Monday, January 31, 2005

Monkey Rock v. Monkey Rule

Dear God. Apparently Blogging is more challenging than I thought. Below is an approximate recreation of my first proper entry, which I managed to completely eradicate by hitting the back button while looking at my preview. For anyone who is tempted to try this: DON'T. It will erase what you have just written. It will upset you. A tear of frustration might obscure your vision, if only for a moment.
Obviously, the passages below are remarkably less clever than what I wrote the first time. That shit was worthy of the Pulitzer.

The weekend was highlighted by what I like to think of as a Boy-Band-themed Friday night. After watching the brilliant Simpsons episode in which Bart, Nelson, Millhouse, and my darling Ralphie are synthesised into The Party Posse, we headed up to The Outhouse to experience Keith's band's first gig (disasterously, they are still called Tiny Monkey). They played really well, and I enjoyed myself, which was unexpected, as indie is not my domain, and though the set contained a number of covers, I only recognised two of them (this is because I am one of the few people in the world who still regularly listens to Wham!). But, those Monkeys cut through my ignorance, and I liked it. Well done. A bit of choreographed pelvic thrusting, and I could see you competing with The Party Posse.

The next day was predictably lazy; the parts of Friday night that were not spent Rocking had been spent bailing out a bin in Jeff's flat, into which a pipe from the explosive washing mashine was draining its life-force with disturbing speed. Saturday evening (Luc and Marie's last before the return to Luxembourg) was similarly low-key, but this I think I shall blame on the ambiance of the bar at Marco's: in case someone is planning to open a bar and in outfitting it mate the decor of a pretentious modernist hotel lounge with the architectural value and flesh-coloured tiling of a school cafeteria, I would personally recommend against it.

Luckily, such splendour in design did not inspire me to my usual alcoholic heights, and I was in reasonable enough shape on Sunday morning to piece together a quite good lunch for a few peeps before falling into a wonderful food coma. I can't really remember how I spent the rest of the afternoon (so I can only assume that I was reading cookbooks), but when I turned on the TV my coma was unfortunately interupted by a less excellent simian than those who played on Friday: Dubya was on the news, smirking and stuttering (in triumphantly complete sentences!) about the wondrous advantages we have wrecked on the downtrodden people of Iraq. I hope, Gentle Reader, that like me, when you hear the joyous ringing tones of Halliburton-sponsored, cock-sure, Western ideology cleanse the decrepit deserts of the Middle East you will feel that frission of orgasmic delight which we call DEMOCRACY. And I hope that you will also remember not to question the efficacy of imposing culturally-inappropriate political systems on other nations, for the ends justify the means. And luckily, for now our paranoid minds can rest easy, as the puppet government 'elected' by the Iraqi people will take at least another 20 years before they gather the assurance to start using their American-supplied chemical weapons on their own racial and religious minorities. Phew. Don't have to think about that for a while.

On a more cheerful note, as I walked to the library this morning I was blessed with a sighting of a really top-notch, beautifully tended mullet.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Blog-stipation

Well, my intention this morning was to force myself to break free of my self-imposed restraints and just start writing something (anything, really) on my blog. It was going to be dull, about a few things I noticed as I was walking to the library this morning (mostly about the fact that the builders on top of the scaffolding kindly poured sand in my eye as I passed beneath them). But it turns out that my sister has pneumonia, so I don't really have the motivation anymore.
But, there. I wrote something. Great.