Excuse me, Might I Drool Here Briefly?

I would just like to say that Orlando Bloom is as cute as a button. Or even, say, a flopsy-forward-eared bunny. I just want to pinch his little cheeks and make unintelligible "boogowoogobobumumu" noises. I can't help it: he was once my favourite elf. Did you see all that arrow-slinging? Top-notch. I want a little Orlando to keep in my handbag: I'd feed him nuts and popcorn and buy designer teensy outfits for him. But also I'd like a full-sized version too. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Woof!

My hormones are all raging today. Goodness.

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.

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.

unnecessary coverage

You know, there are some cool cover songs out there in the world. Mostly, they're the ones that explore the song from a new slant... ferinstance, Cat Power's take on Wonderwall, Hounds of Love by The Futureheads, Easy done by Faith No More and so on.

And there are some truly woeful covers that have become classics by dint of their tackiness, their surrealism, or their blatant bad taste. The best "bad" cover version I have ever heard is William Shatner mercilessly interpreting Mr Tambourine Man by channeling some nutjob stalker. The man is quite obviously insane, in the best possible way. It's actually better than the original, because it's funnier, and somehow more endearing*.

However there are a lot of mediocre covers of mediocre or bad songs. Or good songs that were fine as they are. And they border on offensive. Ronan Keating covering the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris was playing this morning as I got to work. How malign a piece of work is that? Like a photocopy of a photocopy, he managed to suck what little soul and emotion lurked in that song in the first place. As bland as white rice. Unsalted!

A special (read: dark and oozy) place in my heart is reserved for the likes of I love Rock 'n Roll as molested by Britney (you love rock 'n roll? then why are you hurting it so much?), American Pie trashed by Madonna (no no no no). Atomic Kitten doing The Tide is High made me want to drown myself, Mandy by Westlife made me want to drown Westlife, and Uptown Girl by... yes, Westlife, just about made me ready to commit my life to destroying Billy Joel, since he was ultimately responsible.

Let's not talk about Light My Fire as ruined by Will Young. Because Will is adorable** and I want him to be my GBF, and we couldn't ever do that after my harsh, harsh words relating to that atrocity.

* I've just discovered Boston Legal. It is Fantastic.
**although I've seen disturbing evidence recently of premature baldness. That makes me sad. say it ain't so!!!

Britney, please save yourself.

Saradia and I gmail chatted this morning. The thing I love about sararara is that she shares my insatiable and not-all-that-secret love for all things celebrity. dissecting celebrity news for me is like...brain masturbation. wait, suddenly I've somehow linked Sara to masturbation, and that's hella weird. new paragraph.

anyway, I love me some gossip. and I really get involved in it. The whole Britney Spears thing is just sad though... It's akin to one of those accidents that you see by the side of the road, and ghoulishly find yourself straining for a glimpse of severed head or detached foot*. anyway, we decided on a plan of action, so that Britters can regain her pop princess crown**

1. STAY IN REHAB!!!! (this one is kind of important)
2. stop with the wigs. embrace the baldness, until it grows out a bit. then adopt a pixie cut, in lightest ash blonde.
3. go on a health retreat...disappear from public view for six months or so, and emerge slim, toned, and glowing.
4. adopt an icy, glittery Grace Kelly/ southern belle image. elocution and deportment lessons should have been a part of the health retreat. perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier? anyway, shock the world by radiating calm, charm and grace.
5. move to France. (no cheese though! let's maintain the slim tonedness, shall we?)
6. work with Goldfrapp-types and craft an album (You May Call Me Mistress Spears) of perfect slivers of icy, glittery fabulous pop. Duet with Kylie. remix by Scissor Sisters.
   
7. REMAIN SINGLE! this is probably safest, until Trousersnake realises his destiny, and comes running back to the new, fantasticacious Brit.
   

...et voila! the balance of things will be restored. And also, I will not have to look at any more flabby shaved coochie, or nasty white-trash outfits, or nasty weaves. and that, my friends, is that.

* or perhaps that is just me.
** there are some Britney songs on my Ipod. you have a problem with that? I'll play you some probot and then you can SUCKIT! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!