd mind if it wasn't for the fact that I *do* have something to do today - I have to revise for my Plato and Aristotle final exam on Wednesday, which is going to be horrific I can tell.

On a brighter note, my Romanticism exam went well. I did "Examine the presentations of a sense of the divine in Romantic literature" from the wider knowledge section and I think I talked about everyone we'd actually studied so that should be fine, and for the close analysis section I did "Examine the figure of the outcast in at least two Romantic texts" - you can only talk about one author on that section, so I did "Manfred" "Cain" "Don Juan" and "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" and somehow managed to bring it down to Godwinian self-government. Hmmm. I was going to do "Alastor" but then I'd have to also talk about "Prometheus Unbound" which as you know I wrestled with for a long time before giving up. I cannot understand why Shelley liked that work so much, it's just NOT good.

Oh, lyrics competition... OK here you go;

Sting : "King of Pain" - would also have accepted Alanis Morrissette as she covered it
Blue Oyster Cult - "Don't Fear The Reaper"

Today's should be damned easy, since it has the title in the quoted section!

Ack, I feel damned sick now. Had to have something to eat to stop Louis the Wonderspod whining at me. Tell me truthfully, does he honestly think nagging me will help??! Let me just put you stright on this, nagging does not work unless you happen to be Mousewouse, and I cannot stress how much he's not.

Dark Place on Saturday - I think I'm still detangling my hair after Paradise City! Lots of fun, and allowed me to finally get some sleep as I was just so physically exhausted that it overcame my insomnia. That's what dancing all night will do to you I suppose, I should do it more often, because frankly I'm at that stage where I turn my head and the room spins, it's not a nice place to be. I'd blame the drugs if it wasn't for the fact that I haven't had any all day, I've run out of tobacco. It comes to something when you run out of papers or tobacco before you run out of the special ingredient!

Well in any case, I'd better go revise Plato some more. Plato is a great thinker and I love his theories, but does that change the fact that I hate revision? Hell no....

2003-05-23T22:57:00.000-07:00

Sober Entry

Romeo and Juliet
Are together in eternity...

Mood : Cold and twitchy
Music : My Deja Vu - Ace of Base

Ok time for an entry when I'm actually in a fit state of consciousness to do something other than quote poetry at you and reccomend you play board games and read other people's journals. Though I still reccomend others, and of course Monopoly if it's raining or you're just bored, bu really, I do occasionally write something worth reading. Right, bar crawl - I am going to be getting powder out from under my nails for the next week at least. Those wigs were a royal pain the first tme around, what posessed me to choose a LUBBS name like "Amadeus" anyway?

Oh, that was it. It suits me.

I was considering swiftly changing my name to Opera Ghost for the come-as-your-screen-name barcrawl but decided against it. I'd have preffered Phantom and we already have one, though I have never met them myself. Figures really. Anyway, after getting horrifically drunk, possibly being incredibly offensive, puerile and annoying, definitley being a weepy drunk (I put it down to a week's abstinence, the exam, and time of the month) I got soaked, and now I'm shivering. I couldn't sleep, so I sat on LUBBS and debated religion. Like someone I try not to mention says, whatever gets you through the night. I also seem to recall that I phoned Mousewouse. I only hope I didn't leave a message on her answerphone or something.

I had fun I guess. As much fun as bar crawls ever are these days at least. This time I backed out of the game quickly because last week evidently actually damaged something so now my leg pretty much permenantly aches. Silly me. I think I'll give the next few weeks a miss, not only will my liver thank me in the end, I just don't seem to really enjoy it anymore, maybe it's some sort of misplaced ennui or something but it all seems a little same-old-same-old now. Maybe I'm just getting old, or maybe I just need a hug. Or maybe I'm not as sober as I thought I was.

Or maybe I'll try this again later....

2003-05-22T10:34:00.000-07:00

The Final Countdown

I have stood here before in the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running round my brain
I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain

Mood : Quietly panicking
Music : Smashing Pumpkins - The World Is A Vampire

Firstly, congratulations to Awesome Man who got the artist of my lyrics yesterday right. It was originally by Dune, the version I have is a remix by DJ Liquid, and the song is "I Can't Stop Raving" - some of you may know today's by the cover artist or the orginal, either will do. Thanks go to Dark Ambition (the artist formerly known as The Unboxed Helena) for pointing out that today 'blogger is advertising goth music downloads on the Doll's House main page banner. They're reading my mind - the Entroposcope went haywire this afternoon. The LURPS/PULSAR Effect probably set it off.

I had a really odd dream the other night. Well it wasn't really all that odd considering I had spent the whole damn day revising Romanticism and listening to a loop of Disney songs (and they weren't even sung by the Inimitable Mr Crawford, they were orginals...) then when I went to sleep (you know, that thing where you close your eyes and then open them, someone has turned the light on in the big room with the really good air conditioning, and you have keymarks in your face?) and dreamed about Beauty And The Beast redone live action with Shelley in a dress playing Belle. I think it was because I was starting to think "Look there she goes that girl is strange no question, I wonder if she's feeling well. With a dreamy far off look, and her nose stuck in a book" everytime I read Shelley. Nobody was noticing that it was a bloke in a dress! POET IN A DRESS POET IN A DRESS!!!!! Ok sorry it's out of my system now. Gaston was being played by the DWB, which was alright I suppose. Could have been worse, the Beast could have been played by Lord Wuss.

For a long while, I had a real problem with "Kill The Beast" - well I still do, it frightens me to death - but the problem was I was sure it was the wrong voice leading the mob. At first I thought perhaps it was a different voice actor - but it's not, then I though, maybe I think Gaston shouldn't be leading the mob. Yeah. Right. What's he going to do, go take the Beast by himself? He's a musclehead and a letch but he's not stupid. That would be Raoul you're thinking of there** - but now I have realised why it sounds so wrong.

You see, the voice of Gaston in Beauty And The Beast is the same man who originally played the Phantom in the Y/K version. The reason it sounds so wrong is that voice should be being chased by a mob, not leading one. Interesting, that, isn't it? The Phantom, voicing Gaston, Gaston Leroux wrote Phantom - stories are incredibly similar? There's a POTO moment in The Little Mermaid as well, you know, when Ursula the seawitch is telling Ariel to sing?

"The Law of Fives must be true. It becomes more applicable the more I look for it"

But in any case, the decsion over whether I should go to the ceremony so far stands thus;

FOR M'amselle, Puppydog, Louis the Wonderspod, Awesome Man, Monsieur le Vicomte, Shortbread, The Jellicle
AGAINST (Or undecided) Me

Well. Those are interesting odds. Oh well - I think for now I will concentrate on relaxing before my exam. By this weekend there will probably be more pictures of me dressed like a fool to look at, so watch for the link. And I may have forgotten to mention this, but I updated Purely Derivative recently, and you will get another update next Tuesday. And the one after that. All the rest is subject to change without notice.

** Oh come on, let me off. I haven't bashed Raoul for ages....

2003-05-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

Oh Blue Bloody Hell...

Come and take a trip with me
To a land where love is free
Follow me into the light
Everything's gonna be alright

Mood :Moderate and inexplicable self hatred
Music : Heaven's Light, Hunchback of Notre Dame

You have no idea how shocked I will be if someone manages to get my lyrics for today. I'll give you a clue - try music that you don't think I would listen to in a million years and you're halfway there. I was wondering whilst I did the usual round of people's 'blogs just now, if somehow the advertisers on the banners at the top have a way of reading people's interests. Ell, for example, has adverts for Discworld products at the top of hers fiarly often, and I've seen Majick stores online being advertised on Erfalaswen's 'blog more than once. Also Mousewouse has several times had Gothic clothing emporia advertised on hers. I however seem unreadable, as I get adverts regarding dolls house collection websites and such which bears no relation to me apart from the name of this site and my purported resemblance to Juliet Landau. Perhaps it's synchronicity again? *gets out jar of lentils and rice and gives it a shake* Hmm... nope, the usual randomised pattern. Guess the sky isn't going to fall on my head after all. Or a car.

Speaking of things falling on my head, look above my fair and currently tightly braided head, gentle interloper into the domains of the VVR. What do you see there? No, not that enormous chandelier, that isn't meant for me - the huge sword is what I mean, the one hanging by a horsehair. That sword has a name you know, in the fantastic Romantic tradition, and that name be Romanticism Final. It's this Friday, I can see the hair fraying even as I sit trying in vain to struggle against my revulsion and get through The Prelude. I'm at that stage where I feel there's nothing more I can do.

I *hate* that...

2003-05-20T19:11:00.000-07:00

Pre-Traumatic Excitement Disorder

I dream in colour
Because I live in black and white

Mood : Exitably studious
Music : Mozart, Mass in C Minor

So I'm talking to Awesome Man on MSN, and the subject of the fact that I have been sent an invitation to the prize ceremony for that KSMT call for papers that I entered comes up. I, dear readers, am not planning on going. It will cost me 40 of your Earth pounds and consign me to flames of woe, otherwise known as 3 hours on British Rail, a confutatis maledictus indeed. More to the point, despite how excited and proud I would be if I *did* win anything, I never set out to win, I set out to do something because I could, and if I get a prize, money, publication and acclaim for it all the better, but frankly I am not going to a ceremony where I'm not going to be presented with a prize, selfish aren't I? Not wanting to make an expensive, uncomfortable, long journey to see other people get lauded for what I might have achieved. A hint of bitterness crept in there, I'd just like to refute it.. there's just no better way of putting it!

So Awesome Man tells me he thinks I should go. Ceremony + free meal + free bubbly + happy wife = Smiley Rat, prize or no prize. I totally agree with him. But the likelihood of me being able to eat a meal, even if the KSMT are as progressive and natural as the S in KSMT, are very small. and there's still that train-journey-from-Hell called Lancaster-Euston that makes me wish fondly for the Carpathians. Yes, I think I should go - but I'm not going unless I've won something. Sorry.

But what if I *have* won something? Even if it's a wooden spoon.... I've emailed Sally to see if she knows if they only send invitations to prizewinners or what, so I shall wait on that one. The question which has yet to be adressed is the highly important issue of what I'm going to wear to the ceremony!

I want to look Romantic of course, but not like I'm in a Jasper Fforde novel. I'll have to look smart, but not formal, and I want to be comfortable in it if I'm going to be quaffing champagne with other literary types - nothing that will be easily disarranged and just look stupid. I'm thinking something that clearly says "I am not of this age, or of the last, I am of all ages and times. I have an easy style without pretentions and you really do want to publish my articles and poems, but I'm not some desperate Shelley Freak" so I suppose my traditional wide collars and velvet are out, as if the evening dress suit. Perhaps something understated and handmade from Dark Angel designs..... no, can't afford that.... *sigh* wide collar with a smart skirt? No, I look like an innocent little secretary. Oh *bugger* this... I'm not going, alright? They send invitations to everyone who entered I'm telling you.

Still... I'm rather excited at the idea that I *have* won something....

2003-05-20T13:32:00.000-07:00

Ooh Heck...

Something horrid has happened to my 'blog - yesterday's entry is nonsensically cut down less than a third of the way down when it was appearing fine when I went to bed at 8am today (after Sunrise Rite of course....) so I've no idea what's going on. Umm... I think I'll just post this and see what happens....

2003-05-19T18:27:00.000-07:00

Fluffbunny : Word Of The Day

Shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather
Whiplash girlchild in the dark

Look... a guestbook to answer my lyrics puzzles in... *mindless self-promotion alert!* Well anyway kids consider this your Sunday Column. Your dear old VVR was too busy consorting with its one and only mistress (I need no other) to write one yesterday.

Did you ever wonder if people were saying things about you behind your back? Not in the paranoid sense I mean, but in the mindless in-a-nice-hot-lavender-bath-reading-Baudelaire sense, where you wander aimlessly through Thought County eventually ending up at a quaint little hamlet named Self Image, where you find a quiet pub and order a frosty mug of Introspection.

Everybody says things about people behind their back - I did it only this evening - and it set me wandering into Kant Plains, a short meander from that quiet pub, where I frollicked introspectivly (it's possible, watch any Goth club on a Friday Sisters marathon) and became intoxicated with the heady scent of the blooms of a strange tree. Its name was Universal Maxim. The odd, sharp scent of this rare blossom created a wierd desire in me. I was thinking - if *everybody* says things behind people's backs - and they do - then wouldn't it be nice if we were to make it a universal law that you should only say *nice* things.

Perhaps I sound like the namby-pamby Romantic fluffbunny that I KNOW you all call me.. *sob, wink*... but hear me out. We should be saying good things - but never at the expense of honesty. If you think Malcolm has been terribly nasty to Martin, then you should be saying that, but perhaps saying "Malcolm is the antichrist, I can't believe he dumped Martin right before the dance, the cunt" is a little excessive. Of course, better yet you could just tell Malcolm in the nicest way possible, but I don't think mankind is quite ready for that particular innovation yet.

A marvelous things happened to me today. I realised - for perhaps the first time - that the graffiti on toilet walls sometimes has true philosophical intent. This evening the scales fell from my eyes as I sat in the toilets of Furness college. I was actually going to the toilet you understand, not just sitting there. I glanced at the wall beside me - and behold! - people arguing against organised religion! I bounded downstairs to tell Byron who was lounging across the seats of the bar below in a drunken stupor, not forgetting of course to wash my hands first, she delivered her usual tolerant smile, and I discovered that 3 Years Lucy was subjected to some sort of Godwinist polemic on Friday night which my memory had completely blanked out. Just the drugs... just the drugs...

But in any case - isn't that wonderful? People care - people care enough to take a pen to the lavatory for it! Well that settles it, I know where I can take my essays now. Perhaps it will spawn a new variant on a graffiti hallmark of which I was reminded tonight - you know the old writing on the toilet paper dispenser "Lancaster University Degrees - Please Take One"

"Vegetarian Polemics, Anti-Organisational Essays, General Romantic Fluff - Please take One"

2003-05-17T02:29:00.000-07:00

So THIS Is My Punishment! Riiight...

Mood : Incredibly nauseous
Music : Rock Me Amadeus, Falco

I've been reading Awesome Man's 'blog again while I sit here feeling sorry for myself and hoping I won't have to make use of the bucket beside me. I HATE hangovers - and I always seem to get the really bad ones when I don't expect them. Yes I know the solution is to not drink so much - get this, I don't normally drink AT ALL. Last night I was feeling grotty and miserable. The wife forgot to call from Preston so I'm worrying that she didn't get home, and I had to go to bed on my own. OK I won't moan about that, it would be a little selfish. It's good enough that I HAVE her, moping about not having her right here is just a foolish passtime to get my mind off my wooziness right now.

But anyway, hangovers. Someone who knew me will have to tell me true, but Way Back In The Day I'm fairly certain that I hardly ever got really nasty waking up at 7am, clutching the guts and running to stick your head down the lavatory hangovers. Not never - it's my firm theory that *everyone* has to one day have a morning like that. It's Nature's way of telling us that what goes down must come up, thus illustrating the principle upon which alcohol induced nausea is founded, The Reverse Gravitational Vomit Threshold, or RGVT. The RGVT is calculated by hanging a person upside down after feeding them copoius amounts of ale and seeing how long it takes them to do the technicolour yawn. But anyway, Ireland - someone PLEASE tell me how the hell I have such horrifically worse hangovers than Liam ever got? And don't give me any of this the water was purer then, less additives, etc bollocks because if there's one thing I won't stand for it's preachy Organic Produce Monkeys. Just because he was (does a quick and rather frightening calculation) almost twice my weight (YIKES!) does not give him the right to handle his booze so much better.

On the other hand, I suppose I should look on the bright side. My hangovers are worse than any Liam had except that one time after Samhain but that was also (a) a seven day complete fast before (b) a huge Rite and (c) hypothermia from falling on his arse in a river whilst re-enacting the communion of the Dagda and the Morrigan, and I think he deserved that one. But they are infestimally better than Johnathan's. Now there was a "man" who couldn't handle his drink - well apart from in Naples, but Naples just excuses all anomalies as swiftly as it produces them. DO you know how difficult it is to tell the start of a CCEP attack from a dreadful hangover? The number of hours I spent over a bowl wondering "Is this the brandy, or do I need a doctor?" honestly, bloody Victorians...

I like happy poems too. I'm just abandonning that line of thought now - the hangover one - it only makes me feel worse. My favorite happy poem, or at least one of my favorites, is also graffiti. It is to be found on the wall of the Earl of Leicester's country seat in Norfolk, no pun intended, and was allegedly scribbled there by none other than George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron, 6th Baron Byron of Newstead Abbey. Isn't it lovely to know that the old Canonicals scribble on toilet walls as well? Here's what he wrote, roughly;

Oh Cloacina, Goddess of this place
Look on thy supplicants with smiling face
Here let their offerings smoothly flow
Not rashly fast, or insolently slow

I love that, I really do, in fact I love all of LB's humorous poetry. Doesn't it kind of make you wonder a little what the others would have written? There are six Canonicals, all with vastly different styles of writing - Keats, for example would never have made up a Goddess on the spot to use in a poem, unless his lack of education was worse than I previously thought and he thought he was making up the ones he used anyway... Wordsworth would want to have his morning supplication out in the countryside I expect, so he'd have nothing to write on, and frankly I'm not sure Shelley ever made a supplication to Cloacina in his life, "uptight" would well cover that young man. Have you ever read Shelley's funny poetry? If not, chances are that's because you never went looking for it, and there's a good reason it doesn't get put in his collections. Would you like to know what that reason is? It's because anally retentive repressed wannabe alchemists should NOT try to write funny poetry. "Funny poetry is not funny" write it out a hundred times Percy, or there'll be trouble.

Getting back to favorite poems, I am not the sort who believes they SHOULD be depressing, but it's a sad fact that one of my favorites is a very depressing poem, particularly when it was used in "Tale Of A Vampire" It's a bit long, so I'll just give you the last stanza;

And the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee
And so all the night tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
In her sepulchre there by the sea
In her tomb by the sounding sea

I adore Poe. And Julian Sands, he's in the film, and he's cute. You know one thing I never really liked? "The Raven" - unless of course we mean the special version about plotting revenge on Thursday Next - that I like. I just don't understand the popularity of that poem, is it *because* it's so easy to parody or something? Granted, it's good, it's classic Poe, but is it any better than "Lenore" or "The Coliseum" or for that matter "The Conquerer Worm"? It is admittedly better than "The Bells" which just makes no sense and has too disrupted a rhythm for me... but please, guys - if you're going to talk about Poe, the first person to say the word "Raven" needs a kicking, which is why I always jump in with Annabel Lee straight away. Poe, like Gaston Leroux, was actually a journalist - and they're both remembered primarily for one short piece of Goth that has become an incredible institution. In Leroux's case, a novel that had everyone thinking he'd finally flipped (ah hah but they'll know the truth soon, my pretties...) and Poe's case a poem that had everyone.... well let's be honest, Poe HAD flipped. Delirium Tremens.

Oh dear, mammoth entry again.. sorry guys.

2003-05-16T18:03:00.000-07:00

Feeling Strangely Fine

I'm a Loser baby,
So why dont you kill me?

Mood : Achey
Music : Here, VAST

Right, I'm typing this directly into Blogger and not in a notepad file as I have acquired the habit of doing since Raoul keeps throwing blue fits whenever I try to do this. But anyway, hello, I'm here. PULSAR bar crawl was fun - I played a damnfool game (which incidentally I gracefully conceded the loss of because my knee damage from last week is evidently going all the way up my leg. Fun!) and had a few pints. Not a very eventful crawl really, except Louis the Wonder Spod and I swapped tops in County. His shirt was far too big for me so we swapped back pretty damned fast... so, yes. Hello.

I feel like taking some online tests, but sadly I can't actually think of anything I want to be tested for. So here you go, Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This Productions proudly presents;

Top Ten Songs/Musical Pieces To Have Sex To (In No Particular Order)

Rachmaninov's Third - This one should be totally obvious - the frenzy, the passion, the utter raw madness in it. Interestingly, when I had sex to this one, the music was apparently struggling to keep up. *grin*

Down With The Sickness, Disturbed - Fine rhythm, good for trance purposes, excellent shagging.

Loverman, Nick Cave - "There's a devil crawlin' outside your door (how much longer?)" 'nuff said

Toccata and Fugue, JS Bach - *damn* that was fun

The Masochism Tango, Tom Lehrer - A moderatly worrying choice really, but anything that's a tango hots me up good and proper. I'm sorry, you didn't really want to know did you? Never mind, your fault for reading a post-bar crawl 'blog.

Zombie, The Cranberries - Not sure why, but somehow it works. Maybe you have to be in the act before it comes on, but maybe not.. oh I don't know. But it's good, try it.

Pretty When You Cry, VAST - Please don't anyone take that as a comment on my tastes in bed...

Appasionata Sonata, Beethoven - *smirk*

El Tango de Roxanne, Moulin Rouge - Again with the tango-ness

Music of The Night, Phantom Of The Opera (Crawford version only) - Long, slow sex. Gentle, passionate, brilliant, blow-your-mind to the moon and back sex. GREAT fantastic.. okay you get the picture. Try it some time.

At some point I will do a whole series of sex things, just because I generally don't talk about sex on my 'blog. It's not that I'm repressed or anything, I just don't dry my linen in public except where drugs are involved, like last night where we were all talking about where in the house we'd had sex. Only one of my housemates has not had sex on either of the sofas, most of us have done both. Some time maybe I'll do "Top ten places for sex" or "Top ten things to watch whilst having sex" - is watching a movie whilst having sex rude?

Depends on the movie I suppose...

2003-05-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Dude, This Is Pretty F****d Up Right Here, Part 2

The fact that I actually have no idea what really went on prevents me from saying it, but suffice to say that this morning was really REALLY weird. And the weirdness quotient is not being helped by the fact that The Simpsons is on in the same room as me (remember my rant about Television as audiovisual wallpaper? It stands, MouseWouse is waiting for BtVS to come on) and it is as usual utterly bizarre.

Ok I really didn't actually have anything to say... Just that *MAN* that was weird...

2003-05-14T19:31:00.000-07:00

Dude, This Is Pretty F****d Up Right Here

I *think* we went to Poli's house.......
I *think I drank his homebrew*......
I *think* at some point he put a funnel in my mouth.....
I *think* Liam is out to play tonight...

I also think Mr BC AKA Louis should perhaps go to bed and then NOT get up and have a conversation on MSN then mutter something inexplicable and take the (untouched) drink I fixed him upstairs....

2003-05-14T05:13:00.000-07:00

Oh alright I suppose for a night of looking Rocky Horror and wearing very little, I don't look too awful. Just please try to ignore my multiple chins and look out for a sign of my true daemonic nature!

http://www.lancs.ac.uk/ug/greenwoh/queens.html

Enjoy....

2003-05-14T04:55:00.000-07:00

Sorry, No Smart Title Today

Dont get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this

Mood : Inexplicably bouncy
Music : Bach, Toccata, Adagio and Fugue in C Major

Ok this time it wasn't Blogger that cacked itself and lost my entry that I wrote earlier. This time it was my computer. This is the second time I have accidentally pressed the awkwardly placed off button and lost work, and for such awkwardness and annoyance, I shall name my new machine Raoul. Thought I'd keep with the theme, since the old one was called Christine Daae. So here I am to try and rewrite this morning's lost entry. Grr.

I was informed this morning (when it was far to early to be told *anything*) that the RP goes around singing the same random lines from songs that I do. The exact same lines. Heavy sigh. I had a very worried MouseWouse this morning as she has her interview at St Martins. We all know she can do it - don''t we, beloved readers! Three cheers for Stanzi!

Have decided now that I have only revision to do and must thus load myself down with uneccesary other work that I will (as well as continuing to write and rewrite my Vegetarian polemic) write something for the Guild forum in essay form. I am after all an incurable Romantic and feel we should bring back the published essay outside of academia. It was a great old form, and a sad loss to us. I'm toying with ideas about the use of mythology and the use and meaning of poetry for subjects, but we shall see. Give me drugs, and I shall produce work, it's the way it works.

Ooh that reminds me, I got an invitation to attend the presentation ceremony for the Keats Shelley Memorial Trust call for papers that I entered. To be honest, I wasn't expecting to get anywhere and won't be dissapointed if I find out that I haven't even got runner-up, but just think how proud I (and for that matter Sally as it was she who poked me towards the competition in the first place) will be! You'll never hear the last of it I tell you. But since that is on my mind, time for a bit of a ramble. It's still too early for rational thought you see. Reading Shelley biographies is a puzzling experience. If you read say ONE biography, you'll be fine. You'll think perhaps (if you read the one in the book my wife recently picked up in Rome) that he was born at Field Place, Warnham, and that the boat he drowned in was called the Ariel. Except of course that it had "Don Juan" painted across the sail and that there is no such place as Field Place, Warnham. It's Field Place *Horsham* though I recently read that this mystery has been cleared up as Horsham and thus the gorgeous and stinking filthy rich Field Place estate, home of the Shelleys for several centuries, is in the parish of Warnham. The boat naming was due to a little petty squabble with Lord Byron, I may well talk about it another time. But for heaven's sake people, TRY and agree on something as infestimally meaninglessly tiny as the man's eye colour!

Were they blue, as childhood friend TJ Hogg claims? Were they brown, as claimed in his portraits? Were they electric green with pink stripes, as nobody in their right mind would claim? Or, as is my own personal theory, was Shelley an early wearer of coloured contact lenses? Ground with a fine lathe from oyster shells, which would explain why he has "Those are pearls that were his eyes, nothing of him that doth fade" on his grave. It's possible you know, Shelley was an illustrious (AKA bloody danger to himself) scientist...

Alright I well know it shouldn't bother me, I'd just like a little agreement! Right well, back to my life. Went for a Chinese meal for Shortbread's birthday - we actually just had toad in the hole but we ate it with chopsticks and wore kimonos. Not really of course - but there were chopsticks, and sake, I love sake. A good meal was had by all, and actually I remember very little that has happened in between. My knees still really bloody hurt whenever I lean on them, and photos are now apparently avaliable from the Screaming Queens bar crawl. It'll vet them and post a link maybe if I don't look horrific. Think I may now go and do some real work.

Wow, I got to the end of an entry without Raoul throwing his toys out of the pram!

2003-05-11T02:35:00.000-07:00

The Sunday Column

I could watch forever,
I could watch for hours

Mood : Suspiciously studious
Music : Meyerbeer's Cornonation March

Hello beloved readers, guess who? Its Sunday Column time. Let me briefly explain the Sunday Column concept; Sundays are a day for baths, facial treatments, deep conditioning your hair and generally sitting around not doing much at all. For some, though thankfully today not me, it is a day for holding an ice pack to your head and phoning Crimestoppers to see if they are willing to run a reconstruction of the previous night so that you can find out his/her name.

Sunday is for having time to read someone else's opinions. The Sunday Column is to facilitate this process in a handy-dandy electronic medium.

Television

The television is a great invention. Every Thursday night (when I am not too buried under mountains of work, which these days is rarely) I sit down for an hour and engage my suspension of disbelief. Sometimes, for a break from the written word, I do indeed indulge in the History Chanel for a small while. In other words, I do think television is a good invention. Without it we could not watch videos. But for crying out loud - it is not supposed to be used as wallpaper!

Let me explain; yes, I watch television. I am not hell-bent on living in pre-television days no matter how much my roomful of candles and persistent rambling about the Good Old Days may lead you to believe otherwise. But the first thing I do when people leave the room not to return for a while is *switch the damned infernal machine off*

"I need some noise in the background" well turn the radio on then. Listen to Radio 4, or the World Service, you'll get just as much programing variety and you won't be transfigured into a zero-calorie trance before the dancing lights of the idiot box. "I want to catch the news" Ahh, a valid excuse - but however... you can always learn when the news is on, switch the televsion on for it, watch it and then *switch it off* or you can watch News 24 until it starts to loop and THEN *switch the bloody machine off* OR horror of horrors, you could go yto the extent of picking up a newspaper.

You see, my problem is not what they put on television, though to tell the truth its nothing like as good as the programming when I was a nipper. Well I'm still a nipper but my teeth are bigger now, so the phrase stands. My problem is with people just passively sitting there and taking it all in, like they're being spoon-fed sedative laced whoreshit. And the worst thing is, when people get like that they can even watch educational programming and STILL just blank out! If you are using television as a low-effort hours break from work, THEN by all means watch it. If you are sitting in front of the mind-numbing roll of light and colour for hours on end slowly turning your brain into cheese, I wish to introduce you to an old friend of mine.

My friend comes in many shapes and sizes and changes its skin seemingly at random. You can use it to go to other worlds, fight monsters, have a safe fright and even (O heavens forfend!) learn something. My friend is called the book - and I suggest everyone who routinely spends more than two hours watching unplanned purposeless television becomes thoroughly accquainted with it.

2003-05-10T13:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get mighty pissed off at Blogger. There I was, 10am today, been up four hours and had brushed up on my knowledge of the inside of the lavatory to the extent where I would no doubt pass Bulimia 101 with flying colours, I was just minding my own business writing a 'blog. Long it was, and full of colourful detail and wit - it was urbane, fascinating, and lost.

Floating in the void of the entropy vaccum we call the Internet, no doubt to be discovered by future generations and hailed as the work of a great genius. But for now you'll have to do without it. Here, however, is 'blog attempt 2 for the day. Several people have commented on my lack of blogging - I'm a very busy rat, though the Dissertation is finally gone. I've now just got to do a great deal of revision, and to nurse my knee. This morning my knee was a sort of lobster red with an inner core of scraped flesh. Now it has turned a fascinating shade of blue grey with a scraped core. Yes you guessed it, oh beloved reading public. Last night the VVR went on the PULSAR bar crawl, "Screaming Queens" themed, the VVR had spent all afternoon playing I Have Never when it should have been revising "Prometheus Unbound" and then it went out in the mother of all dangerous high heels and strutted its funky stuff around campus like the biggest queen that ever lived. Why do all PULSAR bar crawls that are truly great leave me with very sore knees? Reminds me of those times when I woke up in a crumpled heap of skirts somewhere in a back room in Elephant and Castle and realised I wouldn't be able to sit down without wincing for a week.

Still. Fun though.

Ohhh alright since I promised you one last week and you never got one, tommorow you can have a Sunday Column. But you won't like it....

2003-05-03T14:04:00.000-07:00

Oh please, God, no... I am so shocked I think I may fall over and die...

You're Liam. You were born in 1727 in Galway,
Ireland, and enjoy spending your father's
silver on ale, cards, and of course...your
favorite thing in the world: women. GO YOU!

Are you Angel, Angelus, or Liam?
brought to you by Quizilla

Ha, not any more I'm bloody well not.

2003-05-03T05:14:00.000-07:00

How Strange The Change From Major To Minor

Everytime, we say goodbye
I die a little....

I'm going to take this one day at a time, because otherwise I'm just going to get confused having had a monumental week. Let's start with Monday shall we? I always thought that was quite a good place. However before we do, how about I mention my Lovely Lady Wife and a sink after three bottles between us? That was I think last Saturday. but in any case;

Monday
Lovely Wife has an exam. Here at UKC they do their exams by giving you the paper for 24 hours - which seems odd to me - but in any case, spent Monday with her doing the exam and me drinking a bottle of Asti and chain smoking while trying to study Prometheus Unbound. The conclusion was that such did not really help.

Tuesday
The second of several horrendously early morning starts - well actually they were nothing like horrendous, but I'm on holiday for heaven's sakes. Up to Uni to drop off the paper and then an agonisingly wound up train journey. Have to ever been so excited that you have to just sit there stock-still or you'll jump and scream until you throw up? That was me all the way to Victoria. This was followed by a rampage around Camden (a fairly sedate rampage mind you, we had to save our energy) during which RP bought a cloak (more on the cloak later) Lady Wife bought wedding shoes and new skirt, and I bought a new tailcoat and replaced the watch that my exicted stupidity deprived me of at the last organ recital I went to. Some bright spark then thought it was a good idea for us to instal ourselves in TGI Fridays in Haymarket for the next three hours (having first sensibly ascertained the exact route from the bar to Her Majesty's Theatre) and well.. drank. In my case, drank quite a bit. Replacement Phantom had an ultimate Screaming Orgasm that lasted for ages, while I contented myself with Singapore Slings and other such concoctions. And then.... well, then there was Phantom. And we were all glad we drank beforehand, as much crying like babies was done which could have resulted in dehydration. We saw Phantom!!!!!! WE SAW PHANTOM!!!!!!!!!!

Wednesday
I do not feel at all well. This could be something to do with the lager and lime at lunch, the cocktails before Phantom, the port in the interval, the second lager and lime at Victoria and the 3am bedtime, but what's the odds of that? Much trembling is done, mead is bought, and nervous cooking begins.

Thursday
If anyone else out there has achieved all these things in one 24 hour period, drop me a line;

1. Getting married
2. Being torn between tears, fainting, and sniggering at the fellow Phantom who cannot seem to disentangle their cloak from the floor.
3. Apologising to your mother in law for the absence of rotting flesh at your reception
4. Playing a game that involved musical lyrics and the loss of clothing
5. Having a "moment" with your new sister in law less than five hours after taking vows of fidelity (Don't worry, it was all perfectly innocent in the end)
6. Kissing your best man/handmaiden/understudy whilst you are both naked
7. Stepping outside for a cigarette wearing only a tailcoat

Friday
Okay I did feel a little queasy, I did have a headache, and I did stagger out to the bathroom *thinking* I would be sick a lot, but otherwise a remarkably mild hangover considering the amount and variety that was consumed the previous night. Had to come home and pack. Finish packing, cannot sleep despite less than four hours having been got the previous night, sat in bed with head spinning reading Stephen Fry and feeling very sorry for myself until I pass out.

Saturday
Slept until Midday, listened to Cave, and then wrote this excuse for a 'blog.

Maybe tomorrow I'll treat you to a Sunday Column. You haven't heard my thoughts on pressing issues such as poodles and television for a while, I don't see why I should spare you any longer.

2003-04-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

My Friend Ana

Farewell happy fields
Where Joy forever dwells
Hail, horrors, hail!

Exactly how far does pro-choice go? No no, don't leave - this isn't the VVR tackling a subject as weighty (no pun intended) and emotive as abortion in its own thankfully inimitable way. Far from it - what people do when they've got a sprog on the way is their own business, and frankly since it's never going to happen to me, it's not my business. Or at least that's what I'll say about it... but in any case, I was actually going to talk about an entirely different "pro-choice" campaign that has mostly been stomped upon with the heavy hobnail boots of censorship in a worryingly Orwellian manner. No, not euthenasia either.

Anorexia. Pro-Anorexia websites. I was utterly delighted when I found out these little gems existed, they have caused me to utterly change my opinion of an otherwise thoroughly irritating section of society. Perhaps I should explain, for those of you who have never heard of/been to a Pro-Ana/Mia/ED site; these are for people who have an eating disorder and accept this fact, and wish to stay gorgeous but not ill. They offer tips and hints for maintaining both figure and health and are mixed in with a great deal of wonderfully black humour - Health Tips - Because thin doesn't matter if you're dead - you could only find that sort of blunt truthful help on a Pro-Ana page.

I love these people. They are some of the only people on this fly-blown hole of a world that really truly know what they are here for, aside from suicide bombers of course, but the less said about that the better. They are here to be thin and beautiful. Me, personally, my tastes don't run to anorexic women which is to say I think they are beautiful, but would really rather sleep with something curvy. Not only are they in acceptance of who and what they are and their purpose here, they also have a sense of humour about it, something that's all too rare with what are (and let's be totally honest here) a bunch of crazies. Who's not crazy in some way?

Now settle down everyone.... I have no intention of saying we should all run out and be anorexic/orthorexic/bulimic/whatever, what I *am* saying is that if you can't laugh, what's the damned point. The very idea of banning Pro-Ana sites is ridiculous, and yet most search engines won't let you access them without hours of trawling and research. Excuse me, but has anyone out there heard of free speech? These people are standing up for something they believe in, they know what they are doing, they know the risks (hell all these pages list the known dangers of Ana/Mia/etc. practices and give advice) and they're doing it anyway. Would you ban skydiving pages? or bungee jumping? Same difference between that and a Pro-Ana page my friend, the stuff there could still kill you. It's about calculated risk and not taking things too seriously. if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

Apart from Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webber......

2003-04-18T12:42:00.000-07:00

It's A Tough Job, But Somebody's Gotta Do It

"And you say your assailant was a Percy Shelley?"
"Yes, he handed me a pamphlet rejecting current religious dogma before he ran off"

Right, I need some kinda slow vaguely jazzy music - think film noir, Sam Spade, Columbo... that's it, perfect....

It was a slow night. If it wasn't enough that I was having trouble speaking around this toothpick, my nails were getting toward that pliable stage where you know the slightest impact will do damage. I was outta luck, outta work, and my wife was miles away there is a sudden dramatic ripping, and the detective film reel falls off the side of the earth, the music creaking to a halt

Dammit and I was enjoying that as well... oh well. Here I am, back from housesitting in Wickhambreaux. If there's a better way to disrespect your mother in law that this I don't know about it (apart of course from the obvious old urinating on her cornflakes, but that's so passe) Hey Penny - *nice* kitchen knives you got there... Well in any case, it's been almost a week of drink, drugs, civilised conversation, peaceful country noises, great company and bees the size of barn owls. Yes, I behaved like a great big girlie wussbag, can I help it if I'm frightened of bees? Much kudos to the Fellow Phantom for getting rid of said offensive bee, and grovelling thanks to my beloved wife for only making fun of me about it for about fifteen minutes all told.

I'd better say this before anyone else does, but the Whizpopping song from The BFG is really not all that funny unless one has an intensely puerile and/or scatagological sense of humour. I am a vulgar man, majesty, and I apologise for the trauma that may have been caused by me mentioning that song in connection with Papageno. It was, as with so many many things in life, just the drugs.

Changing tack utterly, I'm not usually a banner-waver, and neither do I like Carol Anne Duffy. As a matter of fact I think she's possibly one of the worst published poets out there and her work very rarely reflects any sort of literary merit or higher cognitive process. HOWEVER I like the sentiment in this one. It's just disgusting enough, so read. Poets who write about this sort of thing are all too rare these days;

"A Healthy Meal"

The gourmet tastes the secret dreams of cows
Tossed lightly in garlic. Behind the green door, swish
Of oxtails languish on an earthen dish. Here are
Wishbones and pinkies; fingerbowls will absolve guilt.

Capped teeth chatter to a kidney or at the breast
Of something that once flew. These hearts knew
No love and on thir beds of saffron rice they lie
Beyond reproach. What is the claret like? Blood.

On table six, the language of tongues is braised
In armagnac. The woman chewing suckling pig
Must sleep with her husband later. Leg,
Saddle and breast bleat against oure white cloth.

Alter calf to veal in four attempts. This is
The power of words; knife, tripe, lights, charcuterie
a fat man orders his rare, and a fine sweat
Bastes his face. There are napkins to wipe the evidence

And sauces to gag the groans of abatoirs. The menu
Lists the recent dead in French, from which they order
Offal, poultry, fish. Meat flops in the jowls. Belch
Death moves in the bowels. You are what you eat

OK I admit it is one of the worst poems I ever read, speaking as a reader, but speaking as a poet it makes a point. Nasty stuff there... I like that last line, does "death moves in the bowels" mean dead meat moving in the bowels or is it a refference to bowel cancer which eating meat gives you? Hmmmm....

I'll probably be back later to do some more dull whinging about the state of man and how much better we'd all do if we'd just listen to certain enlightened thinkers but hey.. for now I'm tired.

2003-04-11T15:28:00.000-07:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Feckin' Regression...

This is driving me nuts going round and round my head ever since I stopped writing bits of Black Rose (that's a working title, but I like it) and I'd just like to purge it from my system but quoting, in their entirity, the lyrics that are really starting to bug me. As if the Bleeding White Rose soundtrack wasn't freaky enough (nobody should ever put Nick Cave tracks, the Moonlight Sonata, and You Are My Sunshine on the same CD but it's going to happen one of these days) this and Morning Glory and The WIld Rover are definatly going on the Black Rose soundtrack. May I present to you, in order to purge me of its influence, The Rake at The Gates of Hell;

I'll be with them asleep and dreaming
I'll be there when they wake with screaming
At the hour of death then I will nurse them
To have a moment more to curse them
Watch the maggots crawl out of them
Hear the angels call above them
Watch them as the cold air sucks them
Down to hell, goodnight, God love them
If any should escape above me
Beg and cheat until they trust me
Drag them down to be damned with me
Laugh at them as they forgive me

Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds,
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight

I wish that they could walk forever,
On the earth, alone, unfettered
Til they pray for consolation,
Til they beg for sweet damnation
Then I'll come and bring them water,
Bring them hope, bring them laughter
Raise their hopes so sad and sunken
Slash them up as they lie there drunken
Push them down into the foul mud
‘Til they choke upon their own blood
Drag them out before their last breath
To take away the mercy of death

Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight

Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the Gates of Hell tonight

Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight

That feels somewhat better. There's not much worse than the feeling where you get all choked up watching "The Prodigal" and keep going around humming stuff like Fields of Athenry. Good thing nobody has mentioned the Titanic to me in the past couple of days, or they would have been in for the verbal lashing of a lifetime. Matter of fact, I may go for the Titanic rant at some point, purely because at least I can't tell if you give up listening halfway through something that's written down. Aside from that, I think I'll try and avoid writing more Black Rose until my dissertation is sorted out for good.

The number of things I'm setting aside for when the dissertation is finished is becoming quite phenomenally huge.

2003-04-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

Ne Illegitimi Carborundum

They call me the Hapless Boy Lard
Why they call me that I do not know
It's because you're a fat useless pillock
Yes, I suppose so...

Mood : Pass me the Punjab lasso, or a bottle of gin.
Music : Don Juan, Gluck

There is an order in which things should be done in this world. Nick Cave THEN Shirehorses is the correct order of hearing. There is just no way you can ever really appreciate the beauty of "Where The Wild Roses Grow" and "Henry Lee" if you've already heard "Hapless Boy Lard" and "Frannie Lee" which is a dreadful shame. However, having spent all day listening to Murder Ballads on a roll, I think I'm over the automatic parody substitution and I now want a shower and an early night.

Heard back from my dissertation supervisor today about my new sections. I've discovered the problem with her and my work (which possibly also explains the palaver over Hartley and Godwin) appears to be that we do not actually speak the same version of the English language. For example, I said to her;

I found it impossible to keep the story structure of the combat myth and obey Kant's principles

she replies;

Quite what do you want the relationship to be between the combat myth and the discussion of Kant? Is the question you are trying to address: Could there be a combat myth of this kind in which all or some characters behaved according to Kantian morality?

In refference to a passage which reads:

It would seem then, that it is still impossible to formulate a course of action that would keep the combat myth structure intact, yet obey Kant's Imperative

It's not just me is it? The question I'm asking is in fact perfectly clear, and more than that, so is my statement of what the relationship in question is. Yes I do go into more detail in the actual dissertation, no it doesn't change that statement one jot. No it doesn't matter if the words "combat myth" or "Categorical Imperative" are double-dutch to you, my point stands. Moreover, it would appear that in addition to speaking a foreign tongue, my ideas are only valid when it can be clearly and conscisely shown that such ideas are in fact *her* ideas. Ahh... I see the problem.... take this for example. I explain;

I wanted to look at a contradictory theory purely because the discrepancy between Kant's theories and the characters actions are so huge, and am now examining the same scene from a Utilitarian viewpoint

She replies;

Perhaps you could say; since in no version are the characters truly Kantian... we could consider other ways of understanding moral behaviour. Utilitarianism for example, with its emphasis on consequences, would be one such possible alternative

Phew, glad that was cleared up. For a second there I almost thought I had an original idea - what a travesty to the educational system that would be! You know, I think it's disgusting that people who want nothing more than people to work on what they are told to work on should have power over my work. The Slayer has the same problem - we both get told "Your work is excellent, but you must learn to play by the rules"

What would have happened if Mozart had played by the rules and done what he was told? You want to know? NOTHING. No huge popularity, no vast celebrations at the centenery of his death (1991, people, in case you'd forgotten) no films, no plays. Obscurity, just like some of his contemporaries who DID just do what they were told.

*sigh* the upshot is that she likes my dissertation now and thinks the external examiners will too. The downside is that I'm utterly disgusted with myself. I feel like I've abandonned my principles for the sake of not getting a hiding from Papa when I fail my degree because of not playing by the rules. The other upshot is that I now won't fail and get a hiding. The other downside is that right now I'm feeling very very snappish. Woe unto anyone who crosses me tonight in the slightest way, and bear in mind that crossing me can be as small a thing as pointing out that I have a hairpin out of place.

OK I'm going to go and have that shower now. By the way, 'blogging may become even more infrequent over the next week, am housesitting with MouseWouse and Replacement Phantom, which should be some sort of insane bibbling trip-and-a-half really. Faintly smiley rat....

2003-04-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

Magnum Opus

There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea

Mood : Exhausted
Music : Confutatis Maledictis (voca me cum benedictus) WA Mozart

So Boots are closing their Well Being shops, huh? Good oh, never even noticed they were there in the first place. Me and shops is a little like Big Yellow Taxi, I never know they're there until they close. Except when they're stores I go to a lot like the arts shop on the corner of the high street in Lancaster, the one that sells some really nice coloured inks.... but in any case, these Well Being shops apparently offered holistic healing, reflexology, aromatherapy, yoga, facial saunas and botox injections. Yes, you heard me correctly; massage points, essential oils, Ayur-Vedic stretch and tone and injections of the toxin that causes fatal food poisoning. *sigh* well it's not as bad as the Goode Olde Dayes I suppose. Back in the Victorian Era it was common enough for women to use arsenic as a facial rinse, eat the stuff, put deadly nightshade in their eyes, and of course squeeze their feet and internal organs into places and shapes that they really should never have been. And there was backboards, but let's not get into that one. Please.

But in any case; my magnum opus. I have a bad bad feeling that I will never ever stop studying Phantom in all its many incarnations. I'm going to end up writing books on it, I can feel it in my bones. You see, I wrote almost all of a dissertation on it, got told it was "insuficiently philosophical" and set about doing what I could to change bits. Of course you know me, I can't edit, I just write something new - and I'm about halfway through writing an almost totally new dissertation on it. This means not only will I have something to hand in that may please the examiner better, but also I have almost all of one and that's still nowhere near all of the work I've got planned on it. Heavy sigh. I'm going to end up one of those dreadful people who know everything there is to know about a tiny obscure reseach area, and get employed to teach on the area into which that subject falls, go bonkers and write a million or so papers on the subject because my brain no longer functions on any other wavelength.

Ho hum... so I've handwritten seventeen sides of A4, I'm now typing up, I had tofu burgers for tea and "Tiny Planets" just wasn't so cute without my Mouse Wouse here... *sniffle*

2003-04-06T11:11:00.000-07:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Smallville

Ok I'm watching Smallville (I hasten to point out that I do not watch it normally) and there's the *cutest* guy. He writes poetry, and he's all pale and skinny and his parents lock him up in the basement. Apparently he's been dead for years but they found out he went through a medical experiment and now he runs off before dawn.

Reminded me of someone. Particularly when shovelling chocolate cake down as if he hadn't eaten for twenty years.

Going to write while I watch. This is too good to miss... Ooh, they're trying to break into the house where Goth Guy is, his name by the way is Byron, snigger.... he doesn't like light.. hell no.... ooh it would appear sunlight REALLY HURTS and he just threw stuff about and his face has gone screwy.

I'm ashamed of the writers. A perfect opportunity to raise the profile of one of the least known and least researched, yet most crippling and debilitating, genetic diseases, and what do they do? They decide it was all the fault of a medical experiment. It would have been so much better if they'd let it all build up with the fog and the poetry and the being locked up, and then given a perfectly normal medical explanation for it. Would have been far more of a twist than this bull.

Giving up on Smallville. It is, as I expected, a big pile of trash. Ohh well.....

2003-04-06T10:03:00.000-07:00

Ho Hum

Something's here I cannot see
What does it mean!
WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!

Mood : Studious
Music : Dany Elfman - Jack's Obsession

One of these days I'll try and remember to bring The Nightmare Before Christmas with me when I go back to Canterbury. Then maybe I won't be here two days and then go "Hmmm, I really want to watch it. Curses!" - but that would of course be me being sensible.

Oh wow - I just looked round and noticed that my lava lamp looks like a frozen cloud! It's just warming up and looks really groovy. Most of my work has been done by the light of one very cool lava lamp lately - well, it's that or candlelight and the lava lamp doesn't cost me money. Candles require replacing.

OK as I was saying: I am kind of sensible really. Organised certainly and fairly good at getting things done. In fact good at that to the point where I get accused of warming time to suit me. The reason behind that is apparently that I couldn't possibly do everything that I do in the regulation 24 hours. I sort of see the point - but you know me, I wouldn't be happy if I wasn't running about doing things constantly. There's nothing I hate more than having nothing to do, as people well know. Finished my essays? Hmm, must write more stuff! Must clean house! Must work out! Must train with weapons! Bugger, knew there was something else I should have brought down. She managed to remember her charm for the Muses but not her sword. I'm a very silly person indeed.

I've started a new picture...I draw a lot, mainly because I'm frightened of losing any skill in it that I may have accquired through doing art at GCSE and A Level. To be honest I quite like the work I produced back then, and try my best to keep it up, but sometimes it's frustrating to not be able to concentrate on artwork because I don't have the space and my mind is elsewhere. But my mind being elsewhere is probably a good thing where this new picture is concerned, it's a couple dancing the Tango :) smiley rat. Still haven't decided on a medium, possibly oil pastels. My favourite piece of my work from A Level (the O'Keefe style rendering of a heart, the organ not the shape) is oil pastel, I used to be quite good with them.

Ohh speaking of organs, went to another Recital with my Lovely Lady Wife yesterday night. Wasn't fond of the Humoresque but I loved the Messaien. Mmmmmm must get..... *ahem* sorry where was I? Ah yes....

So tonight I'm probably going to be studying Kant whilst faffing about with sketches, which will be fun. Yes I've crowbarred Kant into my dissertation, yes his theories suck. Bite me, I needed easy philosophy. Categorical Imperative as applied to kidnapping, anyone?

So yes, work.

2003-04-04T14:23:00.000-08:00

So, Yeah

Mood : Suspect
Music : Gounod's Faust

OK, so according to the random crap I just told Sir Whinealot, everything in the world is realy called Erik. In fact, anything ou can concieve of is really called Erik, and it's only in the version of reality projected by evil chickens that anything isn't. this is because the Great Evil Chicken fears the day when Erik will vanquish his reign of terror and we will all eat fried chicken, except those of us who don't eat meat. And we'll eat chicken-style stuff in celebration.

The "Everything is really called Erik" thing is just one of my "things" - the others are even sillier. for example, the fact that I find certain words (and no I will NOT tell you which ones) utterly utterly hilarious, and once they have been said will enter onto a little giggle loop all of my own, which is quite embarassing. There is also my badger obsession, which tends to come out quite well when I'm stoned. But, badgers aside, I'm often surprised at quite how many of my rambles end up being about chickens.

I would like to say just for the record that I am not, have never been and possibly never will be, afraid of chickens in general. There are certain chickens in the world who are very definitly evil, however - you can tell by the nasty look in their beady little eyes and the way they don't just peck, they do so in a very cold calculating way. those chickens will eat you, and they practice Chicken Voodoo. THOSE chickens - the chickens who live beside Carter Lake for example - are evil chickens. The chicken in Return to Oz is an evil chicken. Chickens are the creatures on this planet with the greatest potential for evil because they use so little of their brainpower doing..well, anything.... except scratching dust. They have the potential to plot and scheme their entire lives! The only time a chicken couldn't plot or scheme is when it was asleep and then it's dreaming evil chicken dreams! Hmmm... do evil chickens dream of eectric egg-whisks?

OK I did realy intend to write a proper blog today, really I did, but then there was the chickens. So uhm.. what's happened? Oh yeah I'm at home, I got a new laptop, we found a site for my remarriage *gulp* and stuff..... and my back really hurts.

K, that was it. Sorry.

2003-04-03T14:00:00.000-08:00

Real Blog Soon I Swear!

Frankenstein and Dracula have nothing on you
Jekkyl and Hyde join the back of the que

Mood : Spiffy
Music : Gingerbread Coffin, Rasputina

You would make them suffer

How would you kill someone
brought to you by Quizilla

You kill and eat little children, and probably
molest their corpses.

You're not trying
hard enough, though, because there's still
plenty of assholes in the world! You might go
to Heaven if you can thin the herd a bit. The
Lord hates fuckers hanging around and messing
up His Creation, after all. HOP TO
IT.

Sicko.

Why Will You Go To Hell?
brought to you by Quizilla

And hello to the "Oh my are we not all terribly terribly shocked"

You are Jack the Ripper. Yours were some of the
most brutal murders recorded in history--yet
your case is still to this day unsolved. You
came from out of the fog, killed violently and
quickly and disappeared without a trace. Then
for no apparent reason, you satisfy your blood
lust with ever-increasing ferocity, culminating
in the near destruction of your final victim,
and then you vanish from the scene forever. The
perfect ingredients for the perennial thriller.
You are quite the mysteriously demented?

Which Imfamous criminal are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh do bugger off....

You are cutting

What Self-Mutilation Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

These are in celebration of ANGELUS BEING BACK!!!!!!
The following are because my dissertation is slowly killing me, though hopefully soon I will be going to London to work on it with MouseWouse and the Replacement Phantom...

Erik (the Phantom)

Which Phantom of the Opera character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are the phantom. Dark and reclusive, you tend
to stay away from people. Your body image is
probably pretty negative. Get out there and
have some fun my friend!

Which 'Phantom of the Opera' character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are most like Phantom, You are intelligent,
flamboyant, cunning, loving and well just down
right creepy.

What character from Phantom of the Opera are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla

I think I'm gonna cry...

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera -- You are a dark
and untrusting person. Few people trust you
and you trust no one. Many rumors are spread
about you, some good, some bad. It is mainly
due to your skill and ability to do more things
than can be imagined.

What Phantom of the Opera Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The Phantom/Erik

WHICH ONE OF MY FAVORITE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA CHARACTERS ARE YOU?
brought to you by Quizilla

*Sobs heartily into keyboard* It was years ago - Nooooo!!!!!
Oh but this cheered me right up...

You utterly despise Raoul!! He is a vile creature
who makes your blood boil. You'd sooner kill
him than look at him and it's all his fault
that Erik is unhappy without Christine!! Your
fondest wish is to be the one to punjab him!
Jeez...you're violent!

How Much Do You Hate (or love) Raoul? (A Phantom of the Opera Quiz)
brought to you by Quizilla

You're into making some sweet music of the
night..when you have an ALW Phantom in your
love nest. Pick any one Michael Crawford, Brad
Little, Ted Keegan etc. Pro: so many to choose
from Cons: So many to choose from

Which Phantom of the Opera would you get it on with?
brought to you by Quizilla

Ahh tartar-sauce, now I'm narcissistic as well as demented and deformed? Great..
However this one rather charmed me....

CLASSIC ERIK (Age 50)
You are Classic Erik! Congratulations! You are the
Erik everyone thinks of first! You are nearing
the end of your days, tired of life,
cantankerous. You spend your time kidnapping
ingenues, terrifying ballet rats and extorting
money from the hapless managers of *YOUR* opera
house, thank you very much.

Phantom of the Opera: Which age of Erik are you? (SK)
brought to you by Quizilla

And this one just made me go take a shower, wash my hair, and comb it out so neat you'd never know I was a rat....
....unless of course you have the nibble marks to prove it....

You're Julian Sands "Erik"

Which Erik (Phantom Of the Opera) Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

*sigh* that'll do I think

2003-03-31T12:48:00.000-08:00

In Place Of A Real Blog

your fuck.

What swear word are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Nihilist Bear

Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Bondage movie! You're into BSDM (Bondage &
Discipline, Dominance & Submission) and chances
are, you're fond of whips, chains, harnesses,
and tight leather outfits. You like to mix a
little pain with a LOT of pleasure, baby!

What kind of porno would you star in?
brought to you by Quizilla

Your Heart is Black

What Color is Your Heart?
brought to you by Quizilla

I'm not sure how to take this next one..

schizoid

Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla

That will do for now I think.

2003-03-28T02:27:00.000-08:00

"Lepporello, Some Hay - Prestisimo!"

Well I'm the king of the swingers, woah
The jungle VIP
I've reached the top and had to stop
And that's what's a-botherin' me!

Mood : Focussed
Music : Don Giovanni

Ack, last day and night for a while of total and utter freedom. Don't get me wrong, I love going home (not doing my own washing up is for example a great great thing) and I love seeing my parents and wife and all, but I also enjoy the freedom I get up here. Tonight I am going to get nicely toasted and read Baudelaire before I have to spend a month at home without drugs revising and finishing my dissertation. And finish my packing of course.

Ever have that thing where when you're studying something there's one song that keeps going round and round your head? I have deduced (from the fact that I can see no other connection between Prometheus and Blur) that the reason why whilst trying to revise "Prometheus Unbound" I had "Country House" taking a lazy loop trip around my cerebrum, is that it reminds me of Shelley. Seriously, it's not just me, it kind of sounds that way if you (a) listen to the lyrics and (b) know a little about Shelley;

And so the story begins...

City Dweller, successful fella,
Thought to himself "Oops I've got a lot of money"
Caught up in the rat race terminally
"I'm a proffessional cynic, but my heart's not in it,
I'm paying the price of living life at the limit"
Caught up in the century's anxiety
Yes it preys on him
He's getting thin

This should be obvious really; Good Ol' Percy would indeed have had a bit of money (before his father cut him off anyway) since he was heir to a Baronetcy (He would be been Baronet of Horsham incidentaly - the title later went to his son, Percy Florence) And the rest? Well... didn't he spend a while bimbling about going "oooh Nature so pweety, City bad.." And of course, he *was* pretty thin.

He lives in a house, a very big house in the country,
Watching afternoon repeats and the food he eats in the country,
He takes all manner of pills and piles up analyst bills in the country,
Oh its like an animal farm, lots of rural charm in the country

After my rants about the Vindication of Natural Diet you should be able to see straight through this one - and as for the pills and analyst bills, that should also be fairly obvious. Serious case of the jitters, that lad.

He's got morning glory and that's a different story,
Everything's goin' jackanory
Touched with his own mortality,
He's reading Balsac, knockin' back Prozac,
'it's a helping hand that makes you feel wonderfully bland'
Oh it's the century's remedy for the faint at heart, a new start - so simple!

No comment. None whatsoever. I don't need to say anything at all about this verse, it's far far too self-evident
He lives in a house, a very big house in the country,
He's got a fog in his chest so he needs a lot of rest in the country,
He doesn't drink, smoke, laugh, takes herbal baths in the country,
He says you'll come to no harm, on the animal farm in the country
In the country (ooh ooh ooh)
In the country (ooh ooh ooh)
In the country!

Again I say, yep - no comment.

That was really entirely pointless, but this is possibly my last 'blog entry until Sunday or maybe Monday night, so I couldn't think of anything to say. *sigh* see you all then I suppose.... Hasn't the term gone quickly?

2003-03-27T02:39:00.000-08:00

Goth Buffy???!!

Oooooooohhh.. this is a story 'bout a guy named Al
And he lived in the sewers with his hamster pals
But the sanitation workers really didn't approve
So he packed up his accordion and had to move

Mood : Tired but happy
Music : Slept So Long, The Vampire Lestat

So here I am, back again for a day on campus, just because I am so desperate to be able to use a desktop machine that I would rather come and be trapped in a stuffy lab with no tea than have to use the dreaded laptop. Though to be honest if last night's entry is anything to go by, I'm getting better at typing on it.

This morning I am wearing my DMs, black jeans with a wide belt, a mesh shirt with my "Serial Killers Are People Too" t-shirt, a studded bracelet, I have heavy eye make up and my hair in a high ponytail, and am of course wearing my cross, which I very rarely actually remove. If you can picture that outfit (and more to the point) picture me in it - will someone PLEASE explain why Sir Whinealot reffered to me as "Goth Buffy" today?? Grrr, am not Buffy-Like....

Speaking of vampire slayers (and yes I kind of was, in a roundabout sort of way) I watched some of Ultraviolet again last night. It was OK the first time around because I hadn't seen Coupling and thus did not know about Jack Davenport being Steve, but this time - having seen a lot of Coupling - I found myself being totally unable to take the main character seriously because I kept going "But it's Steve! Steve the Fearless Vampire Hunter, heee hee!!!" *sigh* it's like the Frank Spencer/Phantom of The Opera syndrome, where you find yourself totally unable reconcile accident prone beret-wearing failure moron with gives-you-chills well-dressed sex-on-a-stick come and get him while he's hot what am I saying he's ALWAYS hot.... well I do anyway. It's the voice. Micheal Crawford was cute for three years, I've said it before and I'll say it again. And I want his albums - just not the Disney one - nothing could possibly disturb me more that getting turned on by his gorgeous voice and then having the sudden flash of realisation that the guy I'm perving over the voice of is about sixty, has a plastic hip and orange skin, and that more to the point the song I'm getting off on is from The Lion King. There's just not enough Ewwwww! in the world.

Well, I suppose I'd better actually get on with something productive now. I've got large amounts of water and have had breakfast, what more could I possibly need? Well, right now some fresh air would be nice, the lab air makes me feel all muzzy in the head - it's so dry and hot and smells of computers. However, the air I'm breathing may be too hot, but my liver has decided it's gone on strike again so I'm absolutely freezing. Typical!

2003-03-26T16:02:00.000-08:00

Theories? You Want Theories??

I've got a theory, that it's a daemon
A dancing daemon - no, something isn't right there

Mood : Yeeeeeaaaah....
Music : Mandy, Barry Manilow

Theories. I have a whole bunch of those - many of you have probaly have heard them before, though nobody (unless they're one of those people who sit around with me when I'm altering my consciousness in some way) will have heard all of them. I Theorise;

That "Weird Al" Yancovic is at the very least primary stage anorexic
That if you ever totally understand the world and its purpose, it flips on its head to spite you (I got this from someone, tell me who!)
That you don't percieve music with your ears
That the hardest thing is the world becomes easy with practice
That opera is most beautiful when you don't understand the words, but do know the story

My most relevant theory however is this; that if it feels right and does nobody any harm, you should do it. I like the odd gin and tonic, just the one usually but a couple can be nice. Just becuse normally, 99% of the time, I don't drink doesn't mean I can't enjoy the occasional tipple.

Huzzah for gin and wonderful lovely wives!

2003-03-25T06:42:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Compulsive Working

I've not heard of girls returning.
It is a murky, mystery place.
I may not have had much booklearning
But I've got charms to win the race.

Mood : Creative
Music : "Stumpside" Rasputina

*sigh* OK, Sal wasn't in her office, neither was Andrew Tate, and crazy political guy (Mike Sanders) is leaving for the US on Friday (again I say crazy) and is too busy to look at my paper. Ohhh welll.... guess I'll just have to send it off without approvals. Never mind.

Now that I have done all the essays for my degree, I have my dissertation to do. I refuse to work on my dissertation at Uni as it will involve carting around very large amounts of heavy books and I'm fairly certain that

a) My bag won't take much more abuse
b) If I take all the books I need, I just know I'll end up not using half of them and hence resenting the carrying of them.

So the dissertation is sitting partly in a two foot high pile on my table and partly in the sadly defunct Miss Daae, in a format which nobody else in the known universe uses that won't talk to any other wordprocessing package. That's very me really isn't it? Having an obscure and antisocial WP kind of fits me quite well. A bit like my distaste for very sweet things and my love of pickles and salt biscuits. Of course, hobnobs are not truly sweet, plain hobnobs have just that tiny edge of saltiness that makes them OK, especially if you dip them in a nice cup of tea. That's what I really hate about working on campus, the lack of nice cups of tea freely avaliable. They should instal vending machines that make proper tea - or since the amazing modern technology we have is still incapable of making anything faintly resembling a nice cup of tea - a small army of tiny people to bring you tea while you work. Not too tiny, you understand, otherwise they wouldn't be able to carry the cups - I mean, that should just be obvious. What are you, stupid?

So anyway, what I'm actually doing in defending Salieri. I do not know or understand why I am doing this, or why I have spent 2778 words and several hours of time which I could have spent rereading Don Juan doing so, but the fact is that I have done it, and continue to do it. I'm totally and utterly incorrigible. I wonder what 'corrigible' involves? Does it have anything to do with Korrigans, I wonder? I've never seen a Korrigan, and strongly suspect that they are a fiction invented by strange Swedish girls with bad eyesight and an Electra complex.

Will someone please tell me what they slipped into my coffee this morning?

2003-03-25T02:03:00.000-08:00

Scooting In

"Dinner, are you mad?! I am a nobleman,
I only ever dine with people of my own height!"

Loads of people do this and I can't be bothered to get the actual thingie with icons, but here you go

Mood : Poetic
Music : "Anytime" Sarah Brightman

Sooo, yes. I'm timewasting until I can turn up at Sal's office hour which starts at 10am. It' 09.58am, and I've promised myself I won't even get up from this (evil, public, uncustomised) machine until 10.05am. Don't want to give Sal the impression I'm desperate for her company. I've a good mind not to show her the paper anyway, she'll only criticise the fact I haven't footnoted anything but direct quotes from the Vindication. Why is it you can't get away with actually *knowing* things in academic essay - why do you always have to footnote every tiny piece of information? Grrr.. darned annoying if you ask me.

OK, I'm not going anywhere near Sal's office yet, but I am wandering off to get breakfast with Sir Whinealot. Or rather to annoy/talk to him while he has breakfast. Organised Woman here made her breakfast last night and only had to get it out of the fridge this morning :) More 'blog later I promise.

2003-03-24T13:50:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #3 : More Tests

What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla

Shrooms.
Star light,
star bright,
what images will I see tonite?

Which drug should you be hooked on? [now with pictures]
brought to you by Quizilla

Gray:
You poor, depressed child. A rain cloud seems to
follow you everywhere. The worst has always got
to happen doesn't it? Life is miserable.

What color do you see the world in?
brought to you by Quizilla

2003-03-24T02:45:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Summing Me Up

I hadn't heard this song for ages, it was on one of the tapes Angelus brought with him last week, and it has never spoken to me more clearly. This is exactly how I feel right now. If you haven't heard the song, you really should do as it is lovely.

Homeward Bound : Simon and Garfunkel

I'm sitting in the railway station. Got a ticket to my destination.
On a tour of one-night stands, my suitcase and guitar in hand.
And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound, I wish I was, Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping, Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting, Silently for me.

Every day's an endless stream, of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
And every stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be,
Homeward bound, I wish I was, Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping, Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting, Silently for me.

Tonight I'll sing my songs again, I'll play the game and pretend.
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.
Homeward bound, I wish I was, Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping, Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting, Silently for me, Silently for me.

That's me all over, particularly now - but I remember listening to that song in the old Fiat Uno on the way up to London with my mother when I used to go to work with her in Whitechapel. The first person to make a joke about me 'working in Whitechapel' will get a free punch in the face.

2003-03-24T02:31:00.000-08:00

Conspiracy Theory

"Damn you! You little prying Pandora!
You little daemon! Is this what you wanted to see?
Curse you! You little crying Delilah!
You little viper! Now you cannot ever be free"

Tech does it on purpose you know. The Universe has a balance which must remain even - this is why if one couple in your immediate group of friends splits up, two more of them have to get together to redress the overall Couple Equilibrium. This phenomenon has been noted over and over again and cannot be denied, and I'd love to do a scientific study into it if I had the time.

You see, on Saturday I had a really lovely day. I got plenty of sleep, wandered out to Campus because it was a lovely day and I had plenty of factor 30, took my time bimbling up looking at all the pretty rivers and trees and daffodils in a worryingly Lake School manner, had a pleasant coffee with Cuz and Ell, went shopping to spend the vouchers I had had festering in my purse since January. I got a mesh shirt in New Look and a faith hope and charity necklace - Rake bought me one when I was at school and I adored it, but I accidentally forgot to remove it before a performance once and threw it at Sophie when I caught my hand in it during a particularly fast turn. Now, since I haven't actually danced on stage since I was 17 years old, that's how long I had been looking for a replacement, so now I have one - yay me! I also discovered how enjoyable it can be to spend fifteen entire minutes agonising over whether a crinkle-fabric bell sleeve shirt will look better in black, white or sand. I went for black in the end (now there's a shock) but the other 2 colours were lovely as well :( Oh well, love the new top! Got my pictures developed - I have a fantastic one which I will treasure from the cocktail party with a few of my best friends looking horrendously happy - including Byron, who appears to be singing a football song if her expression is anything to go by. I wouldn't know, I don't remember taking it! Also [poinged at Mr Jez and the Alcoholic who saluted my bounciness and discussed natural philosophy with me for a bit. Then I wandered happily homewards for some mushroom pasta and work on my Aristotle essay.

Miss Daae was switched on, got halfway through loading the OS, and powered herself down. After a pause, I figured I must have not turned her on properly (smutty remarks please) and tried again. Same result. And again, and again and again, until I was spent, and called the Jellicle to help with my predicament. Only problem was, he was busy packing to go home on Sunday and didn't have time to fix it. So I had to come use a campus machine. I AM STILL WITHOUT MY DESKTOP because Sir Whinealot refused to fix it last night saying he was going straight to bed, and then proceeded to stay up another couple of hours. And he's at work today and will quite probably be too tired to fix it tonight as well. *sob* Chrissssssstiiiiiiiiiine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why have you broken in my hour of need?!!!!!

That really spoilt my mood. And now I'm trapped on campus until 5PM with the upside that if need be I can go infest Rollerboy's room later, and that I will probably get my essay for the call for papers done today. I would have had to come onto campus at some point today anyway as I have a dissertation meeting (which needless to say I have nothing to turn in for because of Miss Daae having a tantrum. It is truly galling to have to say "My computer broke" especially when it's actually true) and have to hand my Aristotle essay in. At least there's no stress about that, I've had it done since Saturday night, it's sitting beside me just waiting for a cover sheet and to be handed in, and sinmce philosphy don't do that nasty thing of setting a time for essays to be in for, I'm OK. That's my last ever essay unless you count my Dissertation, which I'm trying not to. I'm going to have to do the consultation for it via email over the holiday aren't I? *heavy sigh* I need a drink.... NO! Bad Shelley...

Right, I'm now just prattling about stuff. But it's my 'blog, I can do that if I like. Unfortunatly I seem to have run out of stuff to prattle about. I think I've finally entered essay-writing mode (why couldn't that have happened when I was doing my Modernism essay? I got there about halfway through Romanticism) and may go faff about my my vegetarianism paper for the Keats/Shelley memorial trust. Sounds really important when I say it like that doesn't it? *smiley rat* woo hoo, I'm a big important essay writing person! I also have a paper on Cultural Relativism as envinced in The Nightmare Before Christmas which I intend for www.ratonapogostick.blogspot.com buzzing in my skull (did you catch the in-joke?) which I will probably have done for the end of the week. I certainly will if Miss Daae stops sulking and lets me use her (again, please with the smut)

By the way, the reason for my computer being named Miss Christine Daae should really be self-explanatory; The computer is indubitably female, and I spend most of my time either damning and cursing her, or entreating her with wheedling whines to do my bidding.

2003-03-22T17:46:00.000-08:00

Arguing Metaphysics in Piccadily Circus

I like Chinese
I like Chinese
I like their tiny little trees...

Since time immemorial, that is before even people with really really good memories, who can like, remember everything that ever happened ever, there have been questions that man has pondered over. Most of the time he was either in the bath or it was 4am and he couldn't sleep. Maybe he had too much coffee or something, or there was a lot on his mind. Maybe had a bad day at the office, that damned middle-managemant guy with the plastic hair kept coming over and making snide remarks. But in any case, there are always the few ponderable imponderables of metaphysics;

Why am I here?
Who am I?
What on earth did I drink last night?

But oh so many of our philosphers and great thinkers have ignored so much! Just as our great poets have been mysteriously and dolefully silent upon the subject of a good cup of tea, maybe with a biscuit, a fruity sort of biscuit - garibaldi ones. I like those. Of course there is much merit in hobnobs also, though not the kind with chocolate on because I don't like it. The Venue have started selling some very nice vegan flapjacks, they're Cornish. The postcode implies Truro. Of course, whether or not they really do come from Truro is possibly one of those great imponderables. Others include;

Why did my computer have a nervous breakdown the one weekend I needed it and Sir Whinealot wasn't around to fix it?
How did I take a grand total of four hours from first concept to finished product to write my Aristotle essay, and be happy with it?
Where is the ladies lavatory nearest Grizedale computer lab? I had to use the men's, I felt most regressive.
What exactly is a "shit party"? is it what I think it is? If so, why would you want to have one in somewhere so unspeakably vile as Grizedale men's lavatories?
Why has someone written a Norse prayer for immortality in Valhalla on the wall of one of the cubicles?
When will that fellow sitting behind me stop humming tunelessly to himself?
Is he aware he's doing it?
If I politely point out that it is grating on my nerves like glasspaper on an anus that recently experienced The Madras Effect, will he take offense?
How much longer can he go on doing it before I fashion a crude Punjab lasso from computer cables and make like Erik?

There really are far far too many questions in this world. Then again, if there weren't, what would philosophers do with their time? I'll tell you what they'd do (I should really say 'we'd do' as I am a philospher-poet myself) they'd write stupid, rambling essays on how we should run our lives and what we should eat and drink. and how currupt and bad we are if we disagree with their crack-addled moral-blinded opinions.

He's ruining my life, the miserable little armchair-radical liberal meat-is-murder banner-waving suicidal dogmatic moral-highground-clambering preaching BASTARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My essay for the call for papers is going remarkably well. Considering I'm sitting in a computer lab on campus and can't just light up a joint or go for a drink of water (you should only ever ever drink water you see. Everything else is bad for you, corrupts the body, corrupts the soul, lays up stacks of genetic diseases for your children. Porphyria, you see, is all the result of someone a very long time ago drinking a can of Dr Pepper) and even though I'm happy and relaxed, I'm a little annoyed because I have to walk home, and it's cold. yes I'm being a whiny goit, but actually it's more that I just don't really want to go on my own. Not scared you understand, just bored.

Hmm. OK, going home, I'm hungry and he's still humming.

2003-03-21T04:43:00.000-08:00

Blah...

They hate you if you're clever
And they despise a fool

Yeah, OK, I'm here. I've got a thundering headache that feels like live scorpions stinging the back of my forehead, and I couldn't get out of bed today without serious effort. I'm considering the prospet of getting some food but seriously cannot be bothered to cook so probably not. Will maybe hunt for a can of something to nibble later on.

Got my essays in on time amid much paranoia. Those were the last literature essays I will hand in for my degree, I felt awful. I remember handing my first in and it feels like only yesterday that I did it. Spent a lot of yesterday running around handing out copies of the poem that I foolishly showed to Rachel from the Stop The War campaign. Not sure how many people read it, or even if anyone didn't just find it damned funny, particularly Sally. I have this problem you see; a lot of my poetry, particularly the stuff with my political views in, is some sort of awful synthesis of Romantic and Modern. It's not as if I don't think it will make a difference, but sometimes I feel like there are very few people out there who'll read poetry unless they have to study it. This really irritates me, and makes me even more certain that I really wasn't meant for this age. But what can I do about it? Fact is, this isn't the Regency, or any of the other eras when people honestly cared about literature as something other than that which you are forced to read at school or university. I know a lot of people who *do* care about it, and I like spending time wih these people, but the vast majority of people just want to get on with their lives.

Fair enough. Right now I just want to go home.

Seriously. Yesterday particularly I felt like I wanted to call my father and ask if he'd come pick me up a week early, but sadly I have an ssay due in Monday and a dissertation meeting the same day do I have to stay, and he can't come any earlier than next Saturday. Sucks. Particularly as I will be on my own in the house for a bit, which I wouldn't mind so much if I was in a better frame of mind, but as it is, ah hell, I'm not even sure *what* I think or feel anymore. Sod it all. I'm going to do my nice comforting essay on vegetarianism and probably scribble another six pages of existensial dribble in my journal. I wonder if I'll ever be famous enough for people to want to read it? Could happen. If, that is, I ever progress beyond those awful neo-Romantic ramblings about freedom and truth and beauty. I'm sure everyone just thinks I'm a fool with an agenda.

Want it to be Hallowe'en. I feel right at home then, like I'm doing something. I love coordinating the Hallowe'en efforts, it's when I really come into my own - there's such a sense of fun in it. Makes the work a real pleasure. But Hallowe'en is a long way off, more than 200 days in fact.

Ohhhhh welllll......

2003-03-19T08:30:00.000-08:00

Timewasting Again

Am I the only one who finds it a little depressing that the song quoted in Awesome Man's 'blog today (Instruments of Destruction by NRG) comes immeditaly before the death of Optimus Prime? - the one who said that wonderful, memorable thing that I cannot seem to prevent myself from quoting; "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings"?

That makes a statement that I'm not sure was intended or not. Kudos to Awesome Man for keeping his 'blog almost entirely free of political commentary, I'd do the same if it wasn't for the fact that this really preoccupies me. Those unseen things that will bring destruction are so closely analogous to the nuclear weapons we all know that Warmonger puppet President Mr Dubayah will unleash on us that it's frightening. And what do those words preceed? The symbolic death of freedom and rights.

But there's a lighter side to this; though hope seemed gone, the Transformers carried on fighting, and will continue to do so

UNTIL ALL ARE ONE

2003-03-17T18:07:00.000-08:00

One Of Those Days

OK before I get to what my day was like, some of you who wanted to probably didn't watch Bush make his address to the American people. So here's a quick summary;

We the American people want to free the Iraqui people from tyranny and as such have given Saddam 48 hours to get out of the country, if he doesn't then the full force of the US military and all compliant Nations will be used. The Iraqui people are not to take action (eg destroy oil wells) and the military are to ignore commands to use weapons of mass destruction, US troops are to be allowed peacefully in to disarm Iraq. If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. If tyranny in Iraq is overthrown, we the American people will continue to push our culture upon you and build a new Iraq based on American values, "Goodnight, and may God continue to bless the American people"

That this warmonger had the temerity to go on a worldwide broadcast and preach freedom and liberation for all peoples when he is looking for nothing but to protect the economy of his precious country and thus protect its oppressive governmental regime brought me close to tears. If Freedom and liberation, and indeed peace, is the goal of this war, how can it be achieved through fighting, violence, mass genocide which whether it is directed against the civilians or not (and Bush did send a special message to the Iraqui civilians that this is not about them) Civilians WILL DIE. I am too angry and shaken at the moment to even formulate a rational response to this, and as such am not going to attempt it. If at any point I feel I can respond, I will do so loudly and clearly. Tommorow night if, as seems now inevitable, war is declared, I am going to Dalton Square (interestingly the home of notorious and brutal killer Dr Buck Ruxton) to participate in the vigil that will be held there. I advise you all to join me.

Those of you who have faith, pray for us all. Those of you who have magick, work for the world. Those of you who have a voice and a heart for the sanctity of peace and the right to freedom of all sentient beings, use your voice and obey your heart in whatever way you can. No matter that this war may not concern you, perhaps you feel that the nation does not care for you and you owe no debt to any being, perhaps this is very true. The fact remains that though you may not be concerned, this affects you on a personal level. If nobody you know will be affected or involved, congratulations, I hope you like it down in your bunker because that is where you are - EVERY PERSON IN THE WORLD IS DIRECTLY AFFECTED BY THIS.

Godwin states that advancement and the achievement of peace can only be fully assisted by the acceptance of the personal responsibility of each being for their actions and their consequences. Do you all remember that poem they loved printing out on walls at school? "First they came for the Jews, and I did not speak up, because I was not a Jew"? Think about it. Because they are coming for the world and whether you like it or not, that includes you. So you had better all sit up and take notice, because only when every living being on this planet sits up and takes notice and acts upon the feelings that mass genocide and oppressive governmental and religious regimes excite in any being with a scrap of humanity, only then will any real peace be achieved.

"But cheif, ambiguous man, he that can know
More misery, and dream more joy than all;
Whose keen sensations thrill within his breast
To mingle with a loftier instinct there,
Lending their power to pleasure and to pain,
Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each;
Who stands amid the ever-varying world,
The burthen or the glory of the earth;
He chief percieves the change, his being notes
The gradual renovation, and dfeines
Each movement of its progress on his mind

Man, where the gloom of the long polar night
Lowers o'er the snow-clad rocks and frozen soil
Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost
Basks in the moonlight's inneffecual glow,
Sharnk with the plants, and darknened with the night,
His chilled and narrow energies, his heart,
Insensible to courage, truth, or love,
His stunted stature and imbecile frame,
Marked him for some abortion of the earth,
Fit compeer of the bears that roamed around
Whose habits and enjoyments were his own:
His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe,
Whose meagre wants, but scantily fulfilled,
Apprised him ever of the joyless length,
Which his short beings wretchedness had reached
His death a pang which famine, cold and toil,
Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital spark
Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought:
All was inflicted here that earth's revenge
Could wreak on the infringers of her law;
One curse alone was spared — the name of God.

Nor where the tropics bound the realms of day
With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame,
Where blue mists through the unmoving atmosphere
Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and fed
Unnatural vegetation, where the land
Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and disease,
Was man a nobler being; slavery
Had crushed him to his country's bloodstained dust;
Or he was bartered for the fame of power,
Which all internal impulses destroying,
Makes human will an article of trade;
Or he was changed with Christians for their gold,
And dragged to distant isles, where to the sound
Of the flesh-mangling scourge, he does the work
Of all-polluting luxury and wealth,
Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads
The long-protracted fulness of their woe;
Or he was led to legal butchery,
To turn to worms beneath that burning sun,
Where kings first leagued against the rights of men,
And priests first traded with the name of God.

Even where the milder zone afforded man
A seeming shelter, yet contagion there,
Blighting his being with unnumbered ills,
Spread like a quenchless fire; nor truth till late
Availed to arrest its progress, or create
That peace which first in bloodless victory waved
Her snowy standard o'er this favoured clime:
There man was long the train-bearer of slaves,
The mimic of surrounding misery,
The jackal of ambition's lion-rage,
The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal.

Here now the human being stands adorning
This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind;
Blest from his birth with all bland impulses,
Which gently in his noble bosom wake
All kindly passions and all pure desires.
Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing
Which from the exhaustless lore of human weal
Dawns on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise
In time-destroying infiniteness, gift
With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks
The unprevailing hoariness of age,
And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene
Swift as an unremembered vision, stands
Immortal upon earth: no longer now
He slays the lamb that looks him in the face,
And horribly devours his mangled flesh,
Which still avenging nature's broken law,
Kindled all putrid humours in his frame,
All evil passions, and all vain belief,
Hatred, despair, and loathing in his mind,
The germs of misery, death, disease, and crime.
No longer now the winged habitants,
That in the woods their sweet lives sing away,
Flee from the form of man; but gather round,
And prune their sunny feathers on the hands
Which little children stretch in friendly sport
Towards these dreadless partners of their play.
All things are void of terror: man has lost
His terrible prerogative, and stands
An equal amidst equals: happiness
And science dawn though late upon the earth;
Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame;
Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here,
Reason and passion cease to combat there;
Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth extend
Their all-subduing energies, and wield
The sceptre of a vast dominion there;
Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends
Its force to the omnipotence of mind,
Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth
To decorate its paradise of peace."

I hope you read that. I'llbe very dissapointed if you didn't, but not if you didn't recognise it. Bloody well think about it, and stand against this idiot cruelty and hatred with all the heart and mind of the pure individuals I know that you all truly are.

2003-03-16T17:57:00.000-08:00

Walking Sex

Walking Sex Vampire

What type of vampire are you?
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I get this a lot you know. People really do think I walk and talk sex appeal, which is flattering I admit and when I'm in one of my less "save me from the little box which I have unknowingly locked myself into, please" moods is something I like to play on a little. The whole fact I call my ex "Sir Whinealot" or "Louis the Wonder Spod" comes from the fact that a dear relation of mine took one look at our realtionship and named us "Sir Whinealot and the Brat Princess"

I like being sexy, I don't like being viewed as arrogant. OK, yes, my ego would make Lestat cower in fear at someone greater than him with the self adoration at times, but really, I'm not arrogant. A couple of weeks ago a completely straight woman (I'm talking as straight as you get without being a homophobe) told me *she* finds me sexy. Later she told me it was because something about me just oozed appeal. This is all very nice, the fact that if I so choose I can lure practically anyone who doesn't know me in is also nice.

Here the similarity between me and Lestat ends.

He does not care what anyone thinks of him, and I really do. I honestly care if I piss people off by being a brat, even though I do enjoy the brattishness. The beauty of being like Lestat is the lack of concern for opinions, but I just can't afford to be that way because

A. I am not a vampire prince
B. I am 21 years old
C. I am not a fictional character

I care, and it hurts me when people seem to assume that I won't. I'm not going to bring up what's really hurting me at the moment because it was a matter of free personal choice that I have no right to be hurt by. I am only a walking incarnation of Lestat without the tact or grace when I'm drunk, and I don't like that person. There are four very good reasons I don't like drinking;

1. Empty calories
2. Expensive
3. I become an even bigger jerk
4. I get horrendous hangovers

After a month sober I had points three and four brought sharply home to me this Friday and Saturday. I think the only person I can safely drink around is my wife, who probably considers it a benefit that I become a blood-hungry slave to lust when drunk and will put up with it with minmal fuss when I come back to bed shaking and remark that bile truly is a fascinating shade of yellow the next morning. Most of the truly idiotic things I have done in my life I have done under the affluence of inkahol, and I don't WANT to do idiotic things. I'm 21 years old, my life is not for wasting at parties, it's for living and remembering. I know it's taken me longer than most to learn this one but I got there in the end.

So if I promise not to drink and be an asshole, will you guys invite me to things again?

2003-03-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

One Character In Search Of An Author

I feel like no-one ever told the truth to me
About growing up and what a struggle it would be
In my tangled state of mind
I've been looking back to find
Where I went wrong

For once, my lyrics competition is not just an idle "can you identify my rambling musical taste" thing. For once it's really the summing up of my 'blog. I don't want this to turn into anything anyone doesn't want to read - because I want my friends to read it. My real honest-to-god true friends who I feel like I've pushed out of my life.

Ell, Tom, Zoe - all my first friends who I met when I arrived in a city I had never even visited before. I am sorry. Somewhere around Summer 2002 I became a complete and total jerk. I wasn't the person you'd been friends with anymore and rightly you left me to it. I am sorry, and I don't want to be a jerk anymore, I want to be the person you met. Maybe that isn't possible because we've all changed too much over the past couple of years, maybe we've all grown apart and it was inevitable, but I never wanted it to happen.

In our first year, we were a very easily defined group of people. People could easily say "Ell is this one, George is this one, Tom is this one" and it was simple and perfect. I don't know where to go from here, and I need your help.

Please, please give it to me.

2003-03-13T14:59:00.000-08:00

Another HUGE Surprise

You're Jack! "I am the Pumpkin King!" and
yes you are. Although you have the fame and
fortune, you are not happy. You go and try to
find yourself but in cost of Christmas. In the
end everything is peachy keen and we still love
you.

Which Nightmare Before Christmas Character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

2003-03-13T11:37:00.000-08:00

Wise Words

Awesome Man is right. Though you can take your wise words from all the traditional places, the less traditional supplies just as many. For example, you can go with....

"Pride goeth before destruction and before a fall a haughty sprit" Biblical..

OR

"Some modesty would suit you better, so why don't you give it a try" Extreme lyrics

Try these on for size;

"Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most" - Ozzy Osbourne
"Without passion we would be truly dead" - Angelus
"Don't dream it. Be it" - Dr Frank N Furter
"I am a vulgar man, Majesty. My music is not" - Mozart a la Tom Hulce
"I am neutral. I am the little yellow bar on the pH scale of life" - my own dear little Byron
"Hate and love are one" - Julian Sands in scenery-chewing guise as the Phantom
"I know I'll do the right thing if the right thing is revealed" - Stain'd lyrics
"Touch me, and you'll know what happiness means" - Grizabella the Glamour Cat
"We are all two people" - Bruce Wayne
"Five exclamation marks. A sure sign of a man who wears his underpants on his head" - Terry Pratchett

2003-03-13T09:07:00.000-08:00

Humiliated

This face, that earned a mother's fear and loathing
A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing,
Pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate,
An eternity of this before your eyes

Let me put this in very simple words; some people look good in white, some people look good in pretty dresses. I look good in an evening dress suit and a hat that covers most of my face. It really is that simple. There is nothing more humiliating than trying to shop for something you only want to wear because you want something that will offset the outfit the guy taking you to a party is wearing. Much as I try, I just can't carry off the innocent crucifix-wearing bubbly little girl look. And for once in my life I'm struggling *not* to be too tall.

Today started badly and got steadily worse. I just closed my eyes for a few moments around 7am and woke up with my face on the keyboard at half past one, when I was meant to pick my Cuzzin up at 11am, go to a lecture at 12pm and meet Awesome Man at 1pm. THAT was bad. What was worse was that Byron then called me to go for a drink, which seemed very very pointless because I don't drink, and besides I'd been trying to call HER for an hour to come help me shop for this humiliating white dress I wanted. So that pissed me off. And then Sir Whinealot started bitching that he might lose his job because he hasn't done work he was supposed to, then got pissed off at me when I told him I didn't have any sympathy. Why the fuck should I have sympathy? If you don't work, you lose. It's that simple. I have essays coming out of my ears and no idea where I'm going to find the time to finish everything.

But the worst thing is that I don't even want to go to this party anymore. I don't want Angelus to take me out or to come home with me, I don't want to try and look pretty and act nice, I want to curl up in a little ball until everything goes away, and I don't even know why. OK I've had a bad day, everyone has bad days, mine are no worse. Things are generally going well at the moment and I have no reason to be unhappy, yet I am, I'm desperatly unhappy. I'm not even depressed, because if you're depressed things seem meaningless or you can't see the good things you have, I'm just really unhappy for no apparent reason.

What I'd really like to do tonight is curl up and do nothing, maybe listen to some music, but I can't because I've got too much work to do. It's just unfair.

2003-03-12T16:23:00.000-08:00

"Tennyson?? Why he's only a Rhymster!"

If anyone can tell me where that comes from I'd be proud of them. It would mean they read some rather decent Irish literature and more to the point remember bits of it. The reason for the quote, however is simple. I was reading Lucretia's 'blog (http://www.blurty.com/~shadowgrove) and saw that she was engaged on something I fondly remember from my Freshman year; a creative writing piece that is a rewritten something you've studied. It's NOT that primary school actually, it's quite fun and you can impress them with the reasoning behind it if you're crap at writing, which I am a little. Trouble did "Kubla Khan" rewritten as a prose report by one of the architects of the stately pleasure dome.. quite a fun read. I did "The Lady of Shallot" in prose, and I've decided to post it. Because I can. So here you are... and incidentally, I got a good mark for it!

"All The Trappings Of Womanhood"
A personal rewriting of Alfred Lord Tennyson's
"The Lady Of Shallot" including a critical afterword

PART ONE

Look down across this land of old, place of fire lit tales and feasts and festival. Look down the silver strip of river that winds serpentine and lazy, dividing barley from rye, cleaving the English countryside, a benign liquid blade. Look upon all this, and you will but see the haze that surrounds a greater glory, forever hidden from mortal view.
Beyond the fields that undulate softly in the midsummer breeze lies the wold, stretching shoulders toward the cyan sky, draped in fine, billowing life, yellow, gold, green and all the shades between that turn with the wheel of the year.
Walk upon the wide, well-worn track that runs dustily through the field, and you will see her; Camelot. Her towers soaring with aspirations. Camelot with her many windows gazing upon those who pass by her blank-faced majesty. Down from Camelot, however, is another regal seat. Its Queen has no subject, her tower no herald, but her beauty surely must deserve this and a hundred more majestic honours. For down among the cloak of lilies raising proud heads to the sun, there lies the island of Shallot.
And those that walk the path to Camelot sometimes know of she who bides there, but none have seen her walk by noon or moonlight, and those who know suspect her Fey. In Camelot, the feasts go on with never a thought for the island in the lilies.
The river knows the path to the island well, and ripples there continuously, whispering among the willows and aspens that crowd close on the island. Grey walls, grey towers, grey slants of light that cast a grey air of glooming, except where the sun has touched enough for a few brave flowers to raise their heads. In this leafy shade there is no brightness, the sunlight which can penetrate is not the golden dew that bathes Camelot, but a weak wash of diluted, jaundiced colour. The flowers cannot show their true beauty, and the stone of which the towers were fashioned seeps and broods in the insipid half-day.
This is her bower and her chamber, her temple and her hall. No feasts here ring their peals of laughter or waft their scents out on the river, and no music ever plays to which attendant friends may sway and step, for she who sits within these walls suffers forever the agony of her solitude. In her towered keep, overlooking the flower-graveyard and the struggling gnarls of trees, she sits. The willow trees keep the windows from view, save her from the touch of the full sun which should otherwise further sadden her. Tortured by the nothingness, here in her keep sits the Lady of Shallot.
Outside the walls of stone and living branches that veil the Lady from the world, the life of Camelot and the surrounding countryside go on as always before. Ferrying cargo and men down river the barges come sliding languidly in the sun. the horses on the bank which pull them snort in the heat, torpid and shining, hooves plough into the ground as when the time comes the farmers will plough the surrounding fields of barley. The Lady sees them, but she pays no greetings, as she does not to the light pleasure-boats, the shallops that flit along the water, their sails gently rippling as the water and the barley in the breezes. She does not offer them a wave of her dainty hand, they pass unnoticed as ships in the night. For she sees the night all around her, and the cheer of the day which bathes those upon the river does not brush her cheek with its silken glove. The gaiety and contrasting hard work do not cause her to offer a smile from her casement, none see and none can think to greet her of their own, for their know their signal shall receive no reply. Imprisoned in her tower, she does not stand at her window, she is a mystery in the land, a myth of her own making, unknown and more unknowable.
At dawn and dusk, beneath the morning star and the gilded beauty of the twilight, she sings to herself in her tower. In the fields beyond the reapers work, their scythes cleaving first the singing air, then the barley ripe in their full field, and down to them her song echoes and dances. As they work, the music takes them, Faery cantatas that whisper through the field, across the river and through the sighing willow trees. It is her floating presence, all any shall ever know of the Lady is her voice that rings with notes as sweet as the morning Song thrush, as warm as the Nightingales. The song drifts on the earliest shafts of sunlight and on the moon's serene beams down to Camelot where it mingles with the pipes and the steps of dancing, the chatter of guests and the hushed talk of knights and their King. Her sacred voice stirs within the reapers an awe and fear. They talk of her as Fey, the Faery who serenades them in their work, little knowing that the sweet drifting carols emanate from a human throat. And within her tower still as she sings her heart on glorious dawn and dusty sunset, hidden from the eyes of those who hear her drifting song, sits the Queen of none but herself, the Lady of Shalott.

PART TWO

Within the walls of the tower, as she sings to herself and unknowingly to the reapers below, the Lady's hands are never still as she works at her loom. There she weaves such splendour that it seems a creation of majick, fashioned of thread made from the concentrated light of the sun and moon, golden as life and silver as dreams, and interspersed with vivid flashes of colour seemingly from the wings of the paradise bird. Such beauty can be only equalled by that of the Lady herself, who weaves so steadily since the day she heard the wind say to her that a curse should fall upon her head should she turn her face to look from her window to the towers of Camelot. The vesper soon fled, and left her without knowledge of what horror should befall her should she turn and gaze to the seat of such gaiety that she craved. Her loom was her comfort, and the mirror she placed behind it to see the progress of her work allowed her the fleeting glimpses of life which were all her curse allowed her. Day and night she sits and weaves, sings and weaves, sighs, cries, and through it all she does nothing but make majick on her loom.
Only through her looking-glass can she see anything of the passage of the world. Through the snow and sun, through fresh rains and falling vermilion leaves, she watches in her glass as she weaves. Mere shadows of the glory of Camelot appear to her, tower and wall reflected but untouchable. Unattainable the smallest sign of recognition from the churls passing by, and no market girl has ever called to her to purchase her wares. all pass by the island, where the scent of river and trees and the lilies waft to them, and should the pass at the right time, the song of the Lady echoes also. Still she weaves, and sees the shadows pass her by as all life must do.
The Lady of Shalott is the broken woman too afraid to show her face, and thus she has not what she craves more than she does one glimpse of the turrets of Camelot. The damsels who pass by her prison speak in bright tones of their sweethearts as they go, this one handsome, another honourable, the abbot passing by on a horse as venerable as himself goes on his way to join in blessing the union of man and wife. Sometimes her heart begins to stir within her as she sees through the cyanosed surface of her mirror the figure of a shepherd-boy, his blonde curls falling to his sinuous young shoulders which carry on them a lamb, orphaned and clinging to him as its guardian. A lamb is she, but none will seek her through the briars, for none hear the secret timid cries of her lonely heart. Their colours gleaming she sees pale images of the knights of Camelot, loyal to the king and men of steely courage, but all their valour cannot warm the Lady, for she has not courage in her to turn and greet them. The curse on her eyes is an overbearing mother to her, burying her face to its withered and dry bosom she finds no comfort, merely a warning which keeps her from the love of a knight, or of a page in the flush of manhood to be trained in the honourable ways of the knights. Afraid of what may befall her she keeps her virtue secret to her, pressed to her breast where it will fade with time and with every beat of a heart so alone that it weeps in the brightest song, mournful and chaste. For the love of a courageous man she longs, but knowing all the while as the knights ride by that she can never know such a thing.
Only her tapestry gives her any cheer, and that is a poor weak thing to her, for though the glory of new love or the solemnity of a funeral procession may pass outside, she cannot feel the joy or bitter sadness which pervades they who pass. In her tower which shields her from the vagaries and vicissitudes of all human life, the Lady of Shalott grows weary of the shadow-realm she inhabits.

PART THREE

Of all the knights who ride to Camelot there is one who in the shimmer of his accoutrement and person in the sunlight excels above all others. So highly polished is his bridle and the decoration of his steed, so brightly does his magnificent sword gleam, so splendid is the play of the breeze and blazing light on his coal-black curls, that he turns the head of every woman who should chance to see him. Emblazoned with jewels and with the marks of his profession, the shield and bugle, he sang in a melodious tenor in turn with the gurgling river, stirring the heart of nature, and hearing his voice in her tower, the Lady of Shalott froze at her loom.
The voice of love itself had breathed into her ears and her blood sang with it, the song of Sir Lancelot reached her swift and sudden as sunrise, and though she saw him only in her wicked glass, she observed that he shone brighter than any she had ever seen there, and that his voice was surely given to him by an angel.
Unable to resist, she tore the chains from herself, she gathered her courage into three steps to the window, and there she gazed up the meteoric vision of bold Sir Lancelot, riding to his King, and beyond all this, beyond dancing lilies and beyond the floating song, she gazed down to the towers of Camelot.
As soon as this fateful act was done the gleam shone not upon the fields and the knight as the sky was rent with sudden thunder, nature darkened, warped about her, and in her room the mirror was destroyed by a fissure that ran along its width. As she wailed against it, a violent wind tore through, a bean sidh that opened its maw and screeched, and disappearing as suddenly as it had come it began to circle the tower, dragging behind it the majick tapestry that had been years of bitter comfort to the Lady of Shallot.
In a heap of cobwebbed petticoats and disintegrating brocade, the Lady crumpled to her knees before the window, and she wept until her eye were raw as wounds, for she knew that with her desperation for the love of a loyal knight, she had brought the curse upon herself.
And so as the storm raged about her and the moon, hanging like the bleached face of the blackest witch in the sky, gazed down upon the actions of the lost Lady. Glassy as her destroyed mirror, and just as broken in her spirit, she looked once more to Camelot, and finding a boat tethered among the willows she climbed into in, having emblazoned her cursed name on the prow. The current took her and the sky wept its own bitter tears on her fragile form as she was borne to Camelot, chanting her last song, a holy carol which chilled those it touched. Her heart within her beat so unsteadily and with the rhythm of staccato drops of rain on the roof of a bedchamber that it filled her with such dread, and not knowing what curse should take her now, she perished upon the river from the weight of fear which crushed her soul to dust within her.
Dead of her own device, for there had been no curse, merely the prank of a mischievous water-sprite, disapproving of the Lady's more vivid interest in weaving than in marriage at that time, who had whispered poison in her ear so many years before, the Lady of Shalott came down to rest in Camelot, and in a hushed crowd, the lord and dames, knights and pages and King Arthur himself came to see what manner of strangeness had befallen them. They saw the frail figure of the lady, her hair whipped to ribbons by the wind and rain and her soaked white garb clinging to her limp body. One among them stepped forth, the bravest knight of Camelot, and he brushed the ragged hair from her face, seeing that her eyes were closed and she seemed to be merely a Lady in repose, rather than one recently deceased.
In death, that which she never grasped in life came to the Lady of Shalott, as Sir Lancelot uttered one small, fervent prayer in her name, and kissed her chilly lips. His heart swelled with a terrible love, and in a prayer he dare not speak, he wished to meet with her when his own death came to him. For it was always meant to be so with Sir Lancelot, and with his fated posthumous bride, the Lady Of Shalott.

AFTERWORD

In my task of adapting Tennyson's "The Lady Of Shalott" from verse to prose, I feel I was able to touch on issues which Tennyson did not. Perhaps this was because he simply could not find a place for them in keeping with the poem, or because he felt that they were inappropriate subject matter. For example; in the original poem, Tennyson describes the beauty of Sir Lancelot at great length, taking the entirety of stanzas nine to thirteen to comment on his general stunning appearance and his standing as a knight of Camelot. In contrast, I have attempted to narrate in greater depth the beauty, honour and above all the emotions of the Lady of Shalott herself.
The implication of such an exercise, making the Lady more of a subject in herself than her actions and their consequences as Tennyson did, is one of a modernisation in gender perspective. Tennyson wrote in the Victorian Era, and indeed became Poet Laureate to Queen Victoria in 1850. Though in this time the Suffragette movement for the liberation of women was incipient in Britain, there was still the widely held belief that men were the ones who were courageous and went to fight and work, whilst it was the women who stayed and looked after children. Thus despite the fact that the poem is entitled "The Lady Of Shalott" Sir Lancelot is a far more prominent figure, as if because the Lady is imprisoned in her tower she is somehow far less important to Tennyson. I sought to challenge this; withdrawn she may be but the Lady is the central figure of the poem, it is her story, and thus I attempted to draw more on her experiences in her tower, her thoughts and her emotions.
In part two I drew on the image of the tower and the curse she suffers as a mother figure to the Lady, protecting her from the world but yet also suffocating her, and so incorporated the modern notion of the stifled woman who is again becoming a character in modern life. In Tennyson's time she was everywhere, frail and helpless without her "Loyal knight" and with little other purpose other than to breed. In my own adaptation, the Lady of Shalott has been given her curse because she attempted to challenge such an interpretation of women. She did not wish to marry, merely to weave at her loom, to enjoy her own company, and so the feminine principle of the time, which I have embodied in a water-sprite much like the Naiads of Greek legend, punishes her for not obeying the Victorian female ideal.
It is true that the historical setting of the poem is not the Victorian age but the time of King Arthur, but women then were much a parallel, as I found during my research into the women of the time and specifically those of Camelot; Gwenhwyfar, Viviane and those lesser protagonists. In my interpretation, it is oppression by the ideals of her day that causes the eventual death of the Lady, the ultimate price to pay for not conforming to womanly ideals. In the creation of her "Magic web" there are overtones that the Lady could have been familiar with some of the black arts, also causing her to detract from the ideals of the peaceful feminine housewife which Tennyson extolled, but it is not clear whether the loom-work is truly magic, or merely so beautiful that it appears magical. I have chosen the second of these interpretations in my rewriting, but merely for the avoidance of an excessive supernatural element, as I had already inserted the water-sprite. The explanation of true magic is not implausible or undesirable, and has merely been omitted for aesthetic principles; I did not with to make the tale too much into the realms of fantasy. It should be remembered at all times that though she exists only within the frame of the poem, the Lady of Shalott is merely a woman, making her a witch should have given her properties that exalted her above others, and I did not wish to isolate her from womanhood in any way but in the physical act of her imprisonment.
A consequence of the adaptation from verse to prose is often thought to be that prose is meant to be written by women, should they desire to write at all, and poetry kept for men. Poetry contains the lofty ideals, prose the mundane, examples can be found in the fact that William Shakespeare would write high characters such as Kings to speak in poetic form and lower characters, Stefano of "The Tempest" for example, spoke in prose. I do not feel that it "lowers" a piece to write it in prose; quite the contrary, I feel that in prose one can go into far more detail, it can be far more descriptive since you do not have to stay within the bounds of a poetic form. Tennyson was limited in his poem to packing as much description as he could muster into each line, but he had to tell the story also, and so much of the detail must necessarily have been omitted. I hope that in my rewriting I have filled his descriptions to a more rounded and immersive picture of the situation, with the thread of the tale woven into it instead of having to exist concurrently as it did in the original poem.
My reasons for choosing "The Lady Of Shalott" to adapt are as follows; I was already very familiar with the text having studied it previously though in far less than degree level detail. I have always admired the writing of Tennyson for its florid language and easy rhythm, and having been told that my own writing when engaged in a task other than a formal essay is indeed florid also. Thus I attempted to rewrite the poem, as I believed it suited my own personal writing style.
Another of my reasons is that I feel the Lady received unfair treatment in the original poem, being relegated to a background figure, her feelings are only drawn on directly once in the entire poem, when in line 71 she says "I am half sick of shadows" - this is also one of the rare examples of reported speech in the poem, the only other being the song of Sir Lancelot in line 106, and again Sir Lancelot's comment on the Lady's death in lines 169 - 171. I wanted to expand on the reasons behind the curse of the Lady, and the experiences and emotions she has in the course of her imprisonment in the tower, to give her a voice and a person other than merely that of the mystery locked in the tower.
I believe that in my rewriting I have been successful in the aims outlined above, but it has led to the interesting conclusion that I have produced a feminist rewriting of the poem, and I violently disagree with modern feminist theory. I am an egalitarian, and there was a time when feminism and egalitarianism meant the same, but now there seems to be a trend towards female superiority. I hope therefore that in my rewriting I have been "feminist" in the true sense, advocating recognition and equality for the woman in the tower. I encountered few difficulties, and those I did encounter were easily and quickly overcome, for example I found some of the vocabulary used by Tennyson difficult to understand, but the footnotes provided to the poem explained clearly, leading me to a greater understanding of the poem. It was also difficult to limit myself in the amount of descriptive prose I could write, as I wished to examine the setting in great detail, but after several drafts I believe I have avoided such excessive scene-setting. In general, I enjoyed my rewriting, and though I cannot hope for it to be of the quality of our former Poet Laureate, I feel it is overall an enjoyable piece.

****************

Notice me sucking up at the end? That's not a suck up, it's a thinly veiled "I'm better than bloody Tennyson any day"

2003-03-12T07:45:00.000-08:00

And Now For Something Completely Different

You want to step into My world?
It's a sociopsychotic state of bliss,
You've been delayed in the Real world
How many times have you hit and missed?

# Your CAT scan shows disfiguration, I wanna laugh myself to death. With a misfired synapse with a bent configuration - I'll hold the line while you gasp for breath. You wanna talk to me - so talk to me..# sorry, have bandanna on to keep hair from eyes, it's affected my brain...

Well, I managed not to get to any of my lectures today. About 7am I was struck by one of my thankfully rare but always unpleasant migraines and consequently laid in bed trying not to throw up for a long time whilst trying to ignore the noises and smells of someone fitting our new front door. The Animal House no longer looks like a total flophouse from the outside at least - huzzah! However I do now have to go and explain to Sally and Lee why I wasn't in class, and I just *know* it's going to promt a lecture. But I'm back on form now and scooting in for a quick 'blog before turning back to the essay that gave me the migraine in the first place. Oh, and I had to call my solicitor. They want to send me for psychological examination.

Maybe I should just get my kilt out right the hell now and stop pretending I'm not disturbed....

Erfalaswen is also apparently a Kitchsy Kid. Now forgive this, but I never thought Kitsch was a *good* thing. No offense to anyone who got that result but I was rather under the impression that it involved fluffy pencil tops and the like, which I was never into. However, I *do* like not being a Normal. Even if it does mean that it takes a couple of ill thought out comments to lead me on a 1,500 word rant. So I think I'm going to take a shower and get back to work. Maybe later I'll post something worth reading.

2003-03-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

Find out which Buffy villian you are most like!
By

Well, that was a big suprise.

2003-03-11T17:45:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : More Bloody Tests

Clocks! God, could you get enough clocks? Twenty
minutes, twenty as the winning number at
roulette... Watch it another time and analyze
it for me, will you?

What Aspect of Run Lola Run are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The elder tree, Ruis, suits you the best.
If this was your sign and not just a result
on a personality test, there would be a chance
that you were born on The Nameless Day -
December 23rd. This day falls outside of the 13
month Druidic calendar.

Which Celtic Moon Sign Fits Your Personality Best?
brought to you by Quizilla

Kitschy Kid, huh? Lucky you...

What Teen TV Stereotype Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
I am mortally offended by being compared to Alexander "Idiot" Harris...

Breezy Beauty - You're a breath of low-mainentance
air, aren't you?

What Kind of Beauty Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Pffft.. anyone who's ever heard me complain about my hair knows this is bullshit.

2003-03-11T14:59:00.000-08:00

Thomas, You've Been A Very Very Bad Boy.....

I'm a hapless Romantic,
Stu-ta-ta-ta-terring Po-poet,
Just call me a tragic comic
'cause I'm, In, In love with you

I've been parodied. I'm incredibly flattered, even if I am going to have to borrow the Bat of Self Deprecation from the Jellicle cat and use it on Awesome Man. Newsflash, pal - *I* want to sleep with you, or don't I count?

I did not come here today to talk about the parody of my last entry which did admittedly raise a chuckle. I came here today to make myself very very unpopular with Ma'mselle. Not on purpose you understand - though I'm terribly good at that - just because she isn't going to like what I'm about to say. So I offer this disclaimer;

The VVR appreciates that poetry is a personal choce, and that people's taste in poetry is their own business. We would also like to state that WE KNOW that liking someone's work doesn't mean you agree with their views. This post is not intended to tread on anyone's feelings, it is intended to express my own feelings on a matter that probably shouldn't be quite so close to my heart. It should require no recrimination, and if you don't like what I've said, please take as much time to consider your reply as I did to stop shaking with rage in order to write this

Now, if we can all just remember that I have just as much right to rant as anyone else, we present

Shelley's "Intellectual Incoherence" or : "Of Course You Don't Like It. You're A Fascist"

Back in the days when I was young and you were even younger, there was a man named Thomas Stearnes Eliot. He wrote some poems which many people think are very good. Acually, he wrote some poems which *I* think are very good. Included in many of his poems are thinly veiled mysogynistic and anti-Semetic views (see "Sweeney Erect" or indeed any of the Sweeney poems for evidence) which I happen to find offensive, but since he is just as welcome to his views as anyone, it's fine. he was a born again Christian with very conservative social, moral and religious views.
A lot longer ago, when I was Irish and you weren't even a twinkle in your father's eye, there was a young man named Percy Bysshe Shelley. he was a Pantheist from his earliest days. He too wrote lots of poetry which some people think is very good. Included in many of his poems are thinly veiled libertarian and philosophical views which Mr Eliot took offense to. He said some things that weren't very nice;

"I find his ideas repellent; and the difficulty of separating Shelley from his ideas is still greater than with WW. And the biographical interest which Shelley has always excited makes it difficult to read the poetry without remembering the man: And the man was humourless, pedantic, self-centred, and sometimes almost a blackguard"

"But some of Shelley's views I positively dislike, and that hampers my enjoyment of the poems in which they occur; and others seem to me so puerile that I cannot enjoy the poems in which they occur"

First let me put you straight on something; I like Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, and I like The Hippopotamus. Apart from that I find Eliot needlessly complex and cynical and lacking any faith in humanity whatsoever. I dislike a great deal of Eliot's work because as poetry I simply do not find it appealing. Just because I find mysoginism and anti-Semitism offensive doesn't mean I can't forget about those refferences and try to enjoy it as poetry. I just find that I can't, it's nothing to do with the views he expresses. His style is unappealing and his subjects tiresome to me. You could easily say the same about Shelley if you so wish - I repeat, poetry is a matter of personal taste.
Here are a few of those views which Eliot found offensive, puerile and repellant;

* Man can achieve a higher state of being through accepting personal responsiblity for his actions.
* Organised religion hampers personal development by hampering freedom of thought and speech. The same goes for government.
* Vegetarianism and abstinence from alcohol can help us achieve a peaceful state in harmony with nature.
* Marriage as a form of property rights is wrong, and should be replaced with an equal partnership between people who love one another.
* Practicing free love can help us advance in our spiritual and moral growth

To clarify a couple of points; Shelley was not anti-Christian, he was against dogma and corrupt religious organisations. Shelley was not a Meat-Is-Murder grungy little banner waver, he believed in freedom of choice and the advancement of health - it may also help to bear in mind that he trained as a doctor for some time. Shelley did indeed legally marry both of his wives; this is not because he was inconsistent, but because he wasn't stupid - living with a woman you were not married to made things very very hard for women, he married Harriet and Mary because it made everyone's life easier. "Free love" does not mean promiscuity, there is good evidence that he never slept with anyone apart from Harriet Westbrook and Mary Wolstonecraft-Godwin. OK, some of his ideas were a little crack brained. Paper money being a forgery designed to fool the common working man being one, the rest are fairly sound, and lead to good moral and social development.

Perhaps it would help if Eliot suggested some alternatives to free love for our fellow human, healthy eating practices, not regarding women as an extension of your property and not submitting to the yoke of an oppressive religious regime? Also, the last time I checked Eliot was a Modernist, "Death of the Author" and all that? Why, if text is an entity separate from its creator, take such evident pains to see the author behind the text? Rather New Historicist of you, Mr Eliot.
I should rather like to see some evidence for Shelley being "humourless, pedantic, self-centred, and sometimes almost a blackguard" and I'm sure some can be found. "Humourless" I find hard to justify, and also hard to dispute - his poetry was never the lighthearted work of Byron, it had serious purpose, and biographies do not mention either a lack or presence of any great measure of humour. If anything Shelley was rather a dull boy, not engaging in student pranks and studying hard, this does not make him humourless. "pedantic" - insisting on strict observance of rules and details, parading one's knowledge. "Hypocritical" - writing a poem almost entirely from scraps of other works purely to show that you have read them, and don't give me that "Language is a tired medium, we can only revise what's been before" rubbish, originality is always possible, and then accusing someone of "parading their knowledge" Possibly Shelley was pedantic, I don't know, it's the hypocrisy I take offense at.
"Self-centred" - Again, show me proof. Was Shelley thinking only of himself when he refused to allow Lord Byron to attempt to save his life when it would jeaopardise his own safety? Was he self-centred when he tried to help his clinically depressed wife? Can someone who trusts in the equality and intimate connection of all creatures ever think only of themself? Was Shelley selfish when he financially supported Godwin despite his own dire financial situation? Give me evidence, and I'll relent, Leibniz had a point.

"sometimes almost a blackguard" Hmm. Myths About Shelley For Beginners;

* He was immoral. Sorry, no, his moral views were markedly against those of society at large, but they were incontravertibly not immoral. Shelley wanted the right to choose, "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings" - Optimus Prime also had a point.
* He was a promiscuous rakehell. Need I even mention that whole "no evidence that he ever slept with anyone but his two wives" business again? Just *try* and prove this one, I dare you.
* He was an enemy of God. Again, close but no cigar. Shelley did like to bait people by proclaming himself Atheist (which if you care to reffer to the archives he also techically was) but his views were actually that God is in all things. All things are to be respected but never cowered before, therefore God is to be respected but not cowered before.

This was not a tirade against Eliot, and should not have been read as one, but unjustified accusations and proclamations of that kind are not something I like to tolerate. If he'd said something similar about anyone else, trust me my reaction would have been just as vehement if not quite so well informed. The moral of the story; if you're going to express opinions lke this, you need to have evidence behind them, otherwise you shouldn't state them as facts.

Phew. If only my essays came this easily.

2003-03-10T18:03:00.000-08:00

I Am A Psychosexual Hermaphrodite

I haven't been this scared in a long time
And I'm so unprepared, so here's your Valentine
Bouquet of clumsy words, a simple melody
This world's an ugly place,
But you're so beautiful to me

The lyrics competition is back! An easy one if you like the album, but I don't believe it was a single so maybe not so easy... By the way, if you were wondering about the title of this 'blog entry, it's because I spent a little while with my head stuck in the writings of Freud (respect the Ziggy) and found out he had some simply wonderful terminology for bisexuality, "psychosexual hermaphroditism" is just one of them, "bipolar invert" is my personat favorite though. Sigmund Freud; master of making shit up. But anyway, on to the business of my 'blog. Today, Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This Productions proudly presents;

More Stuff I Have Learned

* With careful abstinence, caffeine can be used as a recreational drug.
* A pan of cocoa can go from "still" to "all over the clean cooker top" in less time than it takes to turn round and grab a mug.
* Leather trousers are very hard to keep up with a belt that is far too big. Particularly if pacing the room having used caffeine as a recreational drug.
* Invoking Godwin will not extract you from ANY situation, just MOST of them
* Sometimes, it really IS best to vote Cthulu
* It is more fun to extract your own teeth with rusty pliers than to try and read Eliot whilst in a bad mood.
* You will only ever find one pair of totally perfect black casual trousers in your life.
* The Shostakovitch Festival Overture can really wind you up. Particularly if you've used caffeine as a recreational drug.
* Running out of a concert hall giggling crazily and chasing a friend around pillars does not earn you kudos in the music world.
* It's hard to run in six inch heels and leather trousers that are falling down because they're two sizes too big.
* You should never gel your hair just before stepping out into a windy night. You end up looking like Angel.
* When you really need a good neck nibbling, nobody's biting.
* Bald viola players are remarkably generous with cigarettes.
* "Run Lola Run" is one of the best films ever made.
* Just a couple of days off a schedule of non-stop work and drink makes you feel Immortal.
* Skinny women don't look as good in corsets as their larger counterparts.
* Even a top that's got six inches of room around the waist will bust at the zip if you turn awkwardly.
* Self-punishment comes under the bracket of punishment, and all punishment is pointless.
* I look equally good Goth as I do Hippy.
* I am not totally repulsive to the opposite sex, or indeed to my own. (Part of a large puzzlement; I spend 20 years thinking I'm totally repugnant, then suddenly I hit 21 and everyone wants to sleep with me. What's up with THAT?)
* Being able to remember the name and face of everyone you've ever slept with is a bonus, not a reason to brood.
* If you're in a hurry, go with leather trousers and a velvet shirt. Nothing can go wrong in that outfit.
* Bus timetables are devised to make you either very late or very early.
* An ankle length black duster covers a multitude of sins.
* You always want to listen to/read/watch something as soon as you lend it to someone. Even if you haven't used it for years prior to that.
* Being comfortable in your own skin makes you much more attractive.
* An hour spent in the company of good friends can alleviate almost any problem.
* Guilt is bad for the immune system.
* What's done is done and cannot be changed.
* Irony makes the world go around.
* Library staff are fully entitled to give you funny looks if you check out Paracelsus, Albertus Magnus and Erasmus Darwin in one go, and have that twitchy "Pale student of unhallowed arts" look about you.
* There are few things more embarrassing than sitting in a Romanticism class and realising you're wearing the same outfit as Percy Bysshe Shelley in the picture on the OHP. However, you're likely to be the only one who notices or cares.
* It can be amusing to work out which Circle of Hell you're destined for (Third pocket of Malebolge, 7th Circle for me. That's burning sand and rains of fire, in case you didn't know)
* Deformity is a matter of personal taste.
* A University Campus is a self-contained microcosm of society.
* Nothing in the world is really all that bad.
* The only way to conquer a fear is to confront it.
* Dante is not light bedtime reading.
* Lists like this are only amusing or interesting if you have something else you should be doing.

So what am I doing? Apart of course from working all night on my godawful Modernism essay (which is incidentally going to kick ass and get a darn good mark)? I'm sitting in my room singing the Leather Trousers Song. You don't know it?? Good grief what stone have you been under?

I've got no soul to hold me down
To make me brood or make me frown
I used to sulk, but now I'm free
'Cause there ain't no soul in me!

I think Spike was responsible for that one. Possibly on one of those afternoons that would culminate with him calling me a Paddy Bastard and slumping across a table singing "I am The Walrus" ahh.. good days.

Right. Work....

2003-03-10T10:43:00.000-08:00

The Highest Art Form Is Procrastination

Well actually I think i's probably music but never mind. I HATE my Modernism essay, it's dull and driving me up the wall. Also my guestbook didn't work and Sir Whinealot knows sweet FA about the practial applications of whathe's always spouting on and on and on about. So I took some tests, because I'm bored.

You're a Romantic Hero. Your instinct is to
help those you care about, and usually that's a
good thing! Sometimes, though, you might find
yourself being a little posessive or
overprotective.

What Sort of Romantic Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are a Black Werewolf. Dark, Dangerous and
Mysterious. Everyone fears your taste for
blood.

What Color Werewolf Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

src="http://www.alice.dryden.co.uk/muskehounds/badge_rochefort
.gif" width="220" height="130">
Which Muskehound are you?

That last one So figures. I'm on the wrong freakin' side!!!!! And isn't that a kind of cheese?

Anyway. I'm goig to go and have a hot bath and read Don Juan and see if it makes me feel any better.

2003-03-10T08:03:00.000-08:00

Woo hoo, I got a Guestbook. Yay.

So use it, you people.

2003-03-08T04:16:00.000-08:00

Identity Parade 2 : The Revenge

No I didn't deliberatly leave anyone out. I just had to log off and talk to Angelus - who incidentally is coming to the cocktail party (Does a ridiculous happy dance) and wearing a tux. And Stanzerl likes her birthday present *phew*!!!!! So now, I guess I should continue the list;

Awesome Man AKA The Curious Orange He's awesome. His hugs are awesome, he wrote the Awesome Song. Did you know if you write a word often enough it just looks ridiculous? I get that with my essays, there's only so many times "epistemological" can look right.
Ell Technically a nickname, short for her real name. Used to live with me, also sometimes gets reffered to by one of her screen names which is Tobermory
Trouble Another ex housemate, going out with Kate, used to go out with Super-Thesp formerly known by a few people as Big Green Tom because his hair used to be green. I used to call him Trouble when I saw him.
Cuzzin or Rollerboy My cousin. Meet him, understand; I am not prejudiced, neither is he.

Uhhhmm. There HAVE to be more, but I'm all out of ideas. I have Too Much Work, TM.....

2003-03-07T14:06:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Identity Parade

Aw-some
fa la la la la la la
Aw-some
fa la la la lah lah la la lah la lah la lah la lah la
lah la la la la
la la
Aw-some
fa la la la la la la
Awsome
fa la la la lah lah la la lah la lah la lah la lah la
lah la la la la la
la la

If you didn't get that one, I'm ashamed of you. I came home early from the PULSAR bar crawl as I realised what it was that was missing from the evening. I have pretty much accepted now that the presence of The Wife on bar crawls is an infrequent event, so I knew it wasn't that (I just miss her full stop rather than specifically miss her) and I finally figured it out; I only met him once, I only chatted to him twice, I fell asleep with my head on his middle the same night I first met him, but I really missed Angelus.

Let me put you straight on this. Readers of the Magic Box will know that the author of such has an ex called Angelus. He was a very egotistical and idiotic excuse for a person who I didn't like (but would have screwed) and he wasn't very nice to her. This is NOT the same guy. Kate's Angelus = tallish, not very attractive, wore glasses (I *think*) My Angelus = not as tall, kinda cuddly, dark and sexy, great sense of humour, cute ickle fangs. And I miss him. He should come visit us more often. Anyway - I think I can hear Sir Whinealot and The Poor Replacement having sex, and since I REALLY don't want to think about that (and have my music up as loud as it goes) I'm filling in the 1 minute 35 seconds that is his average by writing something in my 'blog. So now, to get rid of the mental image I jsut agve y'all, Damn You Must be Bored To Read This proudy presents;

Dramatis Personae

First and foremost, we have my Lovely Lady Wife AKA Stanzi, Beth or Mouse Wouse The reasons for these are fairly simple, all of them are refferences to lives we either did or hopefully didn't share.
Shortbread Mr Nygma's crazy part Scots girlfriend who mostly lives with us. Try her cooking, understand her nickname.
Mr Nygma Insane and hyperactive compsci student. So called due to his crazy little dance and worrying grin.
The Jellicle The Zen master of all things, but mostly of noodles and code. If you don't get it, you've not read enough Eliot.
Sir Whinealot AKA Louis The Wonder Spod my deathly boring Ex. I put up with it for years.
M'amselle AKA Christine My former Mistress, a groovy art student who has both painted and sketched me. Reading the Doll's House archives should explain her nicknames.
Monsieur Le Vicomte Tall, posh and handsome. Fully acknowledges that I am scary and pretentious. Used to go out with Shortbread a while ago. so called due to poshness and the nature of his association with M'amselle.
Puppydog I'm fishing around for why I call her this. I think it's because she's cute and bouncy and faithful to her friends.
PULSAR Kate Doesn't want to be called this anymore. Wants to be called "Erfalaswen" Do I ever get to pick my own nicknames? No I don't, half the time I don't even get one. Nobody can be bothered to give me one, much less one that even suits me. and since I have no idea what the decidedly Welsh sounding "Erfalaswen" means, I think not. Nicknames are what *you* think about a person, not what they think about themselves. So we'll stick to Kate until I get a decent nickname over at The Magic Box.
The Poor Replacement Sir Whinealot's new doormat/scratching post/shag/moneybox
The Replacement Phantom Lives with Stanzi, so called because I'm starting to doubt that we are separate people. Takes over all my duties to the Wife when absent except my conjugal rights.
The Slayer Scary, scary, SCARY American woman I practice with at home. SHE HAS A STAKE UNDER THE BED.
Cubby An author of incipient fame who I am proud to call my friend.
Angelus the cute guy who just signed in on MSN. *hello*... how's the quest for leather? ;)

And due to reason last cited, I'm now off for the night.

2003-03-07T06:54:00.000-08:00

Unproductive

Ol' times there are not forgotten,
Whuppin' slaves and sellin' cotton,
And waitin' for the Robert E. Lee.
(It was never there on time.)
I'll go back to the Swanee,
Where pellagra makes you scrawny,
And the Honeysuckle clutters up the vine
I really am a-fixin'
To go home and start a-mixin'
Down below that Mason-Dixon line.

I know you didn't ask, but the poem quote is "A Dream Within A Dream" by Edgar Allen Poe on www.insideanelephant.blogspot.com. I know this right off because it was one of the things that got read out last night when I, Shortbread, Jellicle and Mr Nygma were lazing around in my room, respectively either smoking dope or getting passively stoned (Box Five isn't very big, if I've got one on the go you can usually get moderately silly just by standing at the door) First we were just talking crap, then Uncle Jellicle told us some stories. Then I thought we should dim the lights and tell ghost stories. Mr Jellicle came up with something about a person relentlessly pusued across land and sea by a dark spectre, Shortbread's was set in deepest darkest Africa and involved savages who as a way of saying grace at meals all turn and spit to the East. It would have been the sort of evening that was really inspirational if it wasn't for the fact that due to lack of raging storm, remote location and hard drugs, we all just got rather giggly. Would have been better if my lovely wife was there, at least we would have had the right number of people. But it was fun nonetheless, just not one of those Villa Diodati nights that inspires some truly twisted poetry on my part.

As a matter of fact, I didn't get that early a night - but I did read Dante a little, and I did write a bit of Purely Derrivative, so you may actually get an update next week. Now however I'm sitting around in my nightclothes (I slept clean through my alarm and missed my 10am seminar. Whoops!) working, and may think about wigging up and going to the cocktail party, if only to see Byron whom I have missed having not seen her for a day or two. There's something altogether satisfying about working in your nightshirt then in the evening loading up on somthing and going out to a party. It's how some of the best music in the world was written, if you believe Peter Shaffer, but of course as you should already have noticed, I don't.

Underpants. Not a random utterance, a random and related thought; I was reading this book (which also went on a lot about his 'deformed' ear) on Mozart which contained a list of his posessions at point of death. This included several pairs of underpants. Now, tell me - I'm not the only person alive who would be shocked by this?? You must also have gone "underpants?? Mozart wore underpants??!" Now I know they *had* underpants but does the Wolf-Man honestly strike you as the type to wear them? Strikes me I would have immediatly pegged him for a Commando Composer, A Pantless Pianist, Wolfie-No-Drawers, but no, apparently he wore them. Wonders willl never cease. And of course they will have been those really unnatractive baggy affairs, worse by far than tighty-whiteys.

Euch, I think I just stopped fancying Tom Hulce quite so much...

2003-03-06T11:33:00.000-08:00

Blog of The Day #2 : Stolen Moments

Stolen moments time has broken
My eyes are open
To this life-long mystery.
And so I'll go on with what I know.
Take my chances, and run with destiny.
Now there's fire in my eyes
I break away and say goodbye.
I'm free to be I'm letting go,
I'll find my way so.

First, big congratulations to Ell who identified yesterday's song lyrics quotes ((((((Ell))))))) !!!!! Like I said, today's two are now up for guesses, and research is not cheating.

The reason for the name of this 'blog is that I read the selection on offer, and they had some fun ideas in it. So I'm stealing things people have done, just this once, and doing it myself. Nyah. First of all, PULSAR Kate over at www.themagicbox.blogspot.com has the Which Tarot Card Are You ... I'm....

I Am

Which tarot card are you?

Hmmm. Queen of Swords is my card actually... Next up is Shortbread (www.astret.blogspot.com) with Bridget Jones style stats;

Mood: Ridiculously creative
Lectures attended: 1 (all I had)
Lectures comprehended: 100%
Food consumed: 2 black decaf coffees, one glass orange juice, 1 glass soda water with ice,1 jacket potato with beans and salad. Immumerable glasses of water
Plans for tonight: Finally get over my chronic Writer's Block and get an early night
Realistic Plans for tonight: Read "La Divina Comedia" and smoke dope. Get a relativly early night.

Useful. Kind of. Mr Penguin at http://www.blurty.com/users/pen_pen/ has Where Did Your Soul Originate?

You come from the Future. Your soul came from a
different time, far in the future. You're just
a little bit a head of everyone else and you're
constantly wondering what lies ahead.

Where Did Your Soul Originate?
brought to you by Quizilla

Interesting. I think a better question is where did my soul go?

There is still the Philosophical Rant from M'amselle at www.studentsunzipped.com and the Kids Show Discussion from The Curious Orange at http://members.lycos.co.uk/jasonicusuk/experiences.html but I'll save them for another time. For now, I'm off.

Wondered what that smell was....

2003-03-05T23:06:00.000-08:00

Huzzah For DWBs

I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva
I'm gonna go go go
There's no stopping me

Yesterday's lyric quote came from kOrN's "Freak On A Leash" - todays is much easier!

Today is going to be a very nice day. Let me explain; last night I felt like crap - physically speaking. I've been working far too hard lately and it took it's toll, though not quite so heavy a toll as when I ended up dictating an essay from my sickbed wondering if I was going to die and that essay would be my final contribution to the world, or if I was going to keel over halfway through and it would have to be compleleted pothhumously by someone I tutor. Thankfully neither happened, I recovered, finished the essay and lived to party another day. I swore I'd never let myself get that way again

Then I pulled five consecutive all nighters, worked like a bastard, and felt like shite.

It may be something to do with the fact I wasn't also drinking three bottles of cheap red a night, but I seem to have bounced back straight away. Last night ( was supposed to watch Titan AE but was exhausted) I had an early dinner and went to bed, falling peacefully asleep under a copy of Shelley's prose works, where I found myself after waking naturally and happily at six this morning. The disadvantage; I was fully clothed, and had parts of the Vindication of Natural Diet on my face. The advantage; I feel so much better it's unbelivable. It is however bloody cold in my room at this time in the morning - it's not just that I feel it when I see seven am from the other side, it's actually cold.

But today is going to be good. I have an Aristotle lecture that I have *gasp* - done the reading for! (will wonders never cease?) then I'm having coffee with one of the most wonderful, fun, intelligent, handsome men I know, then taking Ma'mselle out for lunch so she can help me go birthday present shopping. Well OK I'm taking her out for lunch because she's been ill and I haven't seen her, and we're doing it in town because I need shopping help, but it amounts to the same thing. I'm wondering if I can stay up late enough to watch "Angel" tonight but I've missed the last two and I may as well just wait until it's released on video now. Not that I don't want to watch every second of avaliable "Angel" but if it's a choice between "Angel" and my bed, the bed wins. It would only be more tempting if it wasn't empty.

But actually what I came to talk about was that wonderful man I'm having coffee with this afternoon; He as I have said is one of the best-looking, most intelligent and best conversationalists I know, and he gives awesome hugs. Lately he's been a little down; because if I'm right he suffers from the same trouble I do, which is that his Inner Lord Wuss sometimes has too much thrall over him. If yesterday's diary entry is anything to go by, his Inner DWB has finally broken loose and he seems to be feeling better. Truly you are awesome, Mr Curious Orange, and I'm really looking forward to some philosophy and chit-chat this afternoon. And a hug if I'm feeling lucky.

Ell; "tipsy" ends and "drunk" begins when you reach out for your wine and just manage to poke the glass.

2003-03-04T12:21:00.000-08:00

Militant Optimist

Something takes a part of me.
Something lost and never seen.
Everytime I start to believe,
Something's raped and taken from me... from me.
Life's got to always be messing with me. (You wanna see the light)
Can't they chill and let me be free? (So do I)
Can't I take away all this pain. (You wanna see the light)
I try to every night, all in vain... in vain.
Sometimes I cannot take this place.
Sometimes it's my life I can't taste.
Sometimes I cannot feel my face.
You'll never see me fall from grace

To get it over and done with; No Ell, it would not be cheating if you researched it. I happen to know (because I just went and checked) that if you just pump yesterday's lyrics into Google it will take you to a page with the full lyrics, song name, artist and album comments. But to put you out of the misery no doubt induced by not being able to immediatly identify a silly quote on an insignificant website, yesterday's lyrics quote of the day was from "Beautiful Disease" on the album of the same name by Duff McKagan. Can't you just feel that burden lifting from your shoulders? Same rules apply for today's; if you know, say so on your 'Blog and I'll send you an e-hug or something.

I had a really crap dissertation meeting today. If Clare *knew* there was going to be a problem with my using Hartley she should have told me before I spent all night writing 2000 words on him. Apparently, his theories are out of date (and strangely she didn't object to Godwin...) and he's not a philosopher, he's a "moral psychologist" whatever the fuck that means. The Marquis de Sade is a philosopher, that doesn't mean he's not also a pornographer, and sorry but if Hartley is a "Moral psychologist" then I'm a Dutchman (I'm not incidentally, though my father in law is) and even if he is (oranjeboom, clog, dyke, windmill, tulip) then why can't he also he a phiosopher??? So hello to the re-write, and goodbye to my faith in my dissertation. It's setbacks like this that make me want to abandon the entire thing, but I'm not going to - I'm going to make it damned good just to spite you. Ha. That'll learn ya.

I feel like curling up with vegan ice cream and watching old episodes of Buffy. This is a sure sign that I'm having problems accepting my role in this world as an adult, which whether I like it or not is fast becoming the truth. I am a person who has mnore to worry about than homework, boyfriends and her hair. I am married, I am thinking about decorating schemes for the house I'm going to get with my Wife, I watch my own cashflow instead of getting pocket money. I have a routine that does not involve reading Just Seventeen and I make myself cups of tea to drink while working. There is something so dreadfully adult about taking off your glasses, going and getting a cuppa, and coming back to your desk to replace glasses and go on working, listening to Classic FM.

Not that I have a problem. I like my organised, routined, adult life. I like the way it makes me feel, and I like the things I can achieve in it.

THAT DOES NOT MEAN IT DOESN'T SCARE THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ME.

So if you happen to see me around wearing a crucifix and some decidedly-Buffy like clothes and dancing at the Shagga, or you find me brooding in a bar, you'll know I'm trying to recapture my lost Freshman year.

Shortbread has finally joined the ranks of my friends who write 'blogs. Go read her crazy rambles at www.astret.blogspot.com and enjoy it. That's an order. It occurs to me that I should kind of explain some of the things I call people here. Not that I think anything will offend, but because I'm timewasting. I had a crying jag on the bus on the way home because I was tired, I'd had a bad meeting, and I'm in the wet blanket personality phase of my period, and I hated the thought of rewriting my dissertation. I'm still listening to the DWB though, who is advising me to spend the evening doing something I enjoy, eat something good, and have an early night. Lord Wuss is still rattling the bars of his cage reminding me I can't go to bed if I ate in the last 4 hours, but frankly fuck him. I'm tired, and I like Liam's idea better. So that's what I'm going to do, I'm going to have some noodles with lots of coriander and maybe make some kind of Thai curry like substance and I'm going to make notes for my Competition essay, then I'm going to go and finish reading Lord Jim because I have a seminar on it tomorrow but if I don't finish it I won't stress, then I'm gonna sleep.

I was very proud of myself this morning. I looked at the time, realised it was time for me to leave for my meeting. Saw that I wasn't dressed, I was working on something, and I hadn't had any breakfast, so I took my time finishing all those things and moseyed along to my meeting. Yes folks, I was late and I didn't care. Tomorrow I'm going to wear my leather trousers, because I'm happy and you should all know it.

Now - food!

2003-03-03T17:54:00.000-08:00

sLeeP iS fOr THe WeAK

Here we go once again
It's time to take my librium
Spiders crawling up the walls
Will you catch me if I fall?

Nobody ever steps forward to identify my song lyric quotes. It's a little dissapointing, and kind of makes me give up putting them on, but I like them there. Just because I think you really ought to see how terrible my taste in music is, here's the songs which the lyrics in my last few blogs have been from;

Going Through The Motions - Buffy's first song in the BtVS musical episode
Hey Jude, The Beatles
La Vie Boheme, Rent. I have this image of the Big Six Romantics singing this - it's scary. Just imagine a singing Shelley.
Skid Row, Little Shop of Horrors. Seymour's section with a chorus of bums!
Pretty Tied Up, Guns N' Roses
Rock Me Amadeus, Falco IN ITS ENTIRITY!
Got To Give It Up, Thin Lizzy
Random Nick Cave track - not sure which. The Replacement Phantom could no doubt tell me as she is a mine of Nick Cave trivia
Rose Tint My World, Rocky Horror
Outside, Stain'd
Quote from a song Fuschia Groan sang in Mervyn Peake's "Gormenghast"
Too Much Love Will Kill You, Queen

That'll do I think. I'll give you all a chance to tell me what you think today's is from on your 'Blogs tomorrow, otherwise I'm giving up with the whole asking thing. And Miss Ell, I wanna profile! I want to see what you say about me... read Ell's musings at www.editedhighlights.blogspot.com - well worth it!

Since I have nothing at all in my head apart from my dissertation (the whole thing, I'm industriously scribbling it right now) and a whole bunch of chemicals, I was thinking I'd devote this 'blog to someone who has been a little bit ignored as late, but who made his presence felt with great force on Sunday. It might seem weird that I want to talk about myself(s) but there comes a point where you just know if you go to bed now you're dead for the next week, and such things seem like an idea.

People who don't know me very well may think I have some sort of MPD problem or long term identity crisis going on; I don't. To briefly explain in as much detail as my scrambled mind can manage at this point, I have had past lives, I have remembered them in pretty heavy detail. I remember exactly what I was like. Because reincarnation is a learning process where you experience different things every time til you've experienced everything possible and know as much as your Source. Then you stop coming back and lay about in the spiritual equivalent of a seraglio for the rest of eternity - you've just got to love Tir Na Nog... but anyway, it would be pointless if you learned things and didn't remember them; hence I still have aspects that are very much belonging to Johnathan Cain (Lord Wuss) and Liam Kirwan (Drunken Whoring Bastard, or DWB) but I am *not* these people. It's not like I have other personalities, just aspects and tendancies that can be very strong.

These aspects are often very much at odds with one another. As I am a sick twisted person, I've thought a little about what would happen if Wuss and DWB ever met; they'd hate each other, Lord Wuss would end up a greasy smear on the wall. Either that or they would *somehow* find something to get along about and end up screwing. Everyone has conflicting drives, mine have names, that's the only difference. And the trouble is, I still haven't fully learned to listen to the one who isn't clinically insane yet.

See, Lord Wuss had this really huge advantage over me in that he was ludicrously thin. Anyone who knows me knows I spend almost my entire life moping about my weight, not that I'm fat - I'm not - I'm just not as thin as I'd like to be. One thing I'd really like is smaller hips but since they're pretty bony already I don't think it's possible so it's not a major preoccupation. But anyway; Lord Wuss is the worst possible influence on someone who's body-shy, mainly because at six foot three and ten stone, HE thought he was too fat. That's got to give a girl a complex. He kind of embodies those "Be this, say this, be accepted, be superior" drives that make me a difficult person to get on with. He's dogmatic, he's pretentious, he's snobbish, he's almost everything about me that I hate. He's the one who makes me snap at my friends and be bad tempered with people who don't deserve it - and by the way I'm not pleading "Johnathan made me do it" I'm trying to explain drives and aspects of personalities and stuff, and I'm not doing it well. so anyway, he's kind of the Bad Drive.

And then there's Liam.

I love Liam Kirwan being around and making his presence felt. I love my happy-go-lucky seat-of-the-pants rollercoaster life drives where I can be cheerful in the face of adversity. A little background on the DWB; he's Irish, he's quite a card, he's an Occultist, he fights like a bastard, he drinks too much, smokes too much and eats badly, has sex with anything that moves (and on one or two occasions, things that didn't) you get the picture. Liam is like my Id, telling me to screw popular opinion and do what makes me happy. When I curl up in my room and never ever want to eat again, it's Liam that kicks me in the arse and tells me I shouldn't care about popular conceptions of beauty and instead look at how many people find me attractive. The DWB, though he was a handsome fella, wasn't exactly what you'd call slender; in fact I think the phrase "did you write to your feet lately?" had been applied, but damn it he was happy.

Liam gets me through when anything else that can is far away enough to miss (in the case of my lovely lady wife, this means "in the next room") That's why I'm glad I have those drives - and we all have our inner DWB. Sadly we all also have our internal Lord Wuss telling us we're never good enough, making us feel outcast. Here's my advice to anyone else out there who lately may have been letting their inner Lord Wuss get too much of a foothold in conscious thought; Tell the bastard to go piss some gypsies off and leave you alone, fetch yourself a hot cup of tea and something good to eat, and sit down to listen to your own personal DWB remind you of all the fun you'll have if you just LET yourself have fun. In short, 2 things;

1. Thank you Liam, Fuck you Johnathan.
2. Life is just too damned short not to have fun.

2003-03-02T22:11:00.000-08:00

Salieri's Cheering Team

I'm just the pieces of the man I used to be
Too many bitter tears are raining down on me
I'm far away from home
And I've been facing this alone
For much too long
I feel like no-one ever told the truth to me
About growing up and what a struggle it would be
In my tangled state of mind
I've been looking back to find
Where I went wrong

You know what I think. This may just be because it's six in the morning and I'm stoned off my rocker having been working on my dissertation (Jeff the God Of Biscuits, as Viv named it) since 3AM yesterday, but I think I have a theory. And it's about one of my favorite subjects; Salieri and Mozart.

I know people who have never heard a single piece of Salieri's music (knowingly) and hate the guy. Damn your eyes, Peter Shaffer, you are a great playwright and I adore your work ("Equus" rules) but you have given at least two generations a totally coloured view of a musician. Antonio Salieri is an incredibly important musician; he was taught by Gluck, and he taught Beethoven. Think of the gulf between Gluck and Beethoven, and think who connected the two - THAT is how important Salieri is. He was a charitable man - he taught many of his pupils (including Mozart's son) for free and was always willing to help out funds for poor musicians. He was an industrious man - he wrote over 40 operas and countless other pieces. If Salieri has a musical failing it's because he is obvious and formulaic; not many intersting or shocking variations, he tends to go tonic and dominant, and "gives them a good bang at the end of songs to let them know when to clap" - but think about it. He's writing *for the court* - he HAS to write popular music. Which is what he did.

"Hang on," I hear you cry, "Didn't Mozart write for the court as well?" yes, he did. Mozart was a naughty little boy, he broke all the rules, and he wrote the music that spilled out of him with scant regard for court likings. As it happened, THIS music became popular. Which must have really pissed Salieri off. He saw Mozart get famous, eclipsing NOT ONLY HIM but basically everyone around him. Then he saw Mozart die of multiple organ failure and general shite health. Thirty years later, a very old and senile man, Salieri makes a deathbed confession to killing Mozart. At this point, remember that Ol' Sal was a mite on the dribbling-in-his-nightcap side, he probably just rambled, and even if there was method to his madness, it would have been that he wanted to link his name with Mozart's, *just* to make sure that he'd go down in history for something. Even if that something was "The nutty old fellow who claimed to have murdered Mozart"

Did he kill Mozart? Interesting question, overasked these days. I wasn't there, I was busy in Ireland sleeping with people and getting very drunk at the time, so I wouldn't know for certain, but I'm going for No. Mozart was a rampant little rakehell by most accounts. A devoutly religious man devoted to his father, sister, wife, and children, but he was fond of a drink or sixty and wasn't keen on the old adage about early to bed. Neither was he keen on not staying up and working when he should be sleeping, or on that whole eating properly thing. So is it really honestly all that surprising that at 37 he fell very badly ill and died? Live fast, die young, that's what they say. Interesting fact, I outlived Mozart by five years, I lived faster, but I did eat well and sleep a tad more, that probably accounts for it. But in any case, Mozart (who was incidentally going more than a little doo lally himself) claimed he'd been poisonned. Duh, Wolf-Man, course you have - BY YOURSELF! *ahem* Lots of people put this together and say "Salieri did it, in the parlor, with a poisoned glass of wine"

Did he hate Mozart? An even more interesting question. Nobody even bothers asking it, curse Peter Shaffer and all his scummy film buddy minions to the most fedid sweaty crease of the devil's hairy arse. No, he didn't; he loved Mozart, adored the little bastard, wanted to jump into bed with him practically. Salieri was a *musician* - and he knew genius when he saw it. Sure he might have been jealous and bitched a little behind the Wolf-Man's back, who wouldn't? But he respected his music, and if I'm willing to stick my neck out here, which I appear to be, probably respected him standing up for himself against the might of the Imperial court. In a sort of backhanded won't-admit-it-in-front-of-my-court-chums way, he loved Mozart. An illicit little affair with only one participant aware of it.

I might continue this at some point, right now I need to go back to my work.

2003-03-02T08:08:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Count Your Blessings

I am Fuschia, I am Me
Don't be frightened, wait and see!

First of all, thanks to The Curious Orange (you can get a link to his diary at www.themagicbox.blogspot.com under "Jason") who for some very obscure reason made me want to write this by reading his entries. Secondly, I have no idea why I'm doing this, but there comes a time in everybody's life when you have to make like Walt Whitman. "I celebrate myself and sing myself"

I am The VVR. I don't eat animal products, I hate the sun, and I sneeze in a really cute way apparently.
I am happily married. I adore my wife, and can't wait for her to move up here.
I am a poet. My output might be infrequent and not exactly a masterpiece but I like it.
I am The Phantom of the Library. I know my way around it like the back of my hand, and I'm usually to be found there.
I am desirable. I may not be a model and I may not scrape six foot but I'm sexy nonetheless.
I am The Angel of Music. I can lull you with my voice, I'm trained to do it.
I am short-tempered. I do my best to control it.
I am The Brat Princess. I enjoy it, even if it makes me unpopular.
I am graceful. I'm not delicate, but I am reasonably well mannered and I move well.
I am connected with everyone and everything that exists through the earth and all the elements.
I am studious. I enjoy working and learning for its own sake.
I am always looking for everyone else's approval. I will probably never realise fully that I don't need it.
I am a Kelt. My home is by the sea, my heart is in the mountains, my life is by the sword.
I am a warrior. I will fight with everything I have for the tiniest wrong to be put right.
I am searching after redemption. Who loves guilt like I love guilt?
I am a friend who can be relied upon.

I AM ME. I'm not a mask, I'm not a cloak. I'm ME. I'm going through this life, which though it isn't the only one I have is the only one where I will be THIS me. I am flawed, I am unaccepting of the good things that I have, I am strong and I will get through, and I'll drag you all with me. I will atone for anything I have done, I will fight for my redemption, and I will get it though I might spend eternity trying.

And I AM going to eat my Angelina Ballerina pasta.

2003-03-02T06:46:00.000-08:00

The Other One

But I'm on the outside
I'm looking in
I can see through you
See your true colours
'cause inside you're ugly
Ugly like me
I can see through you, see to the real you.

Maybe, JUST maybe, Poli actually gave the matter serious thought before he decided who to invite. Maybe he thought; "The Jellicle is very busy at the moment, if he is then Mr Nygma will be as well. Shortbread will stay home if Nygma does, so I'll invite Sir Whinealot and The Poor Replacement" because of course, previously when thinking about this, he may have thought; "The VVR doesn't like sunshine, doesn't drink, and won't eat food anyone else prepared, so there's no point inviting It to my barbecue"

Of course this is all very accurate. I DON'T like sunshine, I DON'T drink and I WILL NOT eat food anyone else has prepared. This should never be taken as a slur on anybody's culinary skills - I'm very well aware that many of my friends are very good cooks/chefs, most notably Cubby, M'amselle and Wrong Mike - it's just I need to have prepared it myself. Control, you know? But maybe, if he'd thought this through, Poli should really have come to the conclusion that he should have extended the invite to the whole Animal House rather than just Sir Whinealot and The Poor Replacement, and given us each a chance to turn it down. I know at least that Mr Nygma had no clue the event was happening, but then again he had only just got up when told that Poli was picking people up for it, and to be completely fair to him, it does take a shower before Nygma has much clue about anything. He, like me, is NOT a morning person. From this I deduce that it's reasonably likely that the invite was only given to Sir Whinealot and The Poor Replacement.

So though it's understandable that I wasn't invited, no Angelina Ballerina pasta for me this week.

2003-03-01T10:28:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 : Shameless Theft

Now the only thing that gives me hope,
Is my love of a certain dope
Rose-tints my world
Keeps me safe from my trouble and pain

Many thanks to Miss UD at www.themagicbox.blogspot.com for this. I thought it was interesting, so now, Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This presents;

84 Things I Hate About Me

--Seven things I love:
+ My wife
+ My family
+ Opera
+ Reading
+ Writing
+ Singing
+ Good face days

/--Seven things I hate:
+ Uninformed opinions
+ Being hungry
+ Being late
+ Being told I work too hard
+ My body
+ My face
+ Being touched anywhere from ribs to thighs

/--Seven things in my room
+ My guitar
+ My masks
+ My suit
+ Mucho music
+ My weaponry
+ A Turkish hukkah
+ My wigs

/--Seven Random Facts(TM) about me
+ I am a fairly strict vegan
+ I want to be an actor
+ I am a very lapsed Catholic
+ I wear sunscreen all year round
+ I am allergic to garlic and Bovril
+ My eyes change colour
+ I have been around for almost 300 years

/--Seven things I can do
+ Perform Magic
+ Work without a break for 72 hours
+ Dance
+ Sing
+ Cook
+ Be organised
+ Fool people

/--Seven things I can't do
+ Drive
+ Wear yellow
+ Apply make up
+ Speak Portuguese
+ Take rejection well
+ Sunbathe
+ Sleep well

/--Seven things that scare me:
+ Animate disembodied body parts
+ People I love dying
+ Crowds
+ Failure
+ Losing my temper
+ Mirrors
+ Being looked at

/--Seven things that attract me to women
+ Blonde hair
+ Quirky Sense of Humour
+ Artistic Talent
+ Being small
+ Hazel eyes
+ Strength (I preffer hers to match mine)
+ Being intellectual

/--Seven things that attract me to men
+ Long dark hair
+ Dark eyes
+ Being tall
+ Cuddliness
+ Cruel sense of humour
+ Fun loving outlook on life
+ Black leather trousers

/--Top Seven Films
+ Amadeus
+ Little Shop of Horrors
+ Dead Poet's Society
+ The Virgin Suicides
+ Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas
+ Tale of a Vampire
+ Valentine

/--Seven things I plan to do before I die
+ Be thin
+ Get my work published
+ 'Do' Europe again
+ Show the bastards at school a hard time (AKA get revenge)
+ Learn how to play the pipe organ again
+ Go back to Ireland
+ Become a lecturer

/--Seven things I say a lot
+ Spiffy
+ Oh *kay*...
+ No Shit, Sherlock
+ Curious
+ I can handle it, I'm fine
+ The last time I tortured someone....
+ No, what I meant was...

Hope you enjoyed that.

2003-03-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

No, I Will Not Turn The Organ Music Down

I have been found guilty of misanthropy
So hang me. I'd appreciate it

I *was* going to make myself some chilli non carne tonight. I make quite a good chilli, it's just spicy enough, just hot enough, and only has what I really like in it. Can of mixed beans, can of chopped tomatoes, a bit of LMC mince and plenty of spices. Sometimes when I feel like it I'll throw some chopped jalapenos in as well. I really like chilli. Just a bowl of chilli on it's own - not with rice, which is on the Black List, just a bowl of nice, hot chili and a glass of vinegar. It's a good dinner, and it's excellent brain food as well. Since I'm working on my dissertation a good dose of protein would probably do me some good, but it's not about to happen. As a matter of fact, I think I'll skip the soup I was going to have for dinner as well. That way I might actually not feel so guilty that I sit crying and cursing my inability to induce vomiting if I decide to have my treat tomorrow.

See the thing is, I really like pasta. I love just plain pasta, or with a simple pomodoro sauce with basil, paprika and olive oil. Which is why when I was in Sainsburys last week I picked up a little tin of Angelina Ballerina pasta shapes. I gather the Ballerina is some kind of kid's TV character, I wouldn't know - I didn't buy gimmicky tie-in pasta shapes because of the gimmick, I bought it because only kiddie food comes in tins small enough. I figured if I could stick to The Grand Plan for the whole week I would treat myself to the tin of pasta on Sunday afternoon. Sadly, on Tuesday I was very hard pressed for time (my lift arrived at 6.30AM, I was on campus working for over 12 hours) and didn't have the time to warm up my usual breakfast, when I have it. So I grabbed a slice of bread to wake me up. It was incredibly hard to chew it, even harder to swallow it, and I felt terrible about it for the whole day. Bread is fairly high on the Black List, coming just below rice, so I don't think I actually deserve my treat tomorrow.

But to get back to what I was actually prattling about, there is no way I'll make my chilli tonight. Some of you may know that back in the day I used to play a mean hand of poker. I spent many happy afternoons bludgeoning Spike senseless at it. Which is why I find it quite so galling that Sir Whinealot and The Poor Replacement are going out to the poker game which I was well aware was happening but which I somehow entirely failed to be invited to. Bear in mind please that The Poor Replacement has never played poker before in her entire life before you judge me on whether or not this is me being jealous/bitter. The theory behind the chilli is that if I don't have it, then someone will invite me out to play pool or drink coffee. If I don't have my treat tomorrow, then I might actually be worth considering as a friend and social equal rather than a complete pariah.

I think perhaps I shan't bother going to the cocktail party which promises to be a fun and exciting social event. I'm certain Byron et al can manage perfectly well to be drunk and disorderly without be being there to pick them up, show them where the toilet is or end up being someone's counsellor again. My dissertation needs finishing, as do all my other essays, and I have better things to do than not drink at a cocktail party. Besides, M'amselle has already asked to borrow my tailcoat (yes I'm insane aren't I? Letting someone mix cocktails in MY EVENING DRESS SUIT) and I have only the dress suit which is suitable for the occasion, so due to lack of wardrobe, lack of funds, lack of drinking and lack of being interested, I shall stay at home and work.

Which is oddly enough what I'm doing tonight as well.

2003-02-27T17:23:00.000-08:00

Things I Have Learned : Errata

3. If you believe strongly enough in something, it is worth dying for. Nothing in the world is ever worth killing for.

Well. That was a silly mistake.

2003-02-27T06:51:00.000-08:00

Things I Have Learned

Going through the motions,
Losing all my drive
I can't even see
If this is really me,
And I just want to be Alive

1. Nothing is worth arguing about. You hear me? NOTHING. Debate, discuss and cogitate all you want, sit outside the coffee house for days on end trying to get to the bottom of if we truly can prove we exist or not if you like. But never, ever argue. Life's just too short to waste it falling out with people.

2. Never lie, but don't be insulting. If you have a problem with someone you should tell them so in the nicest way you possibly can. Not telling them is only standing in the way of you both becoming better people.

3. If you believe strongly enough in something, it is worth dying for. Nothing in the world is ever worth dying for.

4. The people you lose touch with or isolate yourself from are always the people you find yourself needing most, and you never know what you have until you lose it.

These are the lessons of a person who has ignored every one of them. Heed them, you'll be happy, break them, you'll not. It really is that simple. Alternativly, go read "Political Justice" and heed that, it amounts to the same thing.

Thus spake The VVR

2003-02-26T15:13:00.000-08:00

Hey Jude #2

And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world upon your shoulder
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder

Well. That was screwed up and arse-about-face... Rocky Horror made me sad, Hey Jude made me feel better. I never would have pegged it for a feel better song but it is kinda. I know this sounds really odd, but it's kind of like that moment in the Angnus Dei that soothes the soul when you've been through the fire and torment of the Dies Irae, the Confutatis Malaedictis and the Voca Me. At least it is on the CD I have to on. It's the last track on a CD specially made to let you appreciate the full beauty of Hey Jude. It's called the After Dark Collection - not quite Night Music but that time at dusk and just after. After you'd been relaxed by "Dulaman" "Mandy" and "Fear A Bhata" among others, and depressed to the point of tears by "Full of Grace" "The Freshmen" "The End Of The World" and "I am Stretched On Your Grave" THEN you need the redemption and hope of Hey Jude. Why the weepy songs? Because a good cry is theraputic, but you have to have something to redeem you. That CD is the Requiem Mass in modern songs, so I suppose I can honestly say I've written my own Requiem.... yay.

I'm still feeling lonely, depressed and disconnected. I call it the Silent Phone Syndrome. Nobody ever calls you up for coffee or a game of pool. It's the games of pool I miss. In fresher year I spend so much of my time hanging around, shooting the breeze and playing pool with Tom, I really miss those days. These days I drink my coffee on my own most of the time, and spend a hell of a lot of my days in the library. It seems the more work I do the more I have still to finish, I just want to go to sleep for a long time and wake up when the world is better. We're poised on the edge of war, I don't want to live through another one, nothing is working in the world. To borrow a Two-Face quote "One man is born a coward, his brother a hero. Babies starve, politicians grow fat, holy men are martyred and junkies become legion" - nobody really cares about each other. It's just the way the world has always been - we might look back to The Good Old Days (as I do frequently) and see some sort of golden age where men were kind and just and things *worked* but the truth is that golden age never existed. Things have been better, things have been worse, but mostly the world stays just as bad a place as ever.

All you can ever do in this world is to make your way through it. Hack your way around the golf-course of life and hope the pitch attendant doesnt mind the damage you did to the turf. You can achieve, you can get an education, you can become the richest man in the world, but like Don Henley says "You don't see no hearses with luggage racks"

If you believe in it, or if it believes in you, the only way you really get through is finding your other half. People use that term so lightly - it's like "girlfriend" or "missus" when most people say it. When I say it if really mean Other Half. The bit of you that was lopped off by a thunderbolt when Zeus realised he'd made humans too perfect. They were perfectly and totally content and complete, but his thunderbolts cleaved each and every single one of them apart into two pieces, two halves of the same soul that are joined together for eternity, always searching for each other. If you find your other half, you're incredibly lucky. You can feel complete and whole again, and maybe feel a little of that perfection again. But here's the stinker; that was then, when Time was young and man was even younger, THAT was a golden age of man (though according to Herodotus it came much later) this is now. Even if you are a perfect soul that's managed to join up with its other half again, you're still going through a world that is full of dirty, cold streets walked by the living dead, the penniless, the diseased. You're still looking every day into the polluted eyes of people who have no hope left. You are still facing the inevitability of total and final death, and even if Reincarnation believes in you, dying out of this world starved of beauty, every drop of originality wrung from it, you are still facing the annihilation of your soul while you live, the scream of its wrench out from your body when you die. That bitter, tortured scream when the soul leaves the body and flies.

And yes you heard me right. Hey Jude DID cheer me up. This is cheerful compared to how I was.

2003-02-24T17:50:00.000-08:00

Blog Of The Day #2 - That Damned Atheist

I meant to say this last night but I got sidetracked. Atheism - there's a word for you. Seven letters, four syllables, six phonemes (If I got that small point wrong I'll be embarrassed) and a whole bunch of connotations. If you want to really piss off a Catholic, it's the word to say. I love that word. It's just a nice word to say.

In the strictest possible sense of the word Atheist, I am one. I had this point debated with me (or should I say, I was patronised to the point of an RP accent about it) last night. Apparently I am NOt an Atheist in any sense because I have knowledge concerning deities. *ahem* yeah. Because Atheism has anything to do with that.

Definition given to me : Atheist, one who denies God.

Actual definition; : Atheist, one who does not believe in God.

Prefix "a" implying a lack of something, as in anaerobic respiration (repiration without oxygen) and anorexia nervosa (no appetite through nervous/psychological reasons) That last one is a bit of a misnomer, it's not that anorexics don't feel hungry - they do - it's just that they won't give in to it. But anyway enough about my favorite eating disorder. "theis" meaning "belief" Therefore Atheist "lack of belief"

That's why I'm an Atheist. I do not believe *anything* - beliefs are a bad idea and start wars. Far from it, I *know* there is a higher power. Therefore because I do not believe, I am an Atheist. QED.

Many people make the mistake of not breaking the word down in translation, mistakenly thinking "theis" is connected inextricably with God. It's not, it's a seperate word just like "gnosis" in "agnostic" is a seperate word. On their own these words have bugger all to do with God, and if you were to sensibly even for a second think about this, you'd see why my reasoning is actually correct. Unless of course you subscribe to that silly signifyer/signified theory that a word is what you make it, which is evidently eminently explodable.

Perhaps one day when I've been offended again, I'll explode it right in someone's face.

2003-02-24T12:11:00.000-08:00

When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Make Soup

No way to make a living, masochism, pain, perfection
Muscle spasms, chiropractors, short careers, eating disorders
Adventure, tedium, no family, boring locations,
Dark rooms, perfect faces, egos, money, Hollywood and sleaze
MUSIC!
Food of love, emotion, mathematics, isolation,
Rhythm, feeling, power, harmony, and heavy competition
ANARCHY!
Revolution, justice, screaming for solutions,
Forcing changes, risk, and danger
Making noise and making pleas
To faggots, lezzies, dykes, cross dressers too
To Me - to me! To you and you and you you and you!
To people living with, living with, living with
Not dying from disease
Let he among us without sin
Be the first to condemn
La Vie Boheme!

It's true you know. Making soup is almost a nervous habit for me. You can tell I'm having control issues or just generally a bad time of it when I start cooking immense quantities of soup, which I then live on for a little while. I tend to jump on the waggon in these times as well, and throw myself into my work so hard I get concussed.

But since I've inflicted far too much bile and drivel on you, my reading public, recently, I'm pleased to announce that tonight The VVR has something educational and enlightening for you. It is a well known fact that the majority of the people I associate with (most notably my Wife, Byron, Ma'mselle and Archangel) has some sort of literary leaning. For the benefit of these people, and for that of anyone else who randomly reads my 'blog, Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This Productions proudly presents;

The VVR's Guide To Becoming a Romantic Author

The process of immersing oneself in Romantic ways begins of course by studying the great men and women who have gone before you. Mostly men of course, for Romaticism is a gentlemanly and chivalrous way, and gentlemen always go first to open the door. sadly., the becoming a Romantic process tend sto be one of Devolution. You begin at the highest level and (if you manage to live through it) eventually end up at the lowest. The first and therefore greatest rank of Romanticism is of course The Satanic Romantic. Let's look at what you need to do to become one of these great writers...

Satanic School Romanticism
* Devolop an unhealthy interest in Politics, Nature and Death
* Capitalise things like Nature, Politics, Death, Dreams, Sleep, etc...
* Write deliberatly provocative poetry. Get annoyed when people call you immoral.
* Develop some odd philosophies of diet. Vegetarianism is a bit weak, Veganism is well on your way, but to truly embrace this school, try living on bread and distilled water, and tell people the problems of the world can be solved by everyone following suit.
* Take copious quantities of mind-altering substances "for pain relief"
* If you must marry, make your partner a disturbed harridan, frigid stuck-up cow, or mathematician. A happy marriage is not impossible, but highly implausible.
* Harbour contraversial religious views. Write pamphlets about them, which you should then distribute by some crack-addled method such as putting them up in a balloon.
*If you don't wish to devolve, die tragically young through your own stupidity. If you DO wish to live, you are doomed to become....

Lake School Romantic
* You may if you desire continue to take huge quantities of mind-altering substances.
* Alternatively, get your kicks from daffodils.
* Wander around the Lake District with someone taking notes on what you see. Turn these notes into overlong poems and give the note-taker no credit whatsoever.
* Some religious faith may at this point become neccesary. Either become a Priest or worship God through Nature (which should remain capitalised)
* Try to write the poetry of the common man. Fail miserably.
* If you fail to meet deadlines, claim you were interrupted by a man from Porlock, and lost your thread.
* Start off almost as Radical as a Satanic Romantic, then get boring and turn Tory. Alternativley, devolve to the final level of...

Cockney School Romantic
* Early on in your career, contract some kind of fatal illness. Tuberculosis is perfect.
* Continue to write rambling political poetry. Tone it down and get it published in journals.
* Acceptable themes for this School are mythology, politics, love, and the ever popular Skylarks.
* Try to write the poetry of the common man. Suceed, since you are far less snobbish than either Satanics or Lakers.
* Die young of said fatal illness.

Simple isn't it? Now you too can be a great Romantic following my simple guide! Happy writing, all. And by the way I think I slurred everyone fairly thoroughly, so I want no recriminations from fans of ANY Romantic who may or may not have been slurred in this guide.

Sally would kill me. She really would.

2003-02-23T17:20:00.000-08:00

Little House of Couples

Tell me how and I will, I'll get out of here
I'll start climbing uphill and get out of here
Someone tell me I still could get out of here
Someone tell Lady Luck that I'm stuck here

Hmmm. Dull day. Not dull in the "I am so bored of this film" sense, dull in the quiet, worky sense. Finally dragged myself out of my pit at about half midday having laid there all night and half the day staring at my canopy considering staying there for the rest of my natural life, had a shower, worked all day. Decided to go to bed about 10 because I have to get up early tomorrow and had the crazy idea I might be able to get some sleep. Yeah right.

My wife does this thing. She waits til I'm just about asleep and then whines "Joooooooohnathaaaan..." at me. Wakes me straight up. It's endearing when she does it. When Sir Whinealot suddenly starts moaning at the top of his voice from the living room when I'm trying to sleep, then it's a pardonable homicide. He's in my bad books for more reasons than I care to ennumerate, but really it's not just him, he's just the rat poison laced icing on a razor blade filled cake.

Couples. New couples particularly, but couples in general. Now and again it suddenly seems like everyone you know is pairing off, lust is in the air like toxic smog and suddenly everyone is at it like bunnies. I believe in Free love, but not free and CONSTANT P.D.As. Even couples who aren't couples do it, it's just annoying!!!!! I may sit with my wife on my knee and a mug of ale in my hand but that's not PDA that's "I don't see my wife eight months of the year, her visits are rare and I make the most of them. also we're in love enough to get married so you can all fuck right off" And so, if you're bitter and single or in a long distance relationship, Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This Productions presents....

Living With Couples 101

1 Remember, nobody except the two halves of the couple exist. Do not try to make conversation, if you do even get a response, it will be some sort of monosyllabic grunt or the kind of "MmmHhmm" that clearly means "Fuck off, you may as well not exist"

2 As a continuance of point 1, remember at all times that you are no more than the mosquito that buzzes somewhere in the room when you're trying to sleep to these people.

3 Couples are always excused from housework. It takes a great deal of energy to be so completely absorbed in each other, and so they cannot be reasonably expected to do anything in the house that remotely counts as useful. NOTE only new couples qualify for this. Established couply-couples often do the washing up and such, for which we are all very grateful.

4 What someone else may count as indecent behaviour worthy of shock treatment (not the film) is merely normal behaviour for couply-couples. If they want to practically have sex in a bar, it's not only do-able - it's acceptable.

And the final and most important thing to remember;

5 Noisy kissing, silly giggling and other such behaviour can still be heard no matter how loud you turn Toccata and Fugue up. It travels not through ordinary sound but through the medium of moosh, which is far less dense, and therefore competes with any and all other sound. Industrial ear defenders may offer some small respite.

Does anyone get the distinct impression I'm imposing my bitter, missing-my-wife views on you the rest of of the world? Yup. Got it in one. I'm depressed, I'm angry, I'm restless, deal with it.

Beth, I love you with all my heart. Now come back here and save me from this Fate Worse Than Gypsies.

2003-02-22T17:22:00.000-08:00

Hey Jude/

I actually meant to post this way way back when I went on the rant about suicide notes, but here it is now because if wrote about what was actually happening in my life I'd sound so much like Elizabeth Wurtzel that I'd have to shoot myself. Following the idea of what my suicide notes (they'd be plural, naturally. And probably written on parchment in red ink, folded in thirds and scented) might look like, I had a think about some epitaph ideas, which led me on to things other people might want;

Billy Connolley - in tiny little letters so you have to step forward to read it; "You're standing on my balls"
Spike Milligan, RIP - "I told you I was ill" - did he actually get this in the end? I hope so.
Cubby - good friend of mine; "Does my bum look big in this?"

Ell would probably want something like "All who wander are not lost" and me, maybe I'd go for "Oh do bugger off" or "Sorry guys. It *smelled* safe..." or my personal favorite right this minute - "I'll be back"

I'm listening to "Hey Jude" on a roll. A sure sign that I'm feeling mopey. I only ever put that song on when I'm so depressed I'll try and remind myself of someone who has a crappy life to make myself feel better. Trouble is, "Hey Jude" inspires fictional cruelty, because the person it reminds me of is one of my own creations. So far I've had his father murdered, his mother abandon him for five years, him nearly flamingo up a promising career, had him attempt suicide, tortured him with anorexia for about two years, had him stuck in a clinic, given him chronic depression, insomnia and anxiety, had him turn to drink and killed him with a brain haemmorhage. I'm not sure what else I can do to poor Jude, but somehow whever I get annoyed at the prevalence of thin people in the world, who clearly have no right to remain so and must be force fed lard, I turn and do something spiteful and cruel to Jude instead of doing it to a real thin person.

Actually that's given me some sterling ideas for horrid things to do to him. Feeling much better now. I'm going to go entertain my sick malicious visions of getting an anorexic stoned off his face. Heh heh. For the second time on this 'blog I say... heh heh.. munchies!

Much better.

2003-02-21T16:20:00.000-08:00
Exciting

Some people are - and they are because they find the world exciting. Byron is one of these people - "exciting" must be her favortite word, closely followed by phrases like "Fookin' Bananas!" and "Groovy" - Byron has underwear and hairstyles that she describes as "Exciting" - and she's an exciting person. a real, full-formed totally alive person.

I like "Fascinating" as a descriptive word. I use it a lot, the sky is often fascinating colours, so is the way the light falls on things, or the way a woman's neck curves down to her decolletage. I get fascinated by things, but it doesn't mean I'm "fascinating" myself now does it? Staring at stars or a city underneath a high view, or endlessly contemplating one small white flower or one glossy black feather doesn't make you fascinating.

Some people are made to live and love. Some people are made to watch others living and loving. It's like there are ranks in the world, Watchers, Scribes, Players... It's not that I don't live, it's just that I only ever feel like I'm going halfway except under certain circumstances. When I'm in a woman, when I'm caught up with the Rach 3, when I'm staring madness straight in the eyes on a vision quest, then I am truly alive, truly connected. I can feel my heart beating with the same rhythm as the Earth, it's a moment of total and perfect understanding of everything that ever was and ever will be. People like Byron live perpetually in those moments - like they are stimulated and invograted by every single tiny word. A butterfly flaps its wings in China and Byron gets excited.

Disconnection has its perks of course. It's so tempting to stay there when suddenly you are deaf, blind, dumb, dead to the world, nothing reaches that far inwards, nothing hurts, nothing matters. You want to stay, it's like watching your blood run over your skin, just observing how it moves, how it smells, feeling nothing whatsoever in one completely perfect death of selfhood.

So would I rather be like Byron, or am I going to be wandering around the hills in my head just looking, not buying, forever? I kind of like being me. Feeling that nothingness is the closest you come to perfection, apart from the feeling of love. Of course for many people, love is not a good thing, to them when they feel first that stab of gorgeous pain in the chest and they sigh and moon, they hate it. Fighting the feeling will make it fade, rationalising it will perhaps help a little, but the love remains, festering in their soul, tainting every other human relationship they might have, making them doubt themself and their own identity.

Disconnection doesn't have those side angles. Neither does love if you give in to it.

2003-02-21T15:53:00.000-08:00
In Defense of Madness

"Crack the whip 'cause that bitch is just insane.
She's pretty tied up hangin' upside down,
Pretty tied up, and you can ride her"

Why the hell did I do that?
I finally finished reading "Anorexic" by Anna Patterson about 4am today, found out she invites people to e-mail her in the back of the book and provides an address. So what stupid thing did you do now? E-mailed her of course. Wrote to the author of one of the whiniest pieces of self-indulgent drivel I ever read apart from "Prozac Nation" and told her exactly why I had read her book in the first place. And that very reason was a foul lie - or at least half a one. I told her it was because I'm researching anorexia for a character I'm writing, which is true, though what I now don't know about anorexia (from reading the entire stock of library books at the Uni on it and having once been Lord Wuss) isn't worth knowing. The real underlying reason is a morbid curiosity that boreders on obsession. The whole illness fascinates me, it's like wanting to kiss hot coals because they're beautiful.

Went on the PULSAR bar crawl, came home early because of several things. Nothing wrong with the company you understand, but every tiny little noise and behavioural quirk was really grating on my nerves. Everytime someone so much as laughed or touched me or spoke to me I was getting that feeling like your spine is a glass rod that's humming at some low pitch, and it might shatter any moment. So I came home and had marmite on toast. Not that marmite on toast is particularly comforting or anything, just that I wanted something to eat, so I had that, since it doesn't really constitute a meal yet is also vaguely satisfying.

Stuff I Shouldn't Eat; The list just keeps on growing. Thin people (like The Replacement Phantom) are not allowed these lists, but I am, it's got stuff like bread, pasta, potatoes and noodles on it.

I like my list. It's comforting. Mikado style.

2003-02-20T20:49:00.000-08:00
So, What Day Is It Again?

I've hit the numb phase again. That one where you look at everything you have and you're grateful and happy really,but you just can't be bothered. Like life is a glass that did have proper orange juice in it, but you've drunk the juice and filled it with water. It's just a little hint of flavour, and kind of annoying. OK that was a stupid metaphor but what do you expect? I've had one of those Days From Hell, it's half four in the morning, I just know that any minute now the temptation to go watch the God Channel will become overwhelming.

So it's random ramblings time.

I'm a very weird vegan really, now I think about it. I avoid animal products to the point where if they don't specify that the lactose is non-animal in origin, I won't have it. But I take cod liver oil to stop me waking up in the morning, moving my right leg and screaming in agony. Also, a great deal of alcoholic drinks are filtered using animal by-products, yet I drink. Copiously. When you're downing that cold frosty mug of beer, just remember - it was passed through cows bones. Now there's a nummy treat. Also I wear silk, leather and wool - but not fur. Fur is just wrong unless you're camping out in the Tundra and you killed something to keep you alive and are wearing its pelt to keep you from freezing to death.

There we hit my point.

It's called the Amerindian Principle by some people. Basically it means that you kill an animal for food, you eat everything except the gross bits, which are generally offered to a god or spirit in thanks for the animal, you wear the skin, you make stuff from the bits you've got left. It means you use every part of that animal AND you say thanks for it. Now, I don't eat animal products - I don't like meat, I can't abide milk, and cheese wraps itself around your arteries and squeezes. That, mon amis, is why I have a freaky restrictive diet. It is also why I am not the strictest of vegans - oh I'm strict as hell when it comes to food, I put Lord Wuss Jnr to shame, but frankly if it's alcohol or supplements, I'm easy. I have to have the supplements, and byproducts like bones are generally from the meat industry anyway. I'd only be letting things go to waste if I didn't have that stuff - or if I didn't wear the cheap leather left over from meat herds of slaughtered cows.

I don't *get* people who do that whole banner-waving meat is murder gig. I just don't understand them. Oh I can see where they're coming from, the things people do to animals in meat factories is bloody shameful, aminals suffer and that's not good. Take for example the method of killing pigs for meat; to avoid spoiling the meat with too much blood, they're hung upside down and slowly bled to death through their throat. That's just nasty. I'm not even going into the chickens - but anyway, I still don't get the hardcore vegan thing. Cows get damned uncomfortable if they're not milked and have no calf - and if every cow had calves there'd be nothing but cows - it makes sense to milk them. As milk is a highly nutritious food containing everything a body needs bar iron (which is why it puzzles me that when diagnosed severely anameic I was advised to drink milk) it makes sense to relieve the cows and use the milk - waste is bad, TM. same principle with wool. Can you imagine a world where we never sheared our sheep? It would be like a whole herd of elderly Brian Mays in fields everywhere. So I wear wool, because not wearing wool for cruelty reasons is just stupid, and I don't eat or drink things because either a. I don't like them, or b. they're bad for me. SIMPLE.

No faffing about with morals, no silly slogan t-shirts, just me and my diet. Of course, those vegans who *are* that way for moral reasons are cool by me, they're as welcome to a view as anyone else, I just don't understand it no matter how hard I try. One thing I do believe however - and this is something I share with the Meat Is Murder Mob - is that the whole world should be vegetarian. It makes economic and health sense, do you have any idea how may more people you can feed with a piece of land that grows soya beans as opposed to a piece of land grazing cattle? Unless you're going to let cows take over the world, everyone being vegan is just silly, but vegetarianism would solve a lot of our problems. For one thing, meat inspires violence in man, and we all know what that leads to. For another, a vegetarian diet is lower in fat and virtually cholesterol free as long as you're choosy, it could really improve world health.

I also like the idea of only eating and drinking produce local to your region. This is impractical for many people, especially students like myself who are budget and time contrained where food is concerned, but where possible it should be done - support the local economy.

Godwin would be proud of me. I'm his new little mouthpiece, all shiny and spouting off about vegetarianism and perfectibility at every opportunity. Godwinists of the world unite - you have nothing to lose but that nasty blody complexion meat eating gives one sometimes.

2003-02-11T11:51:00.000-08:00
The Ever Subtle Sally(eri)

Having beaten Lord Wuss into a bloody pulp to stop him wresting control of my mind while I'm practically incapacitated with 'flu, here I am. I just thought I'd catalogue for you all the numerous things that have been said to me. It'll make me feel better - going around *saying* you're ill just makes you feel worse. Going around having people *tell* you you're ill is fine. Bolsters your sense of pride at having come in to Uni in such a condition. So here we go...

Sir Whinealot : Numerous repetitions of "You should be resting" "You look peaky" and "Go home, go to bed"
Hot French : "You look like hell"
Random Girl I Forget The Name Of : "You should be in bed"
Archangel : "You look like Death run over"

The two who tie for "Most creative way of telling me I seem ill" however are Byron and Sal, with, respectively;

"Like Death warmed over, left to get cold then warmed up again so you get food poisoning"
And Sal;
"You look like crap, the presentation's supposed to be ten minutes" and later in the converstion; "Less parties, less work. More sleep, more tea and biscuits"

I present to you my ever subtle Sal. Isn't she great? This is the woman who teaches me Romanticism, kicks off about incest, and tells me frequently that I'm working too hard. This is what I have to say to her;

"He was the first punk ever to set foot on this earth.
He was a genius from the day of his birth.
He could play the piano like a ring and a bell
And ev'rybody screamed:
Come on, rock me Amadeus.
He was a superstar, he was dynamite and whatever he did (it)
Seemed to be alright.
And he drank (and) he cursed and he fooled around
But when the women would shout:
Rock me Amadeus,
Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus,
Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus,
Oh oh oh Amadeus.
With a bottle of wine in one hand and a woman in the other
'Cause he was a ladies man
He never stopped to worry what the next day would bring
Because the girls would sing:
Rock me Amadeus,
Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus,
Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus,
Oh oh oh Amadeus.
His mind was on rock and roll and having fun
Because he lived so fast he had to die so young.
But he made his mark in history.
Still ev'rybody says:
Rock me Amadeus
Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus,
Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus,
Oh oh oh Amadeus."

I think that sums it up.

2003-02-11T01:18:00.000-08:00
Roll Out The Bandwagon

"So let me get this straight," Lord Wuss leant forward, glaring the VVR down menacingly as was his habit, "you don't like trends or fashions"

The VVR, curled up in a corner of its lair with a stinking cold, nodded

"Yet here you are writing a 'blog - no I correct myself, TWO 'blogs, controlling a Nation State, and going around saying "My spoon is too big" and correct me if I'm wrong, but you know all the words to the Buffy musical"

Again, the small fuzzy creature nodded silently, snuffling away.

"This won't do at all. I think you'd better give me control of the 'blogs for a while. Just until you're better"

Over my dead body, Lord Wuss. It's enough that I'm feeling terribly mortal without unleashing too much bile on all of you out there. So I'm sticking around - spending the day encarcerated in the library getting ready for my presentation and such, and continuing to be everybody's guardian Angel. *sigh*

Who'd be me?

2003-02-10T06:20:00.000-08:00
Goldfish Bowl Head

May I just say for the record that I feel like utter utter shite. You know that feeling where your body keeps changing its mind about whether you're going to be sick or not, and has you running up and down the stairs all day thinking you're going to do the technicolour yawn then realising you're fine. Well I've had that a lot. And WHERE does all the foamy clear spit-like-but-evidently-not-spit-because-it-comes-from-your-chest-not-your-mouth come from? well yes OK, your chest, but how did it get there?

When people have a heavy cold, do they suddenly grow salivary glands in their lungs, which dissapear afterwards but for the duration of the cold produce bucketloads of spit? That would be really bad design. I mean, evidently your lungs don't LIKE having spit in them, that's why you cough and cough and suddenly Niagra Falls is coming out of your mouth. Annoying, embarassing, the works.

Also, what is it that makes your head feel like you've got a goldfish bowl or other water-filled receptacle on it, much like the helmets worn by SpongeBob and Co when they go to Sandy's house. Only the water is really thick and swooshes about when you move your head. It's more of the spit stuff I'll bet. That's it - colds make you grow extra salivary glands everywhere in your body, filling you up with nasty spitty stuff, until you manage to hack sputter and hawk it all out. Maybe if you had a cold that went on long enough you'd burst.

By far the most annoying thing about colds is that because of where I wear my glasses, I can't wear them at the moment because it's right over my sinuses and is really uncomfortable. so not only am I snotty, drowsy, coughing like a consumptive and full of spit stuff, I'm squinting like some sort of myopic rodent. And I have a presentation on Wednesday, and Stanzerl will be here on Thursday, AND I was supposed to be going to Pirates of Penzance, AND the workshop at Pagan Soc tonight looks really good but I can't go because I'm too ill, AND I have work to do.....

And I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left hand side.

2003-02-09T12:02:00.000-08:00
Hock and Soda-Water, For God's Sake Hock and Soda-Water!

When oh when did I get so *nice*? Would you ever have caught Lord Wuss sitting up until 6am with someone they barely knew talking over a problem, then telling them it was far too late to go home and offering them the use of his bed? And I mean *without* him in it... Would you ever have known Liam to have gladly made dinner for seven people? Well he probably would have done actually... but that's not the point. All weekend I've just been being so damned nice, it's disturbing.

To start with, we had two people over for dinner yesterday. Do you know how big a lasagne for 6 is? Big. I made vagan lasagne as well which actually worked, I was quite impressed. We then headed out to Poli's and drank entirely too much, and having bedded people down for the night I eventually stumbled up to bed feeling like death warmed over at about 6am, only to be unable to sleep past 7am. Bummer. Also, this evening I made chicken soup for everyone else just because there was chicken. Hmmm. Chicken soup is good for the soul of course and excellent for someone in a fragile state of health as I currently am at the moment, but I don't think *making* it does any good. Chicken, butter, milk, - really not eating it. Though the Jellicle did propose an interesting theory that moralistic vegans should eat roadkill. As a theory it works, but as I'm not a moralistic vegan you won't find me chowing down on any tyre-marked hedgehogs any time soon.

I have jumped back on the wagon again and will be abstaining from alcohol for the next few days in a vain attempt to get my health back through the judicious use of non-alcoholic fluids, plenty of rest and actual food. By the time Stanzi gets here I may actually look a bit less like hell and feel better - I hope. Because frankly there's no way I'm letting being run down spoil the first Valentine's Day I've spent with my darling wife in far too long.

Heavy sigh. Chicken soup may be good for the soul, but novocaine works faster.

2003-02-06T19:15:00.000-08:00
This Place Was Much Friendlier When The Mob Ran It

Most of you out there in DotCom land probably don't need to know this, but regardless of what time this arse-backwards thing says it is, it's just gone three in the morning and as I write this I'm sitting at my desk buck naked. Not a stitch - just a cross necklace, my wedding ring and my glasses. And yes I am very cold but after Monday I'm not sure I'll ever feel the cold again, I think I acquired peripheral neuritis.

So why write the 'Blog at 3am buck naked, VVR? Good question, faithful reading public. The reason is that despite being more flat broke than the overture to La Daniads (geddit? flat broke, flat baro-cque... sorry, musician humour) I went out to the Shagga tonight with Byron, Miss Lucy, and too many other people I know to count without.. well, stripping off. And it didn't cost me much more than the entry fee which is £2.50. Having discovered I can live on so little cashflow, I think I'll try it as a way of life from now on!

And to get to the point of this post, having danced the night away and been drinking solidly since 1PM, I am stone cold sober. Now I know people who are really really hammered say that, but I honestly am. I'm so sober I can pronounce "Ultrapneumosillicovolcanoconeosis" without stumbling. And I didn't just make that word up, it's the technical name for Miner's Lung. Also, people keep asking me two things;

1. "Are you alright? You look a bit depressed"

2. "Have you lost some weight?"

Now, (1) I have a brooding demeanor, it's something I've never broken myself of (well I say never, we all have our moments of leather trousers) When I'm in a crowded club, I tend to get a drink and watch people, absorb the atmosphere, and when I do this I apparently frown like a vampire and get a tortured glint in my eye. When this happens there are two explanations, (a) I'm brooding, leave me alone, or (b) I'm fine. Mostly it's (b) and tonight it definatly was.

And (2) have I? Well I know I bitch about my trousers not staying up and suchlike, but I don't think I have. But I suppose the scales don't lie.. we'll have to see what the Wife thinks when she gets up, though she is always telling me I have. It's an excuse to feed me I'm telling you....

Well anyway, that was the point of the post. I've drunk myself out the other side. I HATE it when that happens....

2003-02-05T13:20:00.000-08:00
Riddle Me This...

Tell my Mamma and tell my Pa that their fine young son didn't get far. He made it to the end of a bottle, sittin' in a sleazy bar. If anyone who reads my 'Blog can tell me the song and the band, I'll be very proud of them. Though of course you can always look it up, and I'll only be proud if you knew anyway and can demonstrate this by singing it.

From insideanelephant.blogspot.com <<>>>

No, Dearest little wife-of-my-heart, I remember very well thank you. Bitter, very very bitter. I didn't wake up next to a Random Chorus Girl, I woke up next to my Cousin actually. Don't you think you would have already recieved my sobbing confession if I HAD woken up next to a RCG? Well perhaps not quite sobbing, but definatly a confession. Besides there aren't many Chorus Girls to pick from, it wouldn't be so Random... or perhaps it would. Be Random that is. Now this is just going in odd directions that no man was meant to traverse, so I'll stop.

But anyway, as it says in the title, Riddle me this - what's more screwed than a demented genius with debts up to their ears and deadlines coming out of the woodwork? Someone who has all this, but minus the Genius part. Sometimes (And please please please nobody take this as either threat, promise or depressive rant, it's none of those) I compose suicide notes in my head;

"Dear Mamma and Papa. Sorry I wasn't the child prodigy you thought I was"
"Dear Tess. I love you, see you soon"
"Dear Byron. Sorry to leave you without a drinking buddy. Remember our pact - publish me""
"Dear World. Fuck you all, I was too good for you

Actually I kind of want that last one on my tombstone. Purely a pointless morbid exercise you understand, I haven't given serious thoughts to suicide for oooohhh... years I'd say. But it's interesting to see who you'd want your last Babble and Testament to go to sometimes. I'd better go. Listening to the Nygma Variations and writing my 'blog is a bad plan, even worse than listening to Mr E's Dance Card.

"Try fireman. Less to take off"

2003-02-03T17:44:00.000-08:00
"Dear Papa. Send Cash"

The Rebirth Ritual went very well. Yes I know I never even mentioned it was happening but it did. I'm no longer President and am now Potions Master which is fun I suppose. And yes it really does figure that The Replacement Phantom is also Grim on the Grim and Evil character test. I mean, look at it... who takes care of my lovely Lady Wife's musical education when I'm away? Who's her snog-buddy? Who parades up and down saying "Ohhh Master Frodo"? Ok so I don't do that...

My brain is a little haywire at the moment. Wednesday and Thursday nights - drunk for no readily apparent reason, Friday night, PULSAR crawl, followed by waking up on Saturday feeling very mortal and spending a good portion of the morning slouching around looking like an extremly dishevelled Erik. Think this - if Erik had decided to do something about that whole being denied the joys of the flesh thing and gone out to the Moulin Rouge, got horrendously drunk and woken up next to some random chorus girl the next day and had to get back to the Opera House in his very crumpled suit from the next before, including the shirt he slept in. Got that image? That was my Saturday morning.

Saturday night I went to Manly Viking's sumble, got horrendously drunk and woke up Sunday morning smelling of bonfire, fully clothed in frilly shirt and tight trousers with a horrible hangover. Terribly familiar, all I was missing was the woman beside me complaining that I passed out on her. Sunday night, Imbolg do, smoked a hell of a lot of dope and sloped up to bed with my head spinning.

Argh... what a weekend. Got a lot of work done though - being sloshed makes me focussed for some reason. Oh, and I have now got two non-functioning bank cards and no access to my money, bills to pay, no pupils, a wife, and a father who's still convinced I'm some kind of genius. Gah, parents, who'd have 'em? I spent all day telling myself I couldn't borrow any more money (I'm getting better known as a debtor than anything else) and walked 3 miles through snow to get to my dissertation meeting in order to not spend the £1.60 which until this evening was all I had to my name. I now have £11.60 - many thanks to M'amselle for paying me back the £10 she owed me!

I suppose parading and saying "Ohh Master Frollo" would be more disturbing really.....

2003-01-30T15:44:00.000-08:00
Up Up Up The Ziggurat, Lickety-Split

Alright, so keep my pajamas on coat hangers, I iron my socks and pants (and bras sometimes) I keep two diaries, a calendar and a To Do list to make sure I'm organised, I claim my room is untidy if one bottle of nail polish is facing the wrong way, I make designated piles of things, I often turn down social events in favour of working, I'm crap in exams, I flare my nostrils at people, I like procedure and nice safe organised things and I can on occasion be a bit cowardly. But get this straight guys...

I AM NOTHING LIKE RIMMER

People have been saying I am for years now, I just don't understand it. Am I really that anally retentive? Really??? OK I know I like things ship shape (and use words like "ship shape") but that doesn't make me anything like Rimmer. Maybe I have one or two things in common, but would Rimmer (provided he smoked, which he doesn't) ever go through an ashtray to salvage unused tobacco? or would he ever let his toenals get so long they push holes in his socks? Yeah I know you didn't need to know that, I was overworked, it slipped my mind.

Nothing like him. Nope, nothing at all. Nothing nothing nothing....

2003-01-28T18:15:00.000-08:00
Wake Up! Time To Die

I figure if I can get through another seven weeks the way I'm going, I will finish this year set up for a good degree, a good dissertation, and possibly an extremely intimate knowledge of the inside of our toilet. all but the last of these are good, but the trouble is I keep forgetting things. I should make a list of all the stuff I've forgotten to do, but you see if I did that, I wouldn't have forgotten it. Catch 22.

Never read that book. Suppose I ought to.

But anyway, on the subject of forgetting, yesterday I forgot to do something I've been doing every year on January 27th ever since I can remember, which is finding a little while to devote to listening to some brilliant music, reflecting on the fact that I may be old but I'm going to be just as great as he was, and drinking a toast to one of the greatest men who ever lived. Admittedly I did listen to the whole of Don Giovanni yesterday, but that was because I was working and can't work without music and also I can pass it off as actual work, because I'm studying "Don Juan" now. It doesn't count. I also had a drink whilst listening to said Don Giovanni, but I usually drink when I work, so that doesn't count either. I forgot Mozart's birthday - I think I must be losing my grip.

Speaking of Don Juan, who is indeed most triumphant and possibly also a totally rad and gnarly dude, I'm going to spring out of my seat and throttle Sally if she doesn't learn to pronounce it. Listen very carefully, Singnora, "Juan", form of "John" of which the Italian form is "Giovanni" - now not being able to pronounce "Quixote" I can forgive, but this is a Romanticism tutor, and she pronounces "Juan" as "Jew-an" and it gets on my nerves. I just call it Donny Jonny myself.

Incidentally, I'm still spending far too much time in my Romanticism class trying to figure out if Sally's missing finger joint is a birth deformity or if she lost it in an accident. She's missing the top joint of the second finger on her right hand, it's fascinating - it doesn't look like an accident, there's no scarring - but it could have just happened a long time ago and healed well. One of these days I just know I'm going to provoke the Almighty Wrath Of Sally by asking her, I think the only solution is to attend the class in full sobriety. I wonder how many other people have noticed it?..... The really sick and bizzare thing is that (having already had a bit of a crush on her) I now sit and wonder how it would feel to have sex with someone with a missing top finger joint.

Byron's right. I'm a twisted little weirdo.

2003-01-27T08:07:00.000-08:00
Hmmm I wonder if this will actually work. It will if this thing can display images but I'm not sure. Just in case it DOES end up as meaningless dribbling gibberish code, an explanation ; I took a "Which Grin and Evil Character are you?" test. I'm Grim - go figure...

Which Grim & Evil character are YOU most like? Find out here!
By: ThingWraith

2003-01-27T04:42:00.000-08:00
(Not The) Girl With The Rose Tatoo

So why don't I have any tattoos yet? I'm 21, I wear clothes that would show them reasonably often, not to mention the fact that it's easier to get The Sands to keep his clothes on than me, I wear thick black eyeliner and listen to Guns N' Roses. So why no tattoos? You know I think almost everyone (except people who have every evidence to the contrary) thinks I have a tattoo anyway. I'm the tattoo sort of person, but I have no idea what I should get. Also, I'm not sure I could go through with it.

My lovely Lady Wife has three, and says at least one of them hurt like hell - and since I know what her pain threshold is like through careful scientific experiments, anything that she said hurt would probably send me into shock. However, M'amselle also has tattoos, in fact she just got a new one, and I know she's not the pain sort really. I routinely dig my nails into my palms, scratch bits out of my arms, punch hard things, so I should be able to take any pain M'amselle can take.

But somehow the idea of little needles going in and out of my skin doesn't thrill me.

I watched "The Thing" last night - it was on Sky One as the movie at 10, and everyone has been saying to me for ages that I shouldn't watch it because it would freak me out, so I watched it. Now it may just be that people spent so long talking it up that it couldn't possibly be as frightening as I expected it to be, but I thought it was just general shlock. Good shlock I admit, but shlock nonethless, not something that will scar me for life like "Bad Taste" did when I was 13. This wasn't a random digression by the way - my point was I watched people getting ripped into small bits, burned to death, big slimy things, a head with spiderlegs and eyestalks crawling about, all that without the slightest twinge of a flinch. I turned away when the dogs got hurt though. But then they started giving people morphine and I had to turn away and curl my toes up. I HATE needles.

Maybe it's a Lord Wuss leftover - Victorian hypodermics were bloody nasty and I was on very personal terms with a huge number of them, or maybe it's just the one "normal" phobia of mine that I haven't coped with yet, but in any case I really hate them. It's not a case of show me a needle and I faint, it's a case of show me a needle and I go Fight or Flight. Adrenaline starts flowing like Niagra Falls, the heartbeat goes through the roof, I shake and twitch and tense up. Sometimes, and yea gods little fishies this is so embarassing when it happens, I start crying. People who cried when they had to have jabs at secondary school should not be allowed near a tattoo parlour.

Yet I still really want one. I can't afford it, I'd probably regret it, I'd embarrass myself worse than that time when I started talking to someone I didn't know in a comic store thinking the guy I went in with was right next to me, you know I couldn't look at someone with the name "Veronica" on a tag for months afterwards... *ahem* anyway I still want a tattoo. The Wife thinks it would be cute if I also got a bleeding white rose, I'm certainly not going for a Chinese symbol because that's so passe these days, I'm quite fond of the idea of getting a Celtic knot again, but I'd also quite like to design my own sigil. Hmmm.

I think the fact I'd burst into fits of big girly tears and forever ruin my self image which is already more surely doomed than Pompeii would probably mean no tattoos for me. but at least I've removed one reason - I used to think my skin was too pretty, I have been firmly dispelled of this misconception, so at least all I have to work on is my low pain threshold and fear of needles.

By the way, Herculaneum is far prettier than Pompeii.

2003-01-23T10:37:00.000-08:00
It has come to the attention of the VVR, again via that admirable publication "Tenth Muse Nightly" that regular subscribers to Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This productions think the company need more programming variety. The VVR assures me that it believes the company, of which the VVR was the spearhead in its 2002 debut, provides plenty of programming variety already, from historical and literary analysis to modern cultural and political commentary, and most importantly a plethora of interwoven soap operas. However, as the VVR is currently busily making itself a new nest and has allowed control of The Dolls House to rest upon the capable shoulders of one of its alternate personalities, I think we need a little spice. Something that appeals to the masses and could go nicely in a popular early evening slot. A quiz show perhaps. And so - without further ado about nothing, may I present to you the (Utterly Unendorced By) Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This production's ......

TIME OF YOUR LIIIIIIFE! With your (g)host, Lord Wuss!

Welcome to the show, Ladies and Gentlemen - particularly that cute ole' tiger in the front row... (leans over to him) ("I don't come cheap, but I offer OAP discounts" *wink* Ahem.. so yes! Right.. our first question this evening is - fingers on those buzzers contestants. No the one on the DESK you filthy little girl.. *ahem* Your first question is;

1) The best people to watch pornography with ARE....
A - Your lovers
B - Your housemates
C - Nobody

*bbbzt!* Contestant five! "Your lovers" *ERRRR-ERR!!* Sorry Contestant five, the answer is "Your housemates" as of course exemplified by the VVR, who last night watched a soft porn film about alien vampire lesbians WITH Mr Nygma, Shortbread, Sir Whinealot and latterly the Jellicle. Number five, you will now be sent straight to THE SHARK TANK!!!! *Argh! Splash! CHOMP!* Now, Question number two;

2) What is a valid excuse for not doing the washing up?
A) A papercut
B) Having work to do
C) It isn't your turn

*bzzzzt!* Number eight! "It isn't your turn?" Oooohhhh so close yet so far, sorry Number eight it's the electric eels for you! *Argh! Splash! BBBBBZZZZZT!!!!* The answer is A, a papercut. Last week, Sir Whinealot refused to do the washing up because he had a papercut. And they call ME Lord Wuss... Come on people, someone has to win our grand prize - only one question left!

3) What is the best way to piss off your wife?
A) Satirise her Mother in fiction
B) Phone her up at 4AM to tell her you love her
C) Forget her birthday and buy your ex-mistress a birthday gift, ouch.....

*Cacophony of buzzers* well well, what a confusion, I think the only one we didn't hear from is Number four, so everyone else, let's have your answers! 1 "Satirise her mother" 2 "The birthday one" 3 "The mother" 6 "Phone her up late" 7 "Forget her birthday"
*A deathly hush falls, as Lord Wuss eyes the contestants, all shifting nervously in their places...*
It kills me to do this - but,... YOU'RE ALL WRONG! The correct answer is "all of the above" *pulls a huge lever that plunges all contestants apart from Number 4 into vats of boiling oil, there is a fit of screams and sizzles and the air begins to smell of bacon*

So it looks as if we ave a winner - Contestant number 4, I'm pleased to tell you that you are tonight's winner! *applause* and as your grand prize, you get.....

.........To clean my room for me!!!!!!!

***********

Well, I thought that went awfully well.....

2003-01-11T14:58:00.000-08:00
And tonght, your special feature from Damn You Must Be Bored To Read This productions is

THE RETURN OF THE NEW ZEALAND LESBIAN!!

Sounds like a bad b-movie, and you know what? The dialogue sounds like it's from one too. Marvel at the VVR's powers of cluelessness, gasp as It discovers the secret reason why the Jellicle refuses to pop in and give Ma'mselle a hug (or not so secret as it transpires) Goggle at the simple joys of being from Auckland!

Went to Unicycle Scrub's for Puzzle Bobble and curry tonight. Both are very good, but I've managed to leave my handbag there - oh well, have to go round and pick up two chairs tommorow anyway. Don't ask. Anyway this is all well and good, but I step outside for some fresh air *ahem* and then this guy comes up to me and starts chatting me up. God dammit do I just have "I'm easy, pet me" written on my face?? Well I guess I was temporarily blonde at the time but still no excuse. He pulled the usual thing about my accent ie thinking I was from New Zealand, and I told him I was a lesbian and gave him a false name.

It's a sad sad thing when the only false name you can come up with is (a) that of a fictional character you are currently writing and (b) that of your mother in law. Though it's short for something different in both cases. Yes readers, I told him my name was Penny. I also told him I was 22, unemployed, lived with Scrub and had only been in England a year. *sigh* I'm tragic.

I did something I haven't done for years last night purely because I was around it while writing my essay - which was go through the ten commandments and see which of them remain unbroken. Now unless we play Past Lives Count (in which case I'm totally broken) I've got two which remain unbroken; Honour thy mother and thy father, which I have no intention of breaking, and Thou shalt not kill, which I broke in Ireland. And it's debatable whether I kept to the former in London as well, but in any case, just this life my score is 2 out of 10. Good grief I'm doomed - or would be. But then again they must be right, and so must I... so.. oh hell I don't know. It's too early for philosophy.

You know the best thing about wearing a wig out? Sitting down when you get in, pulling the wig off and ruffling up your hair - just feels soooo good!

2003-01-09T10:51:00.000-08:00
I have silly foolish housemates. Fancy calculating the time difference in the wrong direction?! Well, consequently, Animal House remains shockingly quiet, ringing softly to the strains of Don Giovanni (mystically so, as the original Animal House was inhabitted by the man later to become Mozart) and the frantic keyboard strokes of someone tring to finish their Modernism essay before they get too drunk to see straight.

My bed canopy is up, and Box Five now looks terribly Gothically Valid TM. Now I just need to stop letting Sir Whinealot drag me out of here to sit in the remarkbly un-Gothic living room, when all I'm trying to do is sit up here in my little islet of paradisally dark and gloomy territory and write terribly bad fiction. *sigh*

If I had anything to blog about, would the entry look like this? I think not.

2003-01-08T07:57:00.000-08:00
Ahhh now That IS a point...

If the Audrey II lives on human blood, and comes from outer space, where did it get it before it arrived on Earth? Assuming there are no humans on other planets, which I'd say is a fair assumption, it can't have lived on human blood. Unless human blood is the closest substitute to whatever it is that little Audrey II's in space live on, it makes no sense.

Of course, if there ARE humans in outer space, it's all fine. Otherwise, nothing like the Audrey II could ever have existed to come down to Earth. One can only asume it comes from a planet which is populated by a limited supply of humans caring for plants and running hip swingin' clubs with big jazzy orchestras and people who talk tough and swear a little. Hmmm.

I think I found where I want to live. On such a planet it would be alright to feed people to plants, so as long as I was friendly with a couple I could live like a king feeding people to plants, singing jazzy duets and generally being a zoot-suit wearing cool little rat.

Groovy.

2003-01-08T03:32:00.000-08:00
"....and the duck says, Doc - I've got this man growing out of my ass!"

Lord Wuss has a new theme song - one of his many I hasten to add and the list bizzarely includes "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" - of course we've all known this is his song for a long while but the video was just on....

"I'm going slightly mad
Oh dear,
It finally happened
Oh yes it finally happened....
I'm slighty mad"

It's the more English than English way it's sung that does it I'm sure. Incindentally the thing that appeals in the Evita thing is the bit that goes;

"I had to let it happen
I had to change
Couldn't stay all my life down at heel
Looking out of the window
Staying out of the sun
So I chose freedom
Running around trying everything new
But nothing impressed me at all
I never expected it to"

While I'm on the subject, is everyone familiar with "Morning Glory"? not the Oasis crap, the Irish song - you know "One for the morning glory, two for the early dew, three for the man who stands his round and four for the love of you"? I think the Drunken Whoring Bastard is quite partial to that as a theme song. Especially the bit about the landlord's daughters all having kids that look just like him. Good song that. Spike always used to tell me to turn off the diddly-dee tooraloora laddie crap when I put Irish music on but I don't care, he just has no soul. Well there are those who'd say the same of me but I assure you that contrary to all popular belief I do have a soul. A very small tarnished one that I keep in a box from time to time, but it's there.

Found out yesterday evening that it WASN'T the Vicomte that bought M'amselle the huge bouquet of flowers. For some reason this makes it all okay *sigh* shallow as hell I know but you know what I'm like. I was going to go shopping with her today but she'd already arranged to meet Puppydog in town so that was a big no-no, since I don't actually acknowledge her existence. So maybe some other time. Shame really, I was quite looking forward to behaving like a little girly-girl and doing the shopping thing today, and I don't have any choice but to work on my Modernism essay now as the house is immaculate and I'm all out of inspiration for my writing or poetry. Turns out Lavender-and-seaweed guy was right about Canterbury - it's not a poet's city. He told me I couldn't write poetry while I was there and he was right, even though I had great inspiration for a long mythological work I couldn't write it. So here I am, Blogging away, because I have nothing better to do.

Nothing much changes does it?

2003-01-06T12:17:00.000-08:00
With refference to pokeystick.blogspot.com - I missed you! Totally - you arrived back the day I left... and yes, one does quaff mead. Ask your housemate about her wedding.. all hail Zoe, Queen of Quaff! she washed her hair in the stuff and had to go home and dry off before the reception :)

Sigh. Well here I am back in Lancaster, ready to start another term of student life. Animal House is a bit quiet at the moment as only two of us are back. Had a good journey, several gin and tonics on the way - I'll quit drinking so much as soon as my essays are done I swear it. I have left my lovely Wife in the capable care of her Replacement Phantom (The author of PokeyStick, by the way) and am here for more work. And then some work. and maybe a little work when I'm done.

But for now I'm settling in for a relaxing lavender bath, updating Purely Derivative, and maybe doing some more actual writing later on, then calling the landlord to get him to fix up my bed canopy. God my life is dull.

2003-01-03T14:30:00.000-08:00
*giggles hysterically in the direction of insideandelephant.blogspot.com*

Heh heh.. I think my darling wife is rather annoyed at what I called her. It's not as if I do it all the time though - there's a time, a place, and a tone of voice to call one's better half "Stanzi" you know. And she is my ickle Stanzi anyway - she's Mouse Wouse and I'm her Ratty-Watty and I like to pounce-bounce her with my paw-claws.... PAW CLAWS PAW CLAWS!!!!!!!!!

And just because this blog couldn't get any more pointless, a little extract from Peter Shaffer's "Amadeus"

"Stanzi-Wanzi had a fit
Shit her stays and made them split
When they took away her skirt
Stanzi-Wanzi ate the dirt!"

Thank you, you've been a wonderful audience, I'll be here all night. Tip your waitress.

Or do I perhaps mean tup your waitress? (Down, Liam! See the box? Back in the box!)

2003-01-03T10:47:00.000-08:00
Yay! I finally updated Purely Derivative! Remember readers - only Purely Derivative gives you your Recomended Daily Amount of Trashy Plot Devices and Rubbish, start reading today! At the bottom, prefferably, then it may stand a chance of making sense....

"When you said we were going to a mall I thought you meant we were going to watch people getting savaged by wild animals! This.. this is HORRIBLE!"

I really don't understand shopping centres. I mean I understand them in principle - in principle they are just very large markets. But why are they so damned popular? Alright, so there are lots of shops in them that you would otherwise have to travel a long way between, but how many of them would you normally seek out to go to? I went to Bluewater, and I went in La Senza, L'Occitane and some other relatively poshly named place that set my sinuses off and gave me a sniffle for the rest of the day - in any case, would I normally go to these shops? Nope. Not in England anyway, I go to L'Occitane when I'm in France, where it is actually reasonably priced. But I had a good time anyway - I was with the Wife. Smiley Rat.

I saw the new Rolls Royce today, the first one made by BMW - it's disgusting, nothing like the old Rollers that I know and love, I wouldn't be seen dead in one of these. It's called a Rolls Royce Phantom, presumably so named because it's expensive, has a reputation for being elegant, contains engineering that is over 40 years old and is hideously ugly. However, unlike Monsieur Erik, the Rolls Phantom lacks the decency to cover it up. However, the news report on this did give me a few giggles;

"The Phantom was inspected inside and out by journalists"

"The Phantom is expected to be shipped to America later this year depending on demand"

and of course my personal favorite;

"The Phantom, with its elegant rear exit capabilities, is sure to be a hit with the upper class Ladies"

Snigger.