Fun Factoids.

...In an effort to be more personable, I've decided to share some personal information about myself. This is not something I easily do, because I tend to be quite private*. So basically I'm gritting my teeth, buckling down and ignoring my inner censor.

so you'd better freakin' appreciate it.

1) I wore braces for three-and-a-half years. I had teeth pulled, my gums hacked at, and my inner cheeks shredded. This was not a fun way to start high school. Especially not my high school. But at least I got to perfect the misunderstood loner geek persona I coveted.
2) When I was 18 I wanted to be Shirley Manson. I had the red hair, the smudgy kohl, the stompy boots, and the attitude. I stopped short of the Scottish brogue.
3) I'm conflicted between bands I love being well-known: when nobody knows them I try to spread the word and make others love them as much as do, but if they hit the top 40 it takes the sheen off them for me.I guess I'm an exclusivity snob.
4) I have difficulty pronouncing the words shoulder, and soldier, especially when I'm tired. I also have a slight stammer and am slightly sensitive about it. Like really sensitive. Like please don't mock me about it or I'll blush....
5) Mind you, I blush all the time, sometimes inappropriately. Although I'm better than when I was a teenager: then I would blush if I got called on in class, if I thought someone might talk to me, If I thought I might have to talk to someone, if I thought someone might be about to look in my general direction. Also, I blush if I think I might blush. Which is, I guess, Metaphysical blushing.
6) I used to be shy***. How shy? Well, I think some people who knew me then thought I had some form of Autism.
7) I empathise too strongly with humiliation. Take me to a movie about murder, the horrors of war, eyes being gouged out or hearts being broken, and I'm cool. Someone makes an ass of themselves? I can't watch. I hide behind the shoulder of the person in the next seat, which is kind of weird when it's a stranger. American Pie made me need Valium.
8) My favourite colour is pink. I'm a girly girl. But also a tomboy. I used to climb trees in my ballet clothes**. All the things I'm supposed to like (froufrou weddings, women's magazines, chick flicks) creep me out a little. However, shoes, fashion, celebrity gossip and chocolate render me unto bliss. Go figure.

Now, none of this may be interesting to you at all, faithful reader, but it's as much as I'm willing to share for now... although I will take questions.

*or as my family calls it "secretive"
** uh, yeah, mom, that would be where all those ladders came from. I guess I did know how they got there.
*** and now I don't stop talking; yes, yes, I realise the irony.

this Monkey's going to Heaven

I had this whole post planned out in my head last night as I lay in bed, drifting off into slumber. I was going to talk bout the Pixies, and the song Debaser, and the link to Salvador Dali, and how this influenced both my taste in music and my taste in men*. But then I fell asleep.

I keep doing this. I'm a bedtime thinker. When I'm under stress, this results in pointless obsessing over not only what is worrying me, but also unimportant things like whether I have the right belt to go with an outfit I'm planning.** When I'm not, I tend to ruminate on life, love, friendship and TV programmes. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I start to slip into that half-drowsy state where I'm dreaming, but not quite asleep, and I suddenly realise that my thought patterns have suddenly veered into the ridiculous.

Sometimes, If I think my thinking will possibly keep me awake, I'll listen to my iPod, although more often than not this will result in me dancing around the room***, in the dark, because who has time to turn the lights on?

But more often than not I write blog posts in my head. And then promptly forget them. And trust me, they are some pretty damn good writing, much better than I do during the day. And I should probably rouse myself from my snoozefulness, and type them. But I'm too sleepy at the time.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying: I wrote an excellent post last night, but you're getting this lame one instead.

* do you have arcane knowledge of music/ literature/ romantic languages? I like people who are smarter than I.
** What am I SAYING! That's totally crucial! The wrong belt is like..the wrong shoes!!! Or Forgetting mascara, when you totally planned your eye-makeup around it! FFS.
*** biggest culprits: Baby got Back, My Humps, Our Velocity by Maximo Park, anything by Franz Ferdinand.

Perhaps She Was hoping for George Clooney? Who Knows.

On Saturday, I braved the rain and wind and dumbasses* and caught the bus to the waterfront. I had some shopping to do, and I also really wanted to watch Blades of Glory, the latest Will Ferrell movie. It wasn't an Anchorman or a Zoolander, but it was surprisingly enjoyable. From the reviews and what people had told me, I was expecting more of a gross-out comedy, but it was surprisingly sweet and warm and not, in my opinion, particularly objectionable**.

which was why I was a little disturbed to see a woman striding out of the movie theatre and up towards clicks, pouting furiously and declaring: "that was so stupid! It was a stupid movie! I can't believe....STUPID!"

At first I thought she was just a random crazy, or just trying to be a good altruist by forewarning all the people who might want to head to Cinema Nouveau instead, until I glimpsed; traipsing behind her with a distinctly hangdog expression; the Boyfriend. His longsuffering silence and resigned demeanor kind of gave the impression that this is a Thing. That She Does.***

And I have to wonder, how did they get to this? Did she think she would like the movie? did He promise her romance, and she got Will Ferrell's crotch? Because frankly, in order for her not to have understood what this movie was going to be like, she has to have been walking around with her fingers stuck in her ears, her hands over her eyes, and making "Ngaaah ngaah ngaah" noises.

Or maybe she was forced into it? Is this some sort of assault-by-movie? Perhaps she takes movies very seriously. I don't know, and never will. But it's kind of driving me crazy.

* a large proportion of the people who go to the waterfront on weekends are often seemingly struck by temporary (or not) idiocy, and are unable to conduct conversations anywhere but at the top of the escalator, or have never seen t-shirts before.
** although perhaps I'm just hardened and inured to depravity and The Sickness. I hope not, that would make life all the more boring.
*** I mean, I can't claim never to have thrown a tantrum at a boyfriend before... but ... but... it was a movie!!!! And it was good... wasn't it?

Cold and Dark.

Winter in Cape Town is mostly fantastic, especially after the Siberian post-apocalyptic snows of Hokkaido*. The chilly grey days and squalling rains are refreshing, and lead to much dvd-and-hot-chocolate snugglification under down duvets**. Or splashing about in your Raincoat and wellies, which is much fun for one's inner child. Jumping in squishy mud is nice too.

The cold, bright sunny days break the monotony, and always seems to smell delicious, like mouldering leaves, or soil, or sea mist. Those days are good for going for a long walk, and then having a toasted cheese and ham*** to reward yourself at the end.

There's one element of winter I object to strenuously though. And with Vigour. I hate waking up in the dark. In summer, you wake up, the sun is shining, you feel like this is a natural progression, you go pee. In winter, the alarm goes off, and it's the middle of the freakin' night! The alarm is the shrill noise of a banshee, and it confuses you, because surely you didn't set the alarm for 3 in the morning and who calls this early anyway?

So you go back to sleep and the conversation you've been having with Rutger Hauer, only to be rudely interrupted by... well you get the idea. So, shivering, you eventually drag yourself to the bathroom and opt for the hottest shower you can get. This takes a while, because you can't remember how the controls work, or how to remove your clothing without falling down.

After you shower, you dress as fast as you can, and then jump back into bed, for a last bit of hamstering****, but it's never the same. And then, at the last minute, to work.

That's no way to live.

* after six months snowbound in the minus twenties, you lose your right to complain about a little rain.
** Note to self: buy new pillows.
*** sometimes it's a toasted cheese-and egg, with runny yolk. You have to know when it's the right time.
**** Hamstering: the act of rolling yourself in a blanket or duvet much like a hamster does with shredded newspaper and old poop.

Portnoy's Complaint, Humpty Dumpty and Anchovy Toast*

I've missed my calling. I'm convinced of this. I've been giving it a great deal of thought, and I think, nay, I know that I was meant for greater things.

I was meant to be... a freakin' ROCK STAR!!!!

Think about it: I am not only a music snob, and have a passable alto singing voice, and can just about carry a tune**, but I have the requisite quirky dress sense, the capacity to drink large amounts of beer without spewing (or losing the ability to dance on a bar with a bartender dressed as a swan), am bolshy, demanding and swear like a trouper. Not to mention that I can trash a hotel room in under fifteen minutes. Just ask the good folk at the Tokyo Keio Plaza.

So...yeah, okay, It might be a bit late in life to start thinking about this but I hear 30 is the new 20, so that means I'm turning 20 real soon! Also, I kind of don't have a band, which could prove problematic, although not necessarily so: really I'm all about the Interview Magazine articles, tabloid exposés and blag. Mmm. I'm not sure where I stand on groupies*** though. I'll have to see how that goes.

* what we talked about during the staff breakfast this morning.
** good thing musical ability isn't a requirement of the job, eh?
*** I mean, they;re generally assumed to be pretty skanky, right? and desperate. Or are male groupies different? What if they're all, like, teenagers? I'm not convinced about this part, really.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us*.

So. Let's talk about fear, shall we? Blinding, night-sweat, wake- up- in- a- panic- with- a - pounding- heart terror. Some people are afraid of clowns**. Some people are afraid of birds***. Apparently, there are even people with a fear of poetry, which is understandable****. There's a lot of bad poetry out there, people- especially Haikus- and it needs to stop.

I have few fears, and most of them are rational. Cockroaches (they jump on your face!!!), earthworms (they stick to you when boys throw them at you!!!), Death (it's permanent!!!!). But the worst fear I have is, I suppose, kind of...weird. I fear the Gere.

Richard Gere. One dark alleyway away from being one of those smelly pervy molester guys. Piggy eyes. Sneeriness. Aaauauagh. If one more middle-aged woman tells me how much of a "hunk" he is, I will vomit a great deal on her Crocs. I had this nightmare last night that he had had a haircut and was stalking me. Oh, and he was a transvestite. And he wanted me to eat his earwax.

What is wrong with the man!!! Can't he just leave me be?


* what. What?!?
** coulrophobia
***Ornithophobia
**** Metrophobia. sounds like fear of subways, but whatev.

Girls Get Pervy For Boys With Scurvy*.

There's nothing quite like getting a package to elevate your mood. Okay, this weekend was a good one due to a combination of rest, fresh air (it was warm enough to open the windows), and cleaning. I scrubbed my floors on Saturday morning, for a full three hours, until they were both sparkling and treacherously slippery. Clean floors down, I attacked the rest of my apartment with vigour. Ah. Cleanliness.

Anyway, the rest of my weekend was a blur of exercise and virtue. I even started painting again**. And on Sunday was Mother's day, all bonding and gossip and possibly too much coffee. And then... my package. All the way from Japan, a long-anticipated mix CD from my friend Mr Flinn. Getting packages is a pleasure that can't be beat, really...It's a gift, but from far away, full of exotic promise and.. stuff. Also... sometimes, in this world of email and Facebook and other binary-based relationships, something solid you can hold in your hands is almost as good as a visit. Sort Of.*** So a good weekend in all, and hopefully, my brain will soon be back on track.


* Don't Ask.
**I'm not a good artist, but I like my own work, so that's grand.
*** Although there were no cookies, and cookies make an package into a care package.

On Hold.

It's not the best of times. I'm going through what could possibly be described as a "rough patch", so I won't be blogging for a little bit. I'm not the kind of person who can air my problems in public and... I'm feeling uncreative, and uninspired.

But hopefully, soon, I will resume with whatever it is I do here. I beg your patience, and forbearance, and hope you ill keep checking in.