On my local Metro station, on Thursday morning, I saw a group of (very middle-class) teenagers taking pictures (on their new digital cameras) of their (very poor) graffiti handiwork on a passing train. Not sure how I feel about this. I've always been an admirer and a supporter of graffiti art when it's done with sufficient care and pride, but this was just amateurish: poorly outlined, poorly filled in, cheap paint etc. And yet these kids were a-whoopin' and a-hollerin' and a-snappin' away like they'd made some kind of masterpiece. I'm afraid I wasn't impressed. Had this been my work I would have been ashamed to admit it. Deface other people's property if you will, but at least try and do it with a modicum of style.
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On Friday night, as you may have realised, there was a full moon and, given my newfound (or, newly rediscovered) affection for astrology, I have decided that I need to mark full moons more prominently in my life. I figure all these werewolf myths must have some basis in fact and so, in other words, people are up for it under a full moon. Ideally, it seems to me, one should aim to sleep with someone new every time there's a full moon. Failing that (since we're not all Suicide Girls and it doesn't come that easily), one should at least try to do something one has never done before...
So last night, duly bedecked with my new sharkfin hairstyle and party shirt, I had planned on working late, then firing myself up with the Von Bondies and going out to cruise around the gay bars and find a dick to suck. In practice, by 4:30 in the afternoon, I started feeling restless and hung around HD's office until we went out for a drink. We met Atsuko for dinner (some very disappointing pasta, topping off a frankly nauseating lunchtime salad to make a full day's unpleasant eating) and, as it turned out, the most original thing we did all evening was to sit in the bus station with Atsuko waiting for her bus (I have, at least, never done this before, or anyway not in this particular bus station). I asked Atsuko how it made her feel watching all these randy couples and young men in heat walking by. She said they must get very cold wearing so little clothing. Disappointed with this response, I told her that I was thoroughly depressed by this spectacle of a neo-Darwinist, brutely animalistic rutting competition - depressed because
1) I'm not getting any of the rutting and
2) we can't rise above this as a species...
HD agreed that it might be nicer to be more like plants, or single-celled amoebae...
Afterwards, HD and I went to the goth pub where everyone was half our age and then, tired and disillusioned, went home in despair. At no stage did I even see the full moon, let alone dance naked beneath it. This is not, chums, an auspicious start to my full moon fever.
********************
This afternoon, with a hangover crawling out from under my skin, I went to see Confidences trop intimes. Like most of Patrice Leconte's work, it's broadly stagebound, but has a subtle, attractive grip and some nice turns of phrase, and Fabrice Luchini and Sandrine Bonnaire are as impressive as you would expect. And, the more it goes on, the more it becomes clear that it's essentially the same format as Leconte's last, L'Homme du train: one character who's fastidious, timid and solitary, and one who's impulsive, elusive and unreliable, and each envying the traits of the other. It'll work every time, I guess. But which one would you be, dear friends?
********************
It's been raining here for days. It's more like fucking November than bastard July, and it's beginning to piss me right the fuck off. Should I apply for a job at the University of Adelaide? (There was one advertised this week for which I am eminently qualified.)
*******************
On Friday night, as you may have realised, there was a full moon and, given my newfound (or, newly rediscovered) affection for astrology, I have decided that I need to mark full moons more prominently in my life. I figure all these werewolf myths must have some basis in fact and so, in other words, people are up for it under a full moon. Ideally, it seems to me, one should aim to sleep with someone new every time there's a full moon. Failing that (since we're not all Suicide Girls and it doesn't come that easily), one should at least try to do something one has never done before...
So last night, duly bedecked with my new sharkfin hairstyle and party shirt, I had planned on working late, then firing myself up with the Von Bondies and going out to cruise around the gay bars and find a dick to suck. In practice, by 4:30 in the afternoon, I started feeling restless and hung around HD's office until we went out for a drink. We met Atsuko for dinner (some very disappointing pasta, topping off a frankly nauseating lunchtime salad to make a full day's unpleasant eating) and, as it turned out, the most original thing we did all evening was to sit in the bus station with Atsuko waiting for her bus (I have, at least, never done this before, or anyway not in this particular bus station). I asked Atsuko how it made her feel watching all these randy couples and young men in heat walking by. She said they must get very cold wearing so little clothing. Disappointed with this response, I told her that I was thoroughly depressed by this spectacle of a neo-Darwinist, brutely animalistic rutting competition - depressed because
1) I'm not getting any of the rutting and
2) we can't rise above this as a species...
HD agreed that it might be nicer to be more like plants, or single-celled amoebae...
Afterwards, HD and I went to the goth pub where everyone was half our age and then, tired and disillusioned, went home in despair. At no stage did I even see the full moon, let alone dance naked beneath it. This is not, chums, an auspicious start to my full moon fever.
********************
This afternoon, with a hangover crawling out from under my skin, I went to see Confidences trop intimes. Like most of Patrice Leconte's work, it's broadly stagebound, but has a subtle, attractive grip and some nice turns of phrase, and Fabrice Luchini and Sandrine Bonnaire are as impressive as you would expect. And, the more it goes on, the more it becomes clear that it's essentially the same format as Leconte's last, L'Homme du train: one character who's fastidious, timid and solitary, and one who's impulsive, elusive and unreliable, and each envying the traits of the other. It'll work every time, I guess. But which one would you be, dear friends?
********************
It's been raining here for days. It's more like fucking November than bastard July, and it's beginning to piss me right the fuck off. Should I apply for a job at the University of Adelaide? (There was one advertised this week for which I am eminently qualified.)
~cheers
I think HD's got something. If you try to kiss her and it doesn't work, well you've got a friend still likely. I would. You are obviously smitten with her.