Life of Pie

Absolving Myself of Responsibility

2006-09-21T12:52:00.000Z

Okay, I'll just go ahead and admit it. I am over my blog. I am just not interested in posting. It feels vain in both the self-absorbed way, and in the pointless way. And I have run out of funny ways to say, 'Drank a whole bottle of wine on my own last night. Spent all day in the library listening to old men snort. Watched 6 consecutive hours of America/Britain's Next Top Model.'

But, I still like to comment on other people's blogs. So I am going to try an interactive approach, because I think that despite my incredibly controlling ways, I may actually be somewhat of a team player. Like if I was a superhero, I would need to be one of the X-Men, because if I was Batman I would just get bored and sort of stop caring about saving Gotham and just sit around Wayne Manor forcing Alfred to make me Martinis until Robin and Batgirl showed up and kicked my ass into shape.

So, in honour of the fact that I have been watching at least an hour of LivingTV every night, I present this question to you: if you were in the Fab Five (of Queer Eye), which would you be? I think I would be Ted, the food man, but I am uncertain (again, with the controlling-- the only one of them I would allow to do it all for me would be Kyan, because I just don't really *get* the whole beauty-routine thing enough to worry about letting someone who is obviously fabulously capable do it all for me). The options, for the less well-versed (who say, do other stuff than watch re-runs all evening), would be: Food and Wine; Fashion; Home Interiors; Grooming; and the useless 'Culture' man-wench, who I can't see the point for. Fab Four is also alliterative.

This way, if y'all don't comment, I can leave my blog to die in peace, but pretend that it was YOUR neglect that killed it,not mine.

Eat Wild Boar

2006-08-14T15:52:00.000Z

So, my blog sloth has been such that I can't really even begin to excuse it with 'I was away...' or 'I have a lot of work to do...' or 'I felt kind of uninspired...' All these things are true, but I can't really imagine that anyone cares. But, here is a run-down of some things that happened since the beginning of June, which I am only bothering to recount because my pirated copy of word is doing the little rainbow swirly thing that means it is going to mysteriously shut down, but until then it won't let me get on with my work:
I made a massive pork roast that had cooked so deliciously in its own fatty goodness that it almost fell off the bone when I tried to carve it. It made me want to cry with joy.
I went back to California for about a month. The highlight of this was either: a) my sister's new puppy, Finnigan; b) the new place that has opened up in Santa Barbara that serves a vast selection hot dogs (including miniature corn dogs) and only hot dogs; c) sleeping on a mouse and therefore murdering it while camping; d) a trip to Mexico which involved staying at a house that was exactly like a Bond villian shag-pad; or e) a friend's wedding. Actually, I am not even going to try to lie-- the puppy was the best bit. He is just about the cutest thing ever.
Jeff passed his Viva.
I read Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials triology, which was excellent, and is now present high on my Favourite Children's Literature list.
I tried to convince my parents to buy a house on Loch Tummel, and perhaps could have succeeded, except that someone else bought the house first.
I went through 22 academic books in three weeks in order to prepare for my research trip to Belfast next week.
I discovered the excellence that is wild boar meat, which in the last two weeks has become a staple item in my cooking.
I have managed to prove how incapable I am at turning the last two months into any sort of cohesive or interesting blog entry, and therefore may have succeeded in keeping anyone from encouraging me to write anything else.

Grown-up Stuff

2006-06-11T10:17:00.000Z

Last night began what promises to be a full year of non-stop wedding action (as in 5 in only about twice as many months), and whereas before I felt freaked out by the grown-up-ness of it all, I am now actually really excited: Ali and Helen's wedding was absolutely lovely, and has worked miracles to clear away the anxiety of many of my best friends getting engaged all at the same time. It was wonderful to see them together, obviously ecstatic, it was wonderful to see their families together, all having a great time, it was wonderful to meet so many really good people. And I drank myself to the point that I was even able to walk home wearing my heels, and someone else paid.

Until last night I hadn't actually been to a wedding ceremony in 20 years-- the last time I was the flower girl, and the most important person in the wedding party, for I wore a white dress with a lot of lace and a hoop skirt-- and I was reminded of a few things: a) that I don't like church that much, but that b) if I have to go to church and wash my soul clean, it is best to do it at a wedding service. And also that Protestant churches deliberately trick unsuspecting Catholics by changing just a couple words of the Lord's Prayer, but I *think* only Jeff noticed how my confidence faltered around the tricksy debts/trespasses section.

Also reassuring was that we were seated at the kids' table at the reception-- not really, but we were the only table without any parents, etc., so our table got the drunkest. We win.

My lettuces, other people's shrubbery

2006-05-08T08:27:00.000Z

I planted my own lettuces this weekend, but I just don't have anything clever or insightful to say about them. They are in the two window boxes outside my room, and there are six of them, and I love them, but while this is terrifically exciting for me I am self-aware enough to know that it is very unlikely that anyone else will think that lettuces are even mildly interesting. But there they are. I think they are becoming like a pet replacement, as this morning they all got a 'Good Morning!' and a few little strokes while I remarked on their states of perkiness and gave them a bit of water. I might name them, once they have been around long enough to have sugested their personalities to me.

If you want to read about something funny and interesting (not lettuces), do trot over to Lisa at www.talesoftheundetected.blogspot.com, and check out her recent spa-menu explorations. The questions foremost in my mind: Are Hollywood starlets actually hairless? Why? Is this because of the continuing pressure to be (very!) young? Isn't there a biological reason for pubic hair? What happens if you ignore biology, become like a hairless cat, and affix rhinestones to your bits? What would be the general reaction of a man to a bald, rhinestoned pubis? Would he realise right away that he had just gone to bed with the most high-maintenance woman in the universe, or would reality wait to kick in until after she had beat him over the head with her LV bag for bringing her lilies, not irises, on their 4th date? How can the Brazilian AND the Hollywood be the most popular waxes?

Al Frrrrrrrrresco

2006-04-23T12:16:00.000Z

Today we had our first meal out of doors (spring rolls and Vietnamese Chicken Salad), which was excellent and a sign of good things to come. Unfortunately, it is not *quite* warm enough for everyone to really embrace the garden eating-- I think I was the only one who would have been quite content to stay outside, but this might have been because the Westie and the little boy who live next door came out to play, and I think they are both the best ever.
It does show some weather-based progress, though, and in honour of it, this afternoon we will descend on the Peartree to celebrate with out of doors booze.

By the way, does anyone else think that Al Fresco would be a good name for a person? A friend of a friend in high school said her Dad's barber was called Al Dente. I thought that was good, too.

Fowl Deeds

2006-04-19T10:25:00.000Z

(ha-HA!?)

After my week or so of hardcore blogging I have been a little lax recently, but I do have a good excuse. I heard from Tesco in response to the nasty letter I wrote them about the chickens, and because of the incredible dissatisfaction I received from their letter I have been at a bit of a crossroads. So, in the last week I have been mulling over whether I am ready to cross the line from 'concerned consumer/animal lover' to 'chicken crusader/total social pariah' and start writing righteous letters to newspapers and standing around holding leaflets that have horrible pictures on them. One of the things that has been most helpful to me is how weirdly supportive everyone has been about my soap boxing-- here on the blog, at home, generally among friends to whom I have cautiously mentioned this-- which is partly what makes me think that maybe I should go all out and start a little pro-bird, anti-Tesco campaign (then again, the fact that everyone has been nice about it reminds me that I quite like my friends and that I would prefer not to alienate them). Anyway, here's the run-down of my exchange with Tesco. I have just cut and pasted my letter to them below and then typed out their response, so if it all seems a bit wordy, I apologise. Oh, I was also kind of graphic, so be prepared for that, too.

Tesco Customer Service
PO Box 73
Baird Avenue
Dryburgh Industrial Estate
Dundee DD1 9NF

2 April 2006

To whom it may concern;

While shopping in Tesco (Broughton Road, Edinburgh) today I noticed something in the meat aisle that disturbed me for a number of reasons. I had previously believed that Tesco’s standards of animal welfare and wellness were reasonably high for a supermarket, but after seeing hock burns on the roasting chickens on display I am disappointed to say that I am no longer convinced of this. As I am sure you know, hock burns are the result of over-crowding of chickens, which results in the chickens being forced to squat for extended periods of time in their own excrement. Because of the high ammonia content of chicken excrement, it burns sores through the flesh of the birds. As a long-time Tesco customer, I am appalled that your store would be willing to sell birds that are not only so inhumanely treated, but that you are also willing to market a piece of meat with has fairly obviously been soaking in avian faeces.

Additionally, this chicken was marked with a label that I found to be deliberately misleading. It referenced the farmer who raised the chicken, who (if I remember correctly) had his premises in ‘rural Fife.’ The label implied that the farmer and his family had been running a small farm for a number of generations, and also referenced his compatibility with Tesco’s animal welfare standards. If this is the case, I am shocked that Tesco’s welfare standards are so abominably low that they would allow a supply from a farmer who so obviously over-crowds his livestock. If this is not the case, and this farmer did not raise this actual chicken, Tesco is guilty of false advertising. Regardless, I think that your corporation is misleading the public with this system of labelling, and the verbal manipulation used implies a standard of farming which is obviously far beyond that in which this bird was raised.

In truth, I am most greatly disappointed because I have, in general, always found my shopping experience in Tesco to be a pleasant one, bolstered by the friendly staff and the wide selection of products (especially the expanding range of organic products and free-range meats). I am very sorry to have had my estimation of your corporation so tarnished.

I am forwarding a copy of this letter to the CIWF (Compassion in World Farming) Trust, who recently gave Tesco a score of 35.1 out of possible of 60 points on the supermarket’s overall performance and awareness of animal welfare. This rating means that Tesco out-performed such competitors as Sainsbury’s and ASDA. If this is the case I am loathe to see what abominations these supermarkets stock.

Sincerely,
dev

What I got back was this:

Dear dev,

Thank you for contacting us.

We currently stock full ranges of both organic and free range chicken products in our chilled poultry cabinets and have done so for many years.

We demand high standards of animal welfare and are committed to ensuring that we source chickens from suppliers who operate to high standards of production. Our suppliers are audited rhrough an independent farm assurance scheme. We also have an agricultural them dedicated to raising animal welfare standards within the industry.

Thank you for your comments. I hope this reply reassures you that Tesco is fully committed to animal welfare.

Yours sincerely
For and on behalf of Tesco Stores Ltd

Alison Irvine

Now, I don't know about you guys, but that reply actually did not reassure me of Tesco's 'high standards' of welfare one bit, particularly since I had seen the damn hockburns on another couple chickens at the supermarket that day. I am annoyed that there is such an obvious socio-economic divide in terms of the quality and wellness of food that people are offered, and that because I can afford to buy a free-range chicken without really even thinking about it I get better quality and better piece of mind. So, I went and did a little investigative work so that I can offer you guys that comparative pricing on chickens at Tesco. Use it as you choose-- I know spending more money on something that essentially seems the same probably feels a bit weird, but when you upgrade your chicken you aren't just paying for welfare, you are paying for quality, too. If we were all straddling the poverty line I wouldn't ask, but I know we aren't, and I honestly think that the change has to start with those who can and those who know, so that eventually everyone (over-educated uni grads, single mothers with 5 kids to feed, wealthy gourmets) is offered the most ethical, high-quality choice available and that the animals who feedus are treated with respect and kindness. For more information, ask away, or if you want something a little more reliable than just my bitching, you can always check out Hugh F-W at www.rivercottage.net (also good for seaosnal fooding!) or the peeps over at Compassion in World Farming Trust at www.ciwf.org.uk (exceptional for really cute pictures of exceedingly clean-looking cattle, though there are also some upsetting pictures of pretty vicious cruelty). Okay, so here's the chicken info as of 8 April 2006:*

At Tesco, a normal, battery hen (complete with hock burns, flaccid meat, and the kind of Karma that bring you back as one of those chickens) will cost you 2.25 pounds per kilo.
A Free Range hen (this guarantees a reasonable amount of extra space and access to the outdoors during the day for the chicken, hence a bit more exercise and therefore more flavourful meat, but the bird can still legally be fed creepy soy meal or GM foods) costs 3.17 pounds per kilo.
An Organic hen (which is the best you can get at Tesco, though as i have discovered their organic chickens are NOT Soil Association approved, and therefore have substantial room for improvement) will cost you just over 4 quid per kilo.

So, if you are feeding 3 fairly hungry peeps, you would get a 1.3 kilo battery chicken for 3 quid, and a 1.3 kilo Organic chicken for a fiver. The difference is two pounnds (as in, that last pint of Carling that pushed you from okay-ish to utterly mortal this weekend, and gave you a raging hangover the next day), but I can assure you that the pleasure of cooking and eating the organic bird is so different it would blow your mind.

And now, I am going to stop my rant. It seems I have made my decision about that whole Animal Lover v. Social Pariah question...

* I apologise to the American audience for not having proper stats on your supermarket options-- I'll try to gather some in June, or until then, you can do the Inspector Gadget stuff at your local supermarket.

The Risen Bean

2006-04-06T08:05:00.000Z

I used to hate beans on toast, that British classic. I detested the sort of mealy texture of the beans, and I hated the fact that I knew there was nothing but sugar in the tomatoey sauce. I *particularly* refused to eat them because Jeff kept trying to convince me that they are some sort of Council Estate Health Food (whether or not this is believed to be true on the housing estates themselves I don't know, but what I do know is that two tins of beans does not supply the necessary vegetable for a day, and it gives way too much sugar to small children, who all seem to be hopped up on Capri Sun all the time anyway). But, then I tried an experiment and managed to change my mind, resulting in pretty much weekly bean consumption here. Which is nice, because Jeff loves beans, and this way we have reached a compromise between his preference for salt of the earth (or sugar, I guess) and my preference toward pretentiousness.

Inspired by the comment made on The Roquefort Files by one Lucky Duck, I will now share with you my secret to truly lovely beans, just in case Keith and I don't get around to slaughtering anything besides our respective sobriety any time soon... I actually was thinking maybe I should put this oneout there before reading Lucky Duck's comment, but I was wondering if maybe I wanted to keep it to myself, instead.

Furthering the twin blogging that Keith and I seem to have been doing this week, this alteration was actually mostly pilfered from Nigel Slater's "The Kitchen Diaries", which, as Keith has mentioned, is awesome. It has a really good balance between East and West, seasonal recognition and managing to eat something other than root veg in January, farmers' market trawling and recognition of the ease of popping out to the corner shop for oven chips and beer. Good stuff, and I think a really nice introduction to eating with the seasons, with a nice recognition of even a chef's human frailty and without the 'raise your own' intimidation factor of some of H.F-W's stuff. Plus, I love seasonal cookbooks, because that way I only let myself read one month at a time, and then it feels like there is a new cookbook for me each month. This is much cheaper than actually buying a new cookbook every month, and it also saves space in a kitchen that already has three shelves full of books.

So, any more tangents aside, what you do is toss some bacon (cut up into wee bits) into a pan at low heat and let it leak out some nice bacony fat while you chop up an onion. It helps if the bacon is quite good-- like butcher's or farm bacon-- because then it actually has some fat to lubricate the pan, and it doesn't just leak injected water and E numbers. I think it would work with grocery store bacon in a pinch, though, if you let it fry gently for a little bit and then dump out the gross watery stuff that leaks out, then add a drop or two of olive oil. Let the onion soften and the bacon cook a bit, without getting much colour, then dump in your tin of beans. Heat them up, and add a teaspoon of black treacle (mo-lasses for the Americani), a glug of mushroom ketchup (no U.S. equivalent, though perhaps a smidge of A1 might be a worthy addition here), and either some Tabasco sauce or a bit of chopped or dried red chilli (I used both Tabasco and chillies, but this is because we enjoy the spice. Not everyone does). Stir it around so the treacle mixes in nicely (it takes the colour from disturbing neon-y red to a nice, deep rust), and what you have is about 6 trillion times superior to the original. I like it most on baked potatoes, with a criminal amount of butter, but it is enjoyable on toast, as well.

Do with this what you will. I know it sounds like too much time invested for a supper of baked beans, but it actually only takes about 5 minutes, and really makes all the difference in the world. Oh, and don't be confused-- there is even MORE sugar in my way of doing it, but I accept this because it is MY sugar. Being arbitrary is my life.

Awry

2006-04-04T13:46:00.000Z

How would you say this word?

AW-Re?

or

a-RYE?

Please excuse my poor phoneticisms. I have only noticed recently that I may have been mispronouncing to myself it as I read and write. Luckily, I don't think I have actually used it in conversation, which has prevented a replay of the Unfortunate Faucet Incident of '95:

(Small Dev is a Sophomore in High School, and has just finished the first night of Little Shop of Horrors at school, in which she plays pretty much nothing. In a stroke of strange luck, a SENIOR in the play who lives near her asks if she would like to go get ice cream with her and her friends-- SENIORS!-- and then get a ride home. While at ice cream a Senior Boy comes over to talk to Dev, who tries not to reveal that this was actually a Terrible Idea, and that she wants to go home and watch Aladdin with her eleven year old sister.)

Senior Boy: Hey.
Dev: -Gulp- Hi.
SB: Uh, nice job in the play. Your character was really complex.
Dev: -Actually manages to laugh, and relaxes enough to make an effort at sarcasm- Oh, yes. Incredibly multi-fauceted.

Criiiiiiinge.

Later in the play's run, I knocked the kid playing Seymour off the stage with a scrim during his big singing-monlogue in the second act. It was a good three days.

Chicken in a Basket

2006-04-02T15:15:00.000Z

For Christmas Jeff made what he has since realised was one of his greatest gift-giving mistakes, ever. No, no, not the usual gift faux pas: of the cheap, itchy lingerie or nastly perfume sort. He knows way, way better. In fact, I loved my Christmas gift. But the mistake was that now he has to live with the consequences of having gifted me with The Meat Book, by the brilliantly double-barrelled Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, of River Cottage fame. Jeff thought it might mean more meat, as after he gave me a French cookbook for my birthday we dined frequently on treats inspired by the south of France. What it meant was a crusade.

The Meat Book, like the rest of the River Cottage series, centres on the topic of responsible eating and cookery-- in respecting your ingredients and your eaters by knowing the provenance and abilities of your food-stuffs, as well as knowing how to properly chop and sautee them. As I usually do when I get a new cookbook, I immediately sat down and read it cover to cover. It took a few days, as it is something approaching 600 pages (some of it probably more detailed than I need, as I do not have the space nor the tools to order and butcher an entire cow, though I theoretically now know how), but by the time I was done I was very well convinced. Since then our meat consumption has actually gone down, though I hold to the fact that we are benefitting immensely from the QUALITY, if not the quantity, of the new meat, all of which is carefully sourced from the local butchers and the Farmers' Market by your's truly (more on the joy of the Farmers' Market later, when I am on less of a quest). And the thing that I have been most sucessful about so far in this animal lover's crusade of mine is more or less keeping it to myself. No one likes to sit down at dinner at someone's house to realise they were only invited to see if they could be converted to something.

But today I was in the meat aisle of Tesco. Now, I must admit that even being as high and mighty as I am, from time to time I will buy meat from supermarkets, as long as it is from the organic section and marked with the Soil Association logo, which guarantees medium-high welfare standards for the animals involved. But (disturbingly enough) the poor, spooky battery chickens are right next to the organic meat, and as I picked up a packet of chicken thighs my glance fell onto a whole chicken. Now, they looked kind of gross and flaccid, yes, but, truthfully-- most chickens look kind of gross until you smother them with butter and roast them (mmm). The fucked up thing is that while Tesco claims to be all happy-go-lucky with their chickens (they all have a little label with a kindly looking farmer from 'rural Fife' on it and a wee blurb on how his family has raised chickens for generations on their family farm and how they comply with Tesco's welfare standards), these chickens had pretty obvious hock burns on their little naked knees. I won't go into serious detail, because I am not a total zealot, and I also think of the people who might read this as my friends, and if I gross you out too much you won't stay that way, but basically a hock burn is what happens when too many chickens don't have enough space, and they are therefore obliged to spend most of their lives squatting on a barn floor that is covered in chicken droppings, which are high in amnonia, and therefore burn through their skin. Hock marks are the calling card of battery hens: basically, the kinds of chickens who never see the outdoors, who are crushed into a giant barn so tightly that they barely ever move, and who are bred to be mutantly large-breasted (oh, the patriarchal, sexist world!!) so that shoppers can feed more people for less chicken, some times to the point that the chickens can't even stand for being so top-heavy. (Again, insert Pam Anderson/Jordan joke here).

So, today I am writing a letter to Tesco about how evil they are to mislead the buyer in this way. For you guys I am just spreading the word. I am not your mother, nor your God (though if you are interested in joining a cult where I am, please send donations in pounds Sterling), and I am not going to tell you what meat is right or wrong for you. Everyone's priorities are different. But I do think people should know that those damn touchy-feeling 'I am farmer who loves my chickens' labels are desperately misleading, and that they imply neither higher quality nor better welfare.

End of rant. Sorry to proselytise. Dev loves you, and she loves the chickens.

Piggy in the Middle

2006-03-28T20:20:00.000Z

Or, "The Woeful Life of the Trans-Continental Academe"

Its amazing the things that I manage to feel sorry for myself about. Today it is that I damn near finished my AHRC application (for doctoral funding) only to find that I am actually not eligible. And for once this misunderstanding is not entirely due to my own laziness (like, 'Oops, totally missed the deadline!'), but rather my ability for wishful thinking. See, the AHRC likes British students. Real ones, that were born here, or who have lived here for many years for proper reasons. What they do not like is Americans who come over here to do degrees and take a long time in order to draw out their visas and take advantage of free birth-control pills on the NHS, steal away British men, and practise fakey, Madonna-style Anglo-American accents.* I convinced myself that I fell into a nice, safe residency eligibility-- to apply you must have been resident in the UK for three years or more. I have lived here for 3 and 1/2 years. What I ignored was the bit where it says you must be resident for three years for some good reason, like having been born here, or having a parent who was, or having been working a good job, or being a refugee. It does not count if you have been living here on a student visa and count yourself as a 'political refugee' from the Bush administration.

This shouldn't be a problem, because one would assume that some funding body in the States would offer poor American ex-patriot wastrels some sort of funding. Except they don't. The Marshall Scholarship (oh, yes, the eviler cousin of the Marshall Plan) is the big one for Americans doing post-grads abroad, but I fail on pretty much every count there: they want newcomers to the UK, first-time grad-students, and (the one that really rankles) I am TOO OLD. Oh yes. Your programme must begin on or before your 25th birthday.

Which brings me to the thing I was complaining about before I realised how terribly mistreated I am in terms of public funding: being forced to look my impending (biological, not mental) maturity in its beady little eye. This was pointed out to me when I called my sister earlier this week to tell her that an adored friend from High School and her boyfriend were visiting and had just gotten engaged. My sister immediately remarked: 'Damn, Dev, your friends are dropping like flies! You're so old!' Now, I don't mind being old-- I quite like that I am now elderly enough to rent a car, and I never, ever do that faux-girlie thing and cringe when people ask how old I turned on my birthday**-- but I do mind that all this nuptuality seems to require some sort of forced maturity, if not on my part, at least on that of my friends.

And mostly that reminds me of the fact that I am not really an adult in any way, which is quite scary, and that since I won't finish my PhD for another three years, I won't become an adult any time soon. I think eventually my friends will realise this, and I will no longer be asked to be a bridesmaid anymore, but a flower girl, instead. I look terrible with floral wreaths on my head.

*By the way, I am proud of my fake accent. It is mostly inadvertent, but when it does appear it is apparently extremely posh, and even regionalised to a place I have never been, Buckinghamshire. Because I have never been there I can pretend that it is entirely full of rolling green hills, thatched cottages, free-range livestock, and ponies.
** This might, maybe be a little, tiny bit because I am rather proud that I have gotten this far without anyone trying to kill me for being obnoxious and negative like, ALL THE TIME.

Not Just For Christmas, Dammit!

2006-03-15T22:14:00.000Z

This morning I got an email that was annoying. Not from an annoying person-- it was from a lovely person, who I like very much, and who was doing a good deed. But it was about a social matter that gets my knickers all in a twist on a fairly regular basis. The email basically said this:
"Hey everybody-
Anyone interested in a wonderful cat? She's absolutely lovely, affectionate, and very friendly, but a co-worker had a baby, so they can't keep her anymore. I hope we can find her a great new home."
Below was the original email from the cat's owner, who has had a baby and who is now afraid that the cat (who likes the baby, who thinks the baby is nice, who does not scratch or maul the baby) is GOING TO SLEEP ON THE BABY'S FACE AND SUFFOCATE IT IN THE NIGHT.

Now, first off, this has never happened. This is what cranky old ladies who hate cats say to terrify their daughters-in-law into getting rid of the cat so they can visit Precious Son and Precious Grandchild without being annoyed by a feline presence. The same women would probably try to convince Precious Son that the child's mother would do the same thing, except society has nixed this one already. Cats (even my sister's, who is pretty hard-core in his affection) do not sleep on your air passages in such a way that you die. This is not comfortable for the cat, so they simply won't do it. Selfish beings, selfish reasoning. The baby is warm, so if you leave your child unattended on the sofa or bed (??!!), the cat is likely to curl up nearby. The cat is not going to curl up on a baby's big lump of a skull and think , 'Golly its comfy to have this child's chin poking into my squishy cat-liver.'

But that isn't the real problem. The problem is that people seem to see their pets as some sort of temporary child-replacement, dispensible as soon as the real thing comes along. And it happens all the time. What I don't get is that people seem to have all the patience in the world for older siblings who want to get rid of the baby (I believe a friend had an incident where her older sister tried to dispose of her infant self by flushing her down the toilet a la Goldie), but as soon as the family pet (adored for the last 10 years and used as a baby substitute) is cranky that Baby has taken all the attention/his favourite toy/is eating his food, he gets kicked to the curb. Why don't they get the same opportunities to adjust to the new addition to the family? (Actually, because they have a more limited capacity for understanding than small children-- at least for the most part-- they should actually get more time)

Anyway, the point is that if I catch any of you trying to give away your damn pets after spawning, you can bet your sweet ass that you will get one hell of a verbal battering from me. Also, if you can possibly come up with some sort of explanation of this for me that doesn't involve 'But its a HUMAN!', that might also help stem the tide of rage.

A Moral Dilemma

2006-03-08T15:10:00.000Z

Okay, not so much moral. More sartorial, but perhaps it is a question about sartorial morality. Sort of like yesterday. And don't even TRY to judge me for talking about shoes two days in a row. I turned in my first chapter today, so I deserve a prize, and I am getting money back on my taxes, so I can afford them. I'll try to cook something disasterous this weekend and make up for all the talk of shoes later.

So, there are two pairs of ballet flats (Keith, you can pretend they are loafers, as 'ballet flats' probably won't mean much to you and will keep you from giving your opinion). Do you buy the black leather, which are simple and sophisticated, and go with lots of stuff? OR, do you buy the leopard ones, which have the same classic line and exceptional craftsmanship, but are way more fabulous? I guess the choice is this: Audrey Hepburn, or Elizabeth Taylor? (Both in their heyday, please-- we will have no talk of necrophilia or friends of Jackson here)

Let me know...

Benedictus

2006-03-07T23:17:00.000Z

I'm always a little uncertain why I get so annoyed by the Vatican. Sure, I was raised Catholic, but really in the most minimal way (at least by my parents; the Catholic school and my rabid grnadmothers' small moments of involvement can probably be blamed for any residual guilt/repression/fetishism I still call my own). And I can't say that I have thought of myself as a 'Catholic' or gone to Mass without cringing in at least a decade. And yet, I am still annoyed and disappointed with the Pope, like, ALL THE TIME. First, it was because he is an absolute psycho, homophobe, book-burner, and generalyl Not Terribly Nice Man. Then, it was when I saw him wearing red Prada loafers. Now, I don't know if y'all are familiar with Prada pricing, because I really am not terribly, but on ebay them shiny red zapatos will set you back $200. And that's NOW, when they are totally last season. Il Papa bought his when they first came out in the fall, and I have a funny feeling that he didn't get them discounted. Not that they don't look jazzy with the whole Pope outift, because they do, but honestly? JC wore hemp sandals. And I don't think the Catholics of the world are putting money in the poor box so God's Rottweiler can have awesome footwear.

And now, he has an iPod. Seriously. Unless his new nano has a direct channel to the WORD OF GOD I feel like the Big Guy's Representative on Earth has totally missed the point of Christianity (along with the entire Bible Belt, with their Walmart and their SUVs, and whatnot, but I think that's a rant for another day). I think I remember somewhere in those vows being something about poverty. Now, popes have had trouble with this for years, and a lot of them don't seem to have really gotten on board with the whole celibacy thing, either (though not in recent years, that I know of-- more on that later if I can dig up Baby Pope stories). But there was never, ever a vow that said, 'Priest, Monk, Pope-- thou shalt work extra hard to be cool, and have all the latest fashion trends and keep on the forefront of technology.' Please. It's one thing to live in the lap of luxury and drink hot cocoa out of a golden cup designed by Michaelangelo and sleep in a room decorated by 15th-century Flemish tapestries. That's just old school avarice and self-indulgence, the foundations on which Catholicism was built. But Prada shoes? An iPod? What's next, a chihuahua in a pink rhinestone collar?

(And look, I wrote! No more tumbleweeds for you, Lulu-- if you are still speaking to me, after writing an email that I never responded to about my lack of writing about a month ago...)

Oh, and today I finished the first chapter of my thesis. It is NOT about the Pope.

I know it is now officially winter...

2006-01-04T14:43:00.000Z

... because today I completely ate it on North Bridge. Twice. The first time it was funny, as I just sort of slipped to the side and caught myself on the bannister/suicide barrier thingie, laughed and said thanks to the guy who let me know that the entire arm of my coat was covered in ice, and moved on. The second time was not funny, as I hit the ground hard, sent my bag flying into the street, and mushed a bunch of grit into my poor mangled hand. I blame the people who were walking slowly in front of me, causing me to need to leave the safety of the well-trodden path to pass them. Bastards.

For a number of years now, ice has been my nemesis. Mostly, I don't mind winter. I know, I know-- why would you leave CALIFORNIA to live HERE? Blah, blah. It's raining? Go inside. It's cold? Put on a coat. But ice? I just can't conquer it. It might be that ice is something you have to grow up with to really understand well-- friends who grew up in Scotland/Newfoundland/New York don't seem to have half the problem with it I do. On the other hand, my lovely ReRe (Boston-born, but Southern-raised) and I spent many a day in the icy depths of hellish Connecticut winters clutching each other as we plummeted to our asses on very hard, cold asphalt. So, it could be my upbringing. Maybe the trade-off is that I know a great deal about sunblock, whereas it seems that by requirement every person in Britain gets sunburnt on the first sunny day of early summer. My other theory involves my level of coordination, which I have to say is not very high. It takes quite a lot of concentration to not fall on my ass on a perfectly dry, flat street in trainers-- the addition of cobbles, alcohol, heels, or especially ICE makes it a sort of Olympic challenge for me. But I prefer to blame the inner Californian.

Anyway, here's the Christmas round-up...
Went home for Christmas, after about a week of worrying that my passport might still be with the Home Office when my flight left. It came back in time, they gave me a nice, long Visa, and the flight was decently pleasant, though the half-assed version of Tylenol PM that I bought at Boots to replace my mysteriously disappeared stash was not nearly strong enough to keep me out for the required amount of time.
All was fine there: my Grandfather came for a weekend of Horse Whisperer, lame-ass, touchy-feely animal guru shit with some wannabe cowboy, who claimed to be an 'animal communicator' but who apparently had an inability to 'communicate' with my dogs-- Luna ignored him, Mackenzie detested him. Mildly irritating, but nothing terrible, and Grandpa was remarkably subdued-- after getting completely wrecked on the first night and singing (literally) the praises of Ronald Reagan to the rafters, he kept himself well within check, and I was not forced to use animal tranquilisers on myself to keep from screaming.
Christmas itself was a rather resounding success-- On the 'Eve we went to a neighbour's for dinner/booze celebrations, which had that nice ring of 'family Christmas' to it without the buzz-killing presence of my ACTUAL extended family. In the morning a shockingly good haul of presents, followed by a day spent tending to our Christmas goose and a few other bits of the dinner made for a really nice, chilled out day. What could please me more than presents and cooking? Nothing, I tell you, expect perhaps a massage.
Another Grandfatherly encounter on Boxing Day was again minimally traumatic, and I got to see not only my Dad's best friend's trendy new LA restaurant, but also said friend's trendy new Model/Actress girlfriend (referred to by my mother as 'poo daisy'). This was followed by a day in LA with Bren doing a bit of dog-sitting and hanging out at her shockingly grown-up apartment (it is much nicer than mine. I comfort myself by thinking that it is an advantage to be able to furnish entirely from my parent's garage, which is more like an antique store, but I think she and her flatmate also have a certain I-don't-know-what...).
Then, a flight back to Edinburgh with a dosage of sleeping meds blissfully strong enough to keep me from murdering the cretin behind me, who managed to not only kick my seat the whole flight (in that insistent, 'I want you to put your seat up because I am greedy for space and don't understand even the most basic principles of air-travel, but I am too passive-aggressive to actually ask' way), but also started out our adventure by dropping his camera case from the overhead bin onto my wrist, and ended our rendezvous by dropping his suitcase from same bin directly onto my head. I loved him, but I was medicated enough to take his apology with great aplomb.
And then back here for New Year, which I spent-- SOBER. Oh yes. This was not pure masochism: I have a cold, and I woke up New Year's Eve 'morning' at 4pm feeling so horrible that I couldn't even think of adding a hang-over to the petroleum-plant of mucus already inhabiting my person. Despite the lack of booze it was surprisingly fun, mostly due to the fact that Keith threw a good party with good peeps. Though we apparently missed all the excitement later on... (as usual, see www.roquefort.blogspot.com)

Now, back to work. The PhD has started, and the supervisor wants a literature review and prospectus of goals for my first year by the end of January, plus I am moving next weekend, and tutorials start next week. AND, as I have discovered, it is winter, and it is therefore ICY, and so I have to spend lots of time figuring out how to get other people to go out for me, so I can stay inside, and away from slippery things.

I am Prince Philip

2005-11-16T15:03:00.000Z

I took the Are You A Chaveller? Quiz today on the Guardian website. I didn't really expect to be told I was a 'chaveller,' whom budget airlines have apparently set free on the world (by 'world' I mean Greek resorts where you start your mornings with a full English and end the night drinking Stella, or the Costa del Sol): for me the combination of being a bit spoiled, a total snob (while I am aware, I am not sure it makes it any better), and not having a many opportunities to travel as I would like (which would ALL THE TIME, by the way) has made me terrifically (self?-) conscious about making sure my holiday time is as efficiently culturally-enlightening as possible. Granted, I have managed to convince myself that 'culture' consists only of the things I like best: food, art, books that are tangentially related to the destination's history (preferrably in romance-novel format disguised as that smuttiest of genres: the historical novel), and most of all, booze.

What I also didn't expect was this:
Are you a chaveller?
Au contraire! You are either Prince Philip or someone very like him - possibly the offspring of two cousins. Travelling for you is a bit like padding around the estate and checking all is well with the vassals. The world is, alas, no longer entirely yours alone, but you still own enough of it to retreat somewhere nice when less suitable travellers threaten to spoil the view.

I honestly laughed to so hard that I almost choked on my baked potato (not with beans, you pleb. With home-made horseradish-creme fraiche-apple sauce and a watercress salad-- I have a reputation to keep up, it seems).

The hyperlink is still MIA, but you can take the quiz, too:
http://travel.guardian.co.uk/quiz/1,9037,495455,00.html?Q_21102=216201&Q_21104=216204&Q_21106=216207&Q_21108=216171&Q_21110=216216&Q_21112=216173&Q_21114=216177&Q_21116=216210&Q_21118=216189&Q_21120=216213

Oooh. That's a long one. Maybe just go straight to www.guardian.co.uk and click on the nice, red 'Travel' button in the centre...

My Street Cred = Zero

2005-11-07T16:29:00.000Z

This weekend was another one in which I celebrated my escape from the Saundersons by actually going out like a real human being. On Friday we went to a fairly awesome ceilidh (which I am never sure I have spelled right), and because I quite like dancing foolishly and I had bought a new skirt for the occasion I was a little over exuberant, and now I have a series of golf-ball sized bruises all down my arm. I think this is kind of like when my legs were itchy earlier this year, so I decided what a rational person would do would be to scratch them until they bled. It seems I am not only very fond of dogs, but sometimes I actually descend to that level. I need a plastic cone around my head or something, except that wouldn't help, and it would keep me from blow-drying my hair, which is at times is the only thing that seperates me from my Mom's cocker spaniel.

Saturday accidentally turned out to be less civilised-- a couple ass-hats showed up at Katie's lovely party and starting acting up, and for some reason I decided I am that useless chick from the A Team who wears pastel colours and sometimes drives the van, and I was going to assist in helping them to leave. I am not sure what the logic in this was, since I am small, weak, and am not a ninja or an expert at negotiating with drugged-up scum (though I wouldlike to be. A ninja, that is. I have absolutely no interest in ever dealing with anyone on drugs again). In my favour, I was at least reasonably sober at that point (though later I poured like a whole glass of red wine down my pretty light green top. Updates on the stain situation will come in later entries), but still. Dev, you are NOT a superhero. Stop trying. Anyway, I joined the actual Batman and Robin duo of Jeff and Keith to try to sort one of these dudes out, but ended up as helpful as Alicia Silverstone (though sans fat belly and upperlip hair-- or so I tell myself); I have since learned that logic and reason and nice compliments intended to distract them from chemically induced rage mean nothing to angry dudes on drugs. Apparently, if you are nice and you have boobs (me), they decide to proposition you; if you are nice and you don't have boobs (Keith) they try to kick your ass for absolutely no reason. Lucky for us they lose both battles.

The really unfortunate thing is this: Keith and Jeff were both very brave and skillful, and ended up with some sore hands, and some badass scratches (especially as the dude tried to bite Keith, which-- come ON. So not in the rules). I ended up on the receiving end of a not very skillful and extremely light-weight smack that was intended for Keith, but I fear I was a total drama queen about it afterwards and bragging about how well I comported myself in my first brawl or something (so tough, I am), and so while Jeff and Keith actually are a bit wounded, I got a series of phonecalls on Sunday to make sure I was okay. Honestly, I think my cat has hit me harder than that guy did, but apparently my PR skills are awesome. Really embarrassing.

And that is, I hope, the last of my selection of entries that come on the tail of some research that has found that Scotland has the highest rate of violent crime in the western world, as well as more than our fair share of peeps who piss in the street. Honestly, I never noticed it before, and I don't plan on noticing it again. Oh well. If you want to read more about brawling you can go see Keith, at www.roquefort.blogspot.com Otherwise, kids, stay off the drugs, please.

In case you were wondering...

2005-11-03T11:43:00.000Z

It is unlikely that I am ever, ever going to sound like Hunter S. Thompson on this blog. Or anywhere else.

This is in response to Josh's comment, and I just wanted to clarify this for you. If you came here looking to hear about some party where I was tripping and I totally was being attacked by bats that were sponsored by a tabacco company and then I had an existential crisis? I am terribly sorry, but you are in the wrong place. Any tripping I discuss will almost always be traced back to wearing very high shoes, bats will only be mentioned because I like the stuffed ones they have in John Lewis right now, tobacco companies probably won't come up much, though I am not a fan. But I don't blame them. I blame smokers, because its called supply and demand, bitches. If you want to suck on a cancer stick, someone is going to sell it to you. And if I actually was having any proper crisis I probably wouldn't write about it on the internet. That's why you get to hear about hangovers, my annoyance at other people for making poor under-garment choices, and pie.

Embrace the pie. Go elsewhere for the self-consciously cool shit, because that just isn't my bag.

Hallowe'en Weekend Roundup

2005-11-01T19:54:00.000Z

So, you'll be surprised to hear that I have been terribly uninspired about my blog recently, and therefore not written anything. This is because I have been trying to sort of out my life for the last couple months, and therefore a) not done very much, and b) not been hugely interested in writing about anything I have done. Truthfully, I am not terribly up for writing now, but I think I must get myself back into the swing, or a good 10% of my entries will be at least partly about pee. That seems wrong. Plus, I have an hour until my dinner will be cooked, and I have really not worked up the energy to start the tutorial plan for tomorrow's 'Hey History Undergrads! Let's learn to write in sentences!' class, which is necessary (for my sanity when I am next called on to mark their essays), but will probably be boring, and inspire all my students to sleep through class. Whatever. That's why I give handouts.

I was going to write about the last month-ish, but I am getting bored already, so I'll just talk about the weekend, which was the first proper one I have had in ages. By proper weekend I mean one in which the evenings were spent in drink and merriment, and the days were spent without doing a lick of work (mostly napping). The occasion was, of course, Hallowe'en, which (if you have ever come within a hundred yards of me you will be able to guess this) is my very favourite holiday. The other part of the occasion was that I turned in the final corrections on my thesis last week, meaning that (except for next week's conference, my pathetic hopes to get an article published sometime early next year, and a possible exhibition opening in the spring) I don't really ever have to think about the Saundersons again. In a forced, beat me to death, acacdemic sense. Truthfully, I have grown very attached to them, so I will probably think of them often. But now no one can FORCE me to think of them. Anyway, said weekend was good: a couple of Jeff's friends were up visiting from London, which actually inspired me to clean my house (sort of-- I didn't actually wash any dishes; I just cleaned everything else and turned off the kitchen light), making for far greater pleasantness all around. Friday Jeff cooked dinner* for everybody, and then we had a few quiet drinks in the Star Bar. This was then unfortunately followed by a bit of an effort to finish off the contents of my carefully collected liquor cabinet until 4 in the morning. Luckily, Jeff was working the hardest on this, and he decided that the Chinese Mystery Booze that smells like rubbing alcohol tastes like apples, so there was very little harm done...

Because I wasn't interested in the contents of my liquor cabinet (being terribly sensible, for once in my life-- it may be the burden of my recent quarter century) I felt quite well on Saturday morning, and managed to make breakfast for everybody, and then spend a few hours sewing gold beads onto my Cleopatra wig. Nothing proves the lack of a hangover like hours of staring intently at tiny, rolly, shiny things. Later, in celebration of not doing any work, I took a nap. It was very celebratory, and enabled me to be human enough to trot over to Katie's in the early evening to play sous-chef for the preparations for a lovely dinner. Then off to the party, where Jez tried (not very hard, I must say) to kill a sleeping cat with his plastic pirate sword. The cat could not have cared less. It was an interesting party: they had carved upwards of two-dozen pumpkins, which I found shockingly impressive, and some of the costumes were great (some of them were too good, and actually passed the line into truly frightening). The bits I didn't like were when Jeff and I went upstairs to check out the dancing only to find some dude up to his ears in a girl dressed like a cop in a low-budget porno, and the weird fellow who drank an entire bottle of Whyte & MacKay and then latched on to us. I have doubts about anyone who will drink Whyte & MacKay (even a glassful), and I have doubts about someone who will drink any entire bottle of spirits in a couple hours, and the combination thereof? Well, you can draw your own conclusions. I will just say that when the mini-cops (Environmental Health Patrol?) showed up shortly thereafter and we decided to go home I was not sad.

Sunday was more napping (hooray!), and then an excellent dinner by the French girls of haggis and ketchup, which is the fabulous updated-version of corned beef hash and ketchup, the choice meal of my childhood. (Yes, we were kind of poor, and maybe we were kind of trashy. You want to brawl over it?) I don't know why I don't eat haggis more often-- it is cheap and easy and delicious, and whenever I am reminded of its goodness I think that even if everything else about Scotland sucked I might just stay for the haggis. Mmmm. Eyes taste nice.

It was good that I slept all day Sunday, because on Monday my visa ran out, so I had to reapply. This made it possibly the most annoying day of my life, which was of course compounded by the fact that it was Hallowe'en, which I would like to spend carving pumpkins and making costumes for other people's children, and whatnot, not battling Home Office bureaucracy. But, whatever. The application is done, and in the evening I made Slime Soup and we went to see Corpse Bride, which was good, but I think less than the sum of its parts, somehow: the idea was great, and the animation was awesome, and the cast was fab, and perhaps my expectations were too high, I guess.

And that is that. I have managed to boil a pretty decent weekend down into a terrifically boring blog entry. Sweet.

* What I usually mean by 'Jeff cooked dinner' is that Jeff went to Tesco to get the ingredients for dinner, and that either I cooked dinner, or that I cooked dinner with Jeff's assistance. In this case, I cooked the dinner. This has nothing to do with the reason why I won't let other people wash the dishes (namely, that I am controlling and I think they will do it wrong), because everything Jeff has cooked for me has been very tasty. It has everything to do with the fact that I love to cook and Jeff's hates it. So it works out better this way-- I cook, he entertains. It keeps him from getting stressed out over the stove and allows me enough time to suck down some booze so I don't get stressed out like I do when I have to talk to people without a social crutch.

Sterilising Bobby

2005-10-17T12:48:00.000Z

Inspired by Keith's account* of what seems like a rather bloody weekend in Glasgow, I thought I would jump on the 'What the Fuck?' bandwagon and express my mystification over the events of a similarly themed (though by no means so brutal) Saturday evening here in Edinburgh.

Despite my usual preference for juvenile behaviour, Saturday night started off in an incredibly civilised fashion. I wish I could say it made me break out in reactionary hives and then get utterly wellied to cure them, but actually, it was really nice: we went over to Megan's for dinner, and she cooked an excellent dinner, and we drank a lot of wine. And then the conversation slowly degraded, which made me feel better about having spent Friday night doing my work and Saturday night being respectable. We were bitchy about people, someone made a comment about pre-pubescent ass, and Megan was recounted a story about how a friend of hers had a rather disturbing experience involving ejaculate on a bus in which no one helped her out. Eventually, after another story about some dude peeing on Greyfriar's Bobby, we got onto the topic of why people ignore horrific stuff going on in public. We talked about pee, we talked about vomit, we talked about drugged-up folk passed out in doorways, we talked about the immense ability that some young men have to expose themselves to strangers. Its a rare talent, but a talent indeed.

And then it got late, and so Jeff and I decided to go home and let our nice hosts actually sleep. We had hoped to get a cab, so we headed toward the main road, passing first a massive pile of sick, and then Greyfriar's Bobby on the way. Bobby was covered with urine. (He was also wearing a child's sweatshirt, which I thought was quite cute, except for the pee underneath it.) There were no cabs, so we continued toward home. After very few minutes there was a guy passed out, partially in a doorway. He had pissed himself, and someone had taken his shoes (ironic, actually, as he was passed out in the doorway of one of those cheap shoe shops), though Jeff did notice that he had a whole shopping bag full of clean socks. Jeff woke him up, and asked if he was okay, at which point he was very annoyed and said, 'Yeah, I'm fine.' Right. All people who pass out on the street, piss themselves, and then get their shoes nicked are fine.

So, we headed back toward home. Not a hundred yards on a girl was doing her best impression of Linda Blair over a construction railing onto the sidewalk, which meant that there was a vomit splatter for a good six feet around her. We cautiously proceeded, and I was especially conscious of how many compliments I had gotten on my pretty new shoes (this is because I am shallow. I was not even slightly concerned for how hungover she would feel the next day). More drunk folk, lots of underage-looking girls wearing next to nothing, chavvy-looking fellows loitering, the usual. More sick by the school as we got closer to home, this time on a park bench.

I don't know if we were only conscious of the incredibly repulsive goings-on because we had spent a great deal of time talking about it, or because we were not ourselves at the usual level of drunkeness, or what, but it was gross. And that is all I have to say.

*For some reason I can't get the hyperlink to do its thing, so if you want to read about how people get their faces kicked in, go to www.roquefort.blogspot.com
Then you can do a nice sociological comparison between Glasgow weekends: where cool indie kids dodge taxi-related brawls and try to help out guys who have just gotten their faces kicked in; and Edinburgh weekends: where dinner-party goers dodge vomit and try to help out wee-covered, shoeless homeless guys. Either way, its still gross, although I think they are slightly more likely to make Keith's weekend into a movie.

Bad Santa

2005-10-06T11:06:00.000Z

I know it has been a long time, but I will have to offer excuses later. This is just a post to reassure anyone who was concerned about the flagging standards of shopping centre Santas. According to the radio news report I just heard a committee of thirty of the top mall Santas in the UK are meeting today to stop the ruthless influx of cut-rate Santas that have been cropping up in enchanted grottoes everywhere. The new requirements for the big guy are 1) clean redsuit and beard; 2) good personal hygene; and 3) knowledge of all of the names of the reindeer. Christmas will be just a little merrier this year, I think.

A lovely late summer ramble

2005-08-25T12:23:00.000Z

I just thought I would let you all (by all I mean three) know that there is actually someone who is named Coral Beed. Oh yes. I found this in a roundabout fashion-- I was mocking Mischa Barton's outfits on Go Fug Yourself, I was reminded that she had been filming The Decameron in Italy with none other than Hayden Christiansen, and knowing that this will guarantee this film to be the most lifeless (get it-- lifeless, plague? Do you like my puns? I do) creation ever, I thought I could push on that painful loose tooth by finding out more. Anyway, Coral Beed (ah, HA! What is wrong with this girl's parents? With a last name like Beed they had to go and call her Coral? She couldn't have been christened Anna, or Emily, or even Ethel, for God's sake?) will be playing the character of Mona, which seems a step up from a previous role as 'Tanya's Priestess' in the no doubt exceptional Preaching to the Perverted.

Also of note is a rather incongruous combination I have discovered in my busy schedule of listening to Classic fm continually when I am at home (seriously, I leave it when I nap, even, and I think the fact that I turn it off at night may be part of the reason that I have had trouble falling asleep at night. Either that or the three-to-six-hour naps I ahve been taking every couple days). The kind folk at Classic fm are doing some free screenings of the new Pride & Prejudice film, which sounds nice, though I have my doubts about Keira Knightley, and about the whole production managing to fill the pretty hefty boots of the rather excellent BBC series which famously starred Colin Firth. Interestingly enough, the theatre they have selected in Edinburgh is the UCI, which as far as I know is out in Kinnaird Park. Which again, as far as I can tell, is in Burberry-Land. Now, at the risk of making sweeping socio-economic generalisations, do you think that the NEDs either are particularly interested in seeing this film, or have been listening to Classic FM enough to realise that they can go to the preview of said film? I don't, but that may just be further proof of my ignorance.

And that is pretty much all I have to say. Really, I seem to have lost my blogging vibe. And I think I have pretty much given up on writing any sort of coherent posts. Granted, maybe if someone else offered to finish re-writing my thesis for the one-zillionth time for me I could go back to a) writing things properly, and b) having a will to live. Also, the Nazis at the National Library have continued in their fascist crackdown, and so I can't access Blogger there anymore, which does not contribute in any sort of positive way to my abilities. And I am hungry. So there.

What the Hell?

2005-08-19T09:11:00.000Z

So, peeps who use blogger-- how do I get rid of that freaking weird comment on my last entry?

There are no brown cows*

2005-08-17T14:57:00.000Z

Okay, I really am the worst. I know I haven't blogged in ages. And all I left you with was the worm stories. It was cruel, and I really am sorry.

In brief, here are some of the things that have happened since I last wrote:

I went to London to see my Mom. I rode on the tube, and a bus, and on trains, all of which just to make paranoid people cringe. Nothing was shady, nothing was scary. We didn't actually do much that feels worth writing about now, partly because it was almost a month ago, and partly because we really didn't do much. See, the two days, they were almost identical. They went like this: breakfast at club, to museum for exhibit (Stubbs on Saturday, Reynolds on Sunday). Lunch at museum with bottle of wine. Another glass of wine with cheese course. Taxi back to club, take drunken nap. Wake up, think about dinner, decide I am not that hungry and so not in a hurry. Descend into childhood as I wait ages for my mother to get ready for dinner and realise that I am really hungry, and really dehydrated from getting trollied at lunch, and therefore really, really cranky. Whine a little and threaten to drink water out of the toilet like a dog. Dinner, with another bottle of wine. Bed.
This was followed by a fairly normal week of trying to get work done and be a good girl. Highlights include finally figuring out how to make refried beans without resorting to the actual Mexican way (which uses straight lard, I think. I do use a lot of butter, but I like to pretend that isn't as gross as lard); a really good yoga workshop in which I finally conquered at least a little of my hatred for all of the triangle positions (I have a very long torso, and therefore some troubles with the alignment); a 'Black and White' themed party at Keith and Dave and Gill's (the party was really very good, though the theme was a little pretentio-morbid seeming for my taste. Actually, the party was good until Keith and Doug treated us to a wee, twee, Tiny Monkey jam. That was the point at which we left. I remember parties as a child in which everyone has to trot out their performing skill, and it still makes me vomit when peeps start to do the masturbatory party performance. Sorry, Keith. The Pie tells the Life like it is)
This rather lovely week of food and yoga and booze was followed by The Most Boring Conference In The World. I won't bother with what it was about, because you guys won't know or care, but it was in very rural Ireland, and it was dull. Luckily the hotel was in some very pretty countryside, so I got to take some nice little walks when the actual doings got too much for me. I met, for what I believe is the first time, some cows up close. Please don't think that this is Pampered Princess of Southern California speaking-- I have seen cows before, and I spent my formative years on a horse ranch, but I don't actually remember being very close to cows. So, I searched them out, only to find that up close they are very, very big (they make my sisters 18-hand horse look like a fairy-land pony), and that they have exceedingly gross tongues, like enormous slugs.
Even more disgusting than a big sluggy tongue was the woman at the conference who offered me my greatest entertainment during the lectures. On day 1 she rearranged all of the seats around her so she could put her feet (from which she had removed both shoes and socks) up. On day 2 she was bored of the lectures, and so brought along her romance novel, and read through the lectures (Okay, I was bored too, but seriously! Pretend to take notes while making grocery lists, or something). Days 3 and 4 brought her even closer to me-- I had the joy of sharing her table at a lunch and a dinner. At dinner she skillfully commandeered the conversation for 40 minutes to relate her entire family tree-- apparently her great-great-grandfather had ten brothers and sisters, all of whom had ten children and of whom had eight children... I got to hear about all of them. This was nothing compared to the next day, though, when she sat down at lunch and immediately declared that she hoped she hadn't been in anyone's pictures as she had gained a stone of weight and would look fat. (A side note: she was very, very fat, perhaps obese, which was why I didn't think too much of her feet-raising action on Monday, as she could have had diabetes, or swelling, or whatever. But what do you say when a fat person does that whiny 'I'm fat' thing that is wretchedly annoying and awkward even in very thin women? Do you follow the rules of politeness and act a total hypocrite and say, 'No, you aren't fat!' even though the woman is pushing a deuce, deuce and a half?) This unfortunateness was swept away on the final day of the conference, when during my supervisor's lecture she proceeded to clip her toenails.
I returned to Edinburgh for a weekend of birthday celebrations on Friday and Saturday nights (Josh and Steph), and a week of trying to get work done while planning for further brithday celebrations (Josh and Jez). Saturday night was the party for which everyone had been waiting, and while I unfortunately had to cop out a bit and take off before the good stuff really started, I think everything worked out quite well. My pilot/stewardess costume idea worked well enough to win the peeps the Best Dressed award at Vegas, which was pleasingly gratifying for me, and I think chest-swellingly joyful for Josh. Pictures can be found here. There was a great deal of gossip to be relayed afterward, always the sign of a good (read: boozy) evening. Meanwhile, Jeff and I were in Fife walking the dogs and eating take-away and napping (actually, I was napping, and Jeff was tending to less pleasant things. It seems that the dogs took any possible opportunity that I fell asleep to have some excrement-related troubles, leaving Jeff to clean up while I snoozed peacefully.)

And that brings us pretty much up to date. From here on out, though, it is all work and no more spending of copious amounts of money. My sister arrives in T minus 16 days, and I am hoping to get most of my corrections hammered out before she gets here. So, expect frequent blog entries about absolutely nothing, my home-grown specialty. Until then, peace out.

* This was, for a period of time, a matter of great debate in my family. See, there is a grand McHugh tradition of instilling a great deal of truth in whatever you say (no matter how unlikely, or impossible, it is) with simple confidence. My sister is the master of this technique, and more or less runs an in-sorority-house medical clinic through a basic medical knwledge and her sheer ability to convince people she is absolutely correct, all the time. I have also been accused of a similar practise, though I don't necessarily admit guilt. This talent was learned from the great master, my father, who on an early date with my mother pronounced that 'there are no brown cows.' My mother was suitably surprised by this pronouncement, especially as her mother had grown up in farm-land, and they were aquainted with many colours of cows. An arguement ensued, as my mother is one of the few people on whom our McHugh Liarly Tricks do not work.

The point, my friends, is that there are brown cows. Many of them. And like all other cows, they have big slimy tongues.

The other point is that when I tell you things, there is a very good chance that I am lying.

Cold Hands, Worm Heart

2005-07-21T10:48:00.000Z

I don't recommend Tesco's *Finest Perfectly Ripe Peaches. They will seduce you with their shiny wrappers and their lush bottom-shaped goodness, but the people who pack them are tricksy. They put the peaches into the little molded styrofoam containers stem down, you see. This is unacceptable, as everyone knows that when buying fruit you really need to examine the area around the stem, as this is the bit that rots first, and it will show you whether or not the fruit's interior is intact.

As usual, this past week I failed to stick to my own rules, and bought the peaches, even though I couldn't see their stems. And then on Tuesday when I was packing lunch I picked up a peach. It was all nasty underneath. And then another one. It was even nastier. A third-- still nasty. The fourth peach was acceptable, so I gave that one to Jeff ('What a nice girlfriend!' you say), and took the first peach myself, as it was the least bad of the bunch. I tried to eat it, but I got bored negotiating around all the bruised bits, so it mostly went in the bin.

Yesterday I thought I would salvage the not-gross parts of the other two peaches, as I was at home and therefore had access to that great peach-saving device: a knife. So I sliced the top off the peach (see, it was the area around the stem that had gone all gross-- the hidden stem!!), only to find that all one side of the pit was decrepit. I pondered the peach, wondering whether laziness or cheapness (relative, they did cost like 75 p per peach) would win out, and if I should carve out the side that was still in good shape. And then a green worm crawled out, squiggly and horrible and many-legged. Of course, not only did that peach get tossed, but so did the other peach. And then I called Jeff to tell him my gross-out story (because I am like 4), and he had not yet eaten the one perfect peach of the supossedly Perfectly Ripe quartet. And so that one got binned, too. So, out of the four peaches only about half of one was ever eaten. A total waste, and if I had the cajones to have kept that horribly wormy peach I would have stomped into Tesco and told them where they could put their *Finest. But I was afraid it might have babies and infest my house.

But, it has inspired me! And so now I will tell you my other worm/food experiences (yes, plural). The most recent was a few years ago when I was in Italy. (Note: you may observe that almost all gross-out stories involve my family-- I don't know if as a group we attract these sorts of incidents, or if we find hilarious the sorts of things that other people find traumatic and therefore block out, or what, but so it is) We went out to dinner at a restaurant my Mom remembered as being excellent the last time she had been in Rome. It was excellent. We had a lot of wine, and a lot of deliciousness, including these massive wonderful portobello mushrooms that were lightly grilled and doused in garlic oil (the excitement to come is illustrated by the fact that I don't remember what else we ate-- very strange, as I usually have a rather wasted ability to recall the exact food eaten and when) .

[And then unfortunately the owner forced the horrific Limoncello on us. This is tangential, actually, but I must say how absolutely vile I find this liquer to be. I also despise grappa. So when you buy me booze as a present on your next trip to Rome, please just get me a really exceptional bottle of red wine, because the goodness of Italian drinks is entirely lost on me, and I will probably use them to polish the silver.]

Getting to the point, we had such a fab meal that we decided to come back the next night, and I again ordered the portobello mushrooms, and gobbled greedily. During my gobbling, I did observe that my 'shrooms were peppered with tiny holes on their underside. Odd, I thought, as I had not every seen such a thing on mushrooms. So I gave one of the holes a poke in a bit of a rude science-experimenty way, and sliced it open. Out came a wee brown worm, about as long as my pinky fingernail, and obviously not very well for wear after the garlic oil and grilling. For some reason (read: loads of wine, quite drunk), I was not repelled, and so I christened the worm Nigel, wrapped him up in a tissue, and finished my mushrooms. When the Limoncello came I gave Nigel a little bath, wrapped him up again, and took him back to the hotel room, where we all had a nice photo-session with him. It never occurred that this was gross. I don't know what's wrong with me.

My first worm-related dining extravaganza was about ten years ago, when I was still in high school, and was much more fun. It has since reached almost mythical status among those who eat regularly at my parents' house. My mother (who is a really excellent cook, please don't be put off) had prepared us dinner-- chicken, broccoli, and rice, I think. Not being a particular fan of plain rice until very recently I took a lot of broccoli, a moderate amount of chicken, and a very tiny amount of rice, which I planned to drown in soy sauce and then artfully arrange around my plate. Being fiends for the carbs, both my father and sister took loads of rice.

We began, which in my household usually consists of mocking either ourselves or (preferably) someone else, a bit of toilet humour, and then a decent into giggles. Dad gobbled up his rice, and went back for seconds.
'What kind of rice is this, Deanna?'
'Mmm, wild rice medley, I think? The box is on the counter...'
'Is it supossed to have eyes?'
'...Not that I know of. No. What?'
The cooked rice was examined. The uncooked rice was examined. The rice was found to be only about 70% rice-- the rest was maggots, spawn of the charming moth-type creatures that like to inhabit boxes and bags of grains in Southern California. Being sixteen, I am sure I made some sort of 'Oh my GOD, that is dis-gust-ing' comment, but was quite content, as I hadn't had much. My parents were both feeling a bit uncomfortable; Brenna was positively green. Of course, in our household the only way to allieviate your own discomfort is through a combination of puns and making someone else feel worse. Bren was the obvious target, so we talked in great detail about the worms, and how horrible they were, and how it really was very worm it in the kitchen until she cried. And then everyone felt better.

Except Bren.

2005-07-19T14:37:00.000Z

I have been wildly uninspired the last couple weeks, mostly because while they have been enjoyable, they have also been rather mundane-- lots of time reading at the library, some time in the pub, etc. Of note are a few things, though, notably The Wedding Crashers, which was very funny, and the new Harry Potter, which was tragic and wonderful. In relation to Harry Potter I will just be lazy and post this link to The Guardian, which is very funny and all about re-writing Harry Potter in the style of other authors. However, if you plan to read the book but have not finished I suggest you wait, as it contains a bit of a spoiler... And that is all.

Because I am a REAL Academic

2005-07-11T13:17:00.000Z

Or at least so I can now tell myself. For they at Bath Spa University College would be 'delighted' (yes, delighted) to have me give a paper at their conference this November. Which means a) I can justify buying a suit, b) I get to go to Bath, one of my favourite places, and eat tasty buns at Sally Lunn's (after I give my paper, clearly, as otherwise the hypo-style sugar-shock will knock me on my ass when I am pretending to be a grown up), and c) I feel like an actual proper person, not just some lazy debutante who didn't really like her interior decorating job and so went to grad school instead. Yay, me. Yay, ME!

Veloute of Spoiled Hypocrisy

2005-07-07T10:38:00.000Z

From today's Guardian:

'Mr Bush became a devotee of cycling a couple of years ago after a knee injury forced him to give up running. But his leisure pursuits are not without their perils. In May last year he fell off his mountain bike, grazing his chin, top lip, nose, knees and his right hand while riding on his ranch. He also came to grief on a motorised scooter in June 2003. On that occasion, however, neither vehicle nor rider was damaged. In January 2002, he survived a potentially fatal encounter with a pretzel.'

This is in reference to an incident last night when our fearless leader took out a cop with his bike while speeding through the resort. I like the way The Guardian manages to make Dubya look like a the biggest tool in the box every time they mention him.

But don't worry, friends: he was well enough after his little slip to have dinner with the Queen and Prince Phillip at the Michelin-starred restaurant at Gleneagles (the cop went to the hospital, where I bet he had an equally nice dinner). No little injury will keep the the President from fulfilling his duty-- to dine on a Ballotine of Foie Gras with a palate-cleansing Peach Jelly, Smoked Lobster, Roast Anjou Squab with Black Truffle Gnocchi, and Farmhouse Cheeses ripened by Maitre Fromager Jacques Vernier. And because he cares about our futures, to finish off the evening with a Slow Roasted Peach and Lemon Thyme Soufflé , a glass of vintage Port (Taylors, 1970, at £400 a bottle, of course), and a few malt whisky truffles. Want to read more? Head over to the Gleneagles website, where you can discover for yourself that the suites the Pres and co. are staying in start at a measly £800 per night.

Is anyone else mildly disturbed by the fact that they are discussing poverty in Africa whilst sipping a glass of wine that costs more than a Rwandan family will see a lifetime? Okay, and because it is stupid to lie, I am also jealous. We had chicken for dinner last night. I did a good job, and it means I get to have a chicken sandwich for lunch today, too, but Tesco's was fresh out of foie gras, so it really lacked something...

Militant Vegetarianism

2005-07-05T09:19:00.000Z

Apparently it wasn't only the clowns who were acting up yesterday. A group of what I can only assume were militant vegetarians targetted our local butcher, Crombies. This makes me very, very sad for the world, because Crombies is one of the best shops I have ever been to. Now, I understand what vegetarians are all about-- I am not someone who rabidly eats steak to prove a point, or tries to convert anyone I find who isn't into the meat. I toyed with vegetarianism myself for a little while, and still feel a bit defensive about my meat consumption from time-to-time, as I would actually like to be a vegetarian, but I crave the flesh. So, when I do buy meat I almost always choose to go to places like Crombie's, because they sell products from carefully-bred animals that are treated to a decent quality of life and humanely slaughtered by farmers who are aware of the implications of mass-production to both taste and the environment.

The protesters who chose to target Crombie's yesterday seem to have a less well-developed world awareness than these farmers and the independent butchers they supply. I don't think it is possible to create a wholly vegetarian world, nor do I think eating habits are a choice that should be made by anyone but the eater. What I do think is more feasible is to begin to create a world where meat-eaters take the necessary responsibility for their choices and try to direct their consumption in a way that both promotes a greater quality in animal development and greater rights for the animals who do end up on our plates. Shops like Crombies, where customers can buy high-quality meat of known provenance from friendly and educated staff promotes this sort of responsibility. Smashing windows promotes nothing but inconvinience and destruction.

However, there is a chance that this was just an odd coincidence, and the Crombies was targetted because they have big windows that look nice for smashing. In this case, Smashers, I apologise. I have wrongly perceived actual constructive interests as the root of your behaviour. You are not mistakenly aggressive in your quest for righteousness-- you are dick-smacks.

My cheesecake was more inspirational.

2005-07-04T11:16:00.000Z

What I wanted to write about today was all the wonder and awe that was instilled in me over the weekend by Saturday's Make Poverty History march. Something along the lines of 'Hundreds of thousands... marching together... uniting in a common goal... the importance of helping others... thanks, Bob Geldof... feeling the great love of the marchers for all of humanity... blah, blah.' What actually happened was that we stood around for 4 hours in the Meadows, being aurally assaulted by whistles and idiots with mega-phones. We stood, we got cranky. We stood, we made weak jokes about 'making [insert various vaguely humourous things, including mullets, Daniel Beddingfield, and children] history.' We stood, we started to lose our peaceful intentions, and Jeff decided that he wanted to peg the church group leader with the mega-phone in the head with our new Teacher's Union stress balls. Eventually we got to march, but only after we were all so tired and foot-sore that we only got as far as the Castle car-park before heading off for beer and pizza. A death-match between idealism and pepperoni? We already know who wins.

There was a brief moment when we reached the Mound, and I could see thousands of people stretched all along Princes Street, that I felt what I had hoped to get out of the day. But mostly I was disappointed at the way people semed to have a million different mixed messages for the march. Make Poverty History really did become Make Capitalism History, Make the CCP History, Make George Bush History, Make War History, Make the G8 History... It went on forever. No wonder we can't seem to get anything done, if even this one particular day, meant to be dedicated solely to focusing attention on one enormous problem, gets co-opted by so many other groups that it becomes hard to remember what the point was in the first place.

But, it goes on. I still have on my white chav-band today, although after hearing this morning that Dubya is refusing to do Tony the Tiger 'any favours' in terms of reaching a Kyoto-style agreement on global warming, my concern has switched a bit. The 'if you scratch my back, I'll scratch your's' element of the US-UK Special Relationship doesn't seem to have worked this time. What a shock. Also of note was a sight at the car-park near George Square today, where about three dozen police were encircling a similar number of protestors dressed as clowns. I have no idea.

All up in my griddle.

2005-06-30T10:30:00.000Z

I have to say that today did not start auspiciously, at least in kitchen terms. Actually, I could say that last night did not end auspiciously, and the lack of auspice carried on into the morning. Anyway, I decided to forgo the previously mentioned Strawberry Tart, as the recipe called for cornstarch. For some reason products with 'corn' in the title always give me trouble-- it took me ages to give in and cook something using even the tiniest granules of cornflour; as a sugar-avoider I have a great terror for corn syrup (the hidden enemy); in the UK cornmeal is at times near impossible to find. (These 'times' are only the times that you need cornmeal, like when trying to make chili and cornbread. At all other times there is so much cornmeal hanging around that you just don't know what to do with yourself.)

So, yes, I skipped the Strawberry Tart and decided to go down the Chocolate Cheesecake route, as that means I can make the dessert the night before the dinner, enabling me to actually have some sort of productive day before dinner and not be so cranky and sick of food by the time everyone shows up that I am rude to my houseguests. Unfortunately, I was more involved in the Evening Concert on Classic FM than I was in paying attention to my cooking, and nearly caused a mild disaster with the cheesecake. Nothing horrible, though. I just remind you that when you make cakes, especially heat-sensitive cakes that involve things that cook at very low temperatures (eggs) and things that harden even at quite high temperatures (chocolate) you will want to have your thinking cap on and not have all your dairy ingredients come straight from the fridge.

After the cheesecake had (I think) been salvaged (it looks okay now, but as with all cake things you can't really tell until you cut into it, and possibly cause death to all...), I then woke up a bit early this morning in order to fire up my new griddle and cook some lovely zucchini and eggplant for a bit of a dinner side dish. This took AGES. I started at 7.45. It is now 10.30. I did not shower this morning, nor eat a proper breakfast, nor take a detour route to the library, nor frolick. I griddled for hours, filling my kitchen and living room with smoke. I now smell like a barbeque. I also managed to throw a tea-cup off the dish dryer and out the window (which was open so I at least wouldn't die of the smoke inhalation). I luckily did not hit either the man or the cat who live downstairs. But I did lose a tea cup.

The moral of the story is that griddling is not as fun as barbequeing, especially as my usual version of barbequeing is thinking up a vaguely creative marinade for something, plopping some fish/steak/chicken in it, and giving it to my Dad. I then drink a few glasses of wine while he slaves over the hot grill, but get to feel as if I contributed and be a bit drunk, which makes me cheerful. This is much better than the griddle. I did spend £30 on the blessed thing, though, so I will have to use it often.

Week In Review

2005-06-27T10:43:00.000Z

Despite all my good intentions my blogging has slumped a little, and I am sorry. But I have lots of (good) excuses, some of which are included in my events of the week, which cannot possibly be made into anything coherent, so I just won't try...

I moved to my new flat. It is glorious there: the view out my bedroom window is like a postcard; I have a whole pantry to fill up with junk (which means that I can have only the pretty, tidy things out where people can see them, making them think I am fastidiously pretty and tidy, when really I am demented); my new stove-top is super powerful (though I fear the power a little for any future emulsion sauces, which will certainly now have to be done in a double boiler); the lights in my bathroom are amazingly bright and make for intense sessions of eye-brow plucking. Despite all this goodness, there is one thing that I thought might be a drawback, but I am becoming less sure-- there is no TV hookup, and as it is ground floor the aerial on my TV does jack-all. So, in order to not live in eternal silence I have been listening to Classic FM non-stop, and have more than doubled my knowledge of classical music in the last three days (granted, this isn't exactly saying much). Perhaps for a little while I will avoid the mind-numbing powers of TV and embrace the mind expanding facts I am learning about all my new composer friends. And then for my birthday I'll buy myself a new TV that will actually hook up to a DVD player and just watch The Precious all the time (obviously fast-forwarding through the bits with evil, creepy, cannibalistic Elijah Wood).
I applied to speak at a conference. This is very exciting, and makes me feel like a proper grown-up academic (though this is purely an illusion). I am not sure they will want me to come, but I did try my best to write a very ass-kissy letter dropping my supervisor's name as much as possible, so I hope that will help. Anyway, it is in Bath (which I love) where they apparently have a really excellent Centre for Irish Studies, in November. I will keep you posted. In case you care. Or in case someone reads this blog.
I went out to eat twice. First, on Wednesday, Jeff and I finally managed to make it to Relish for their shockingly reasonable Student Night Deal (burger, beer, £5). It was very warm that evening, so we got to sit and sip our beer (Budweiser, and I even liked it, though I think that had to do with the frosty glass-- I am cheap like that) and watch the people come and go on the Royal Mile. And I got to fill myself up with wondrous beef and cheese and rivers of ketchup. Then, on Thursday, I got to indulge my other realm of fantasy eating, and went for a fishy lunch at the Fisher's down in Leith with a friend of my sister's and her very nice parents. I had their awesome fish soup, and then some cool little rillettes of monkfish wrapped in spinach and then prosciutto and drizzled with a red wine vinegar/wholegrain mustard dressing. So good. (I specifically ordered the monkfish so I could figure out an interesting way to do monkfish, as I bought some last week and ended up thinking I could have just as well bought chicken, had a tasier dinner, and saved about £4. And so now I know.) Oh, and on Saturday I ate pizza for lunch and dinner. Beat that for a week of foodie splendour.
I went to a gig. On Friday we went to see Mike's band, Luxury Speed-Wash. Usually not at all my thing: despite my part-time deafness (it actually means I wasn't really listening to you) I really can't handle the loudness of gigs, and the endless stream of Band Hos dressed in 'rock-star' outfits and dancing like '60s go-go dancers brings out my most catty self (who is not too far under the surface anyway, as you may have noticed). Plus, it is always smoky, and you have to stand up in a crowded room for hours and hours, and I don't know anything about music (except now Classical music, which is far superior; see above), so I can't make appropriate comments about the songs, or even really recognise whether not it was a cover most of the time. That said, I really liked Mike's band. Their songs were catchy, and after what seemed like some early nervousness they looked like they were having fun on stage, which makes all the difference. And I even was okay with the band afterward, despite the fact that I thought their indie-meets-death-metal style was about as good as using an electric drill to clean your ears. But the singer/lead-guitarist was working a whole Jack Black angle, complete with beer-belly hanging over his guitar and head banging, and I respect his enthusiasm. And the bassist was really very good, and he looked like a serial killer, which entertained me while I was trying to tune-out the music. After that my tolerance was all worn out, though, and I had no patience for the Green Day wannabes who are apparently going to be signed by EMI any second now. Kind of boring, and I figure that if you want to hear Green Day you go home and put on a Green Day CD.
I went to see Batman Begins. Which was awesome. I am one of those people who really didn't like any of the earlier Batman movies (No, not even the first one with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson. It was boring. Sure, I probably am a cretin), so I went in with fairly low expectations. I was a fan of the cartoon growing up (I even made all my friends dress up at Batman charcaters for Hallowe'en my last year of High School), and kept getting disappointed with the films. This was really good, though-- engaging throughout, scary where it should be scary, bit of a sense of humour, vaguely psychologically interesting in a diet Coke kind of way, and though obviously pretty high on the nerd factor, at least decently believable with all the gadgetry. And the best bit is that they didn't pull any punches with getting really good actors (and I mean quality, not cash-crazy, ass-faced professional celebrities like Arnie) to play the roles that really count. Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman, Liam Neeson, Tom Wilkinson, Gary Oldman? The coolest. You add Ian McKellan in there and you have the best guys ever (I am pushing for a sequel with Ian McKellan as a villain, though I haven't decided which one). Christian Bale was very good (granted, Batman as a character is really just a foil for all the interesting baddies/gadgets/Alfred's witty remarks, so there isn't a huge amount to work with, but he really did what he could and did it well). I have never been a huge fan of Katie Holmes, but I feel bad for her, because it was obviously very, very cold in Gotham City, and she had the kind of lame 'bitch' role, and she always gets stuck playing such goody-goodies (the curse of being rumoured to be a 26 year-old virgin?), but she pulled it off well-enough. Plus, she is engaged to such a spaz, poor girl. So, yay for Batman. Go see it. Go.

And that is all. I will try to be better about blogging this week, now that I am a bit settled in my flat and whatnot. I plan to make a strawberry tart this weekend, so there will be a combined Make Poverty History March/Pastry Cream entry at some point. How disturbing. Hey kids, starving in Africa? I am a rich, over-educated, liberal hypocrite-- I wax poetic about your dreadful plight, dress up in white with my little plastic chav-band, and righteously march around throwing a political tantrum. Then I go home to my New Town flat and eat pie while listening to Classic FM. Yeah, I don't know how to fix that. Suggestions are welcome, I think?

'Council Tax' By e.e. 'dev' cummings

2005-06-15T10:27:00.000Z

I
have now officially contacted the Council Revenues and
Benefits office in every way they offer.

Exciting really. Wait, no--
it is infuriating, as they continually send
bills
for £13oo pounds to me
despite the fact that every time I speak to
someone
at their office

(who is
always wildly apologetic and incredibly helpful) they
say, 'Oh, well, it is in the records that you are a student,

so that should be

all cleared up.' They are

so nice that I totally fail to be annoyed when I am on
the phone to them,
and then I hang up and realise that the twenty minutes of
annoyance was
stored up, and it hits me twice as hard.
This time,
though, maybe.
And if not-- I am moving in a couple weeks, so
they can send
bills to the flat all they want, because I will be somewhere else.
Ha ha!

**Note: This post (which is totally meaningless in terms of actual interest or information) was brought to you by:

Blockquote!-- For all your Blockquoting needs.

"Thanks, Blockquote! You might make an avant garde poet out of me yet!"

Seriously, it demented my text all on its own. I really didn't have to help at all...

A tale of pie. And woe. And pie again.

2005-06-13T14:02:00.000Z

Though I know it won't be terribly thrilling for a portion of my readership, I thought I should actually write something about pie, which I have neglected to do since starting this blog. Truthfully, my original intention with Life of Pie was to talk about pie a lot, because I really love it. But, since I self-diagnosed myself as hypoglycemic and stopped eating sugar or white flour my pie intake and output has been drastically down-sized, and I am not really sure I have had any pie since I began my blog... Tragic. However...

Once upon a time there was a maiden (term used loosely) who used to make quite a bit of pie, and eat nearly as much. In fact, she baked many tasty things, and usually they came out wonderfully, giving joy and expanded waist-bands to those who ate them, and allowing the maiden to bask in the admiration of houseguests, which is her very favourite thing. One day, an evil spirit crept into the maiden's mind, encouraged by a nasty witch who was dressed up as a fairy godmother. The name of this witch? Was Martha Stewart. The evil spirit was that of False Pride, which forced the maiden to ignore her mother's good advice and make previously untried dishes for a dinner party. And the witch's potions were not the trustworthy, carefully concocted potions of the true fairy-godmother, the wondrous and luscious Nigella. No, these potions were half-assed, but tarted up with exceptional pictures that turned the maiden's head, though she knew better.
And so, for her very first house-warming dinner ever the maiden decided to try out two new potions the witch had included in the April 2003 issue of her magazine. 'Oh, disaster!' cried the maiden, stressed beyond belief when the Potato Rosti turned out grey and took three hours to cook, instead of forty minutes. Then, (through her own fault, not because of the witch) the maiden spoiled her Hollandaise sauce by neglecting to use a double boiler. But, despite the fact that she was trying very hard to impress her new boyfriend and everything had gone tits up, the maiden took heart, because she had made a Lemon Tart with a Pine-nut Crust, and she knew that her desserts were always wonderful.
But the witch had yet another trick up her sleeve, and had used her demented potion to convince the naiive young maiden to use macerated, thinly-sliced lemons within the tart. Like much of the most powerful dark magic, with pies and tarts you don't actually know that there has been a horrific occurence until it is too late. The tart looked beautiful, and so the maiden served it to her guests, feeling much more confident. And then she took a bite herself...

Since then this tart has been known as Bile Pie, and has been my nemesis, a hit-and-run on an otherwise squeaky-clean baking record. So, this weekend, after two years of being haunted, I conquered the looming spectre and made another lemon tart. Don't worry, I didn't use a Martha Stewart recipe-- that hasn't happened again, and it never will. And the lemon tart was glorious. It was eye-wateringly sour, and perfectcly smooth, and wonderful. It was the grown-up version of the lemon cake my Mom would indulgently let me order at my favourite French restaurant when I was very small. I have vanquished the evil of the Lemon Tart with a Pine-nut Crust. And I have restored the spirit of pie (and tart) to Life of Pie.

(For those who have got this far-- basically just LuLu, probably-- email me if you want the recipe. Or, buy the cookbook, which is the exceptional Bouchon, by Joseph Keller, the God of Californian-French cuisine. It is on sale at Amazon, and though still pricey totally worth the money)

**Note: I tried to be creative and put my little tale into 'Blockquote' mode. Which made the damn thing go all e.e.cummings on my ass, and I was a bit afraid I wouldn't be able to fix it. But it is okay, and has inspired me to further heights in my blogging. So, wait for tomorrow, when I will write something wildly mundane, but put it in e.e.cummings' Blockquotes and therefore make it poetic.

June's Golden Showers

2005-06-13T13:36:00.000Z

In honour of it being early summer and all, I have done a little research to answer a question that has baffled me for many moons. Why does asparagus make your pee smell?

Well, friends, lucky for your enquiring minds, I recently was gifted with the fine tome On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, by the fabulous Harold McGee. Now, I really haven't read a science book since high school (unfortunately this is true despite taking Bio 101 my first year of college, and may be the reason for that charming D+ on my transcript), but this book is just great. Even the science bits. And so, now I know:

When you eat asparagus your body produces something called asparagusic acid, which is closely related to the methanethiol that makes skunks have their charming odour, and which is passed out through your urine. 'What do you mean my pee smells?' you say. Then you may actually be one of two types of minority-- while most people produce the acid, and most people can smell it, a small percentage people do not produce the acid when metabolising asparagus, and another small percentage actually do produce it, but are unable to smell it.

And that is my little science lesson for today. Aren't you glad you checked my blog? I sure am.

More relevantly to my life, I finally have a flat. Hooray! More details after I move, and can describe its wonder from closer quarters...

To the girls in the floaty white skirts...

2005-06-09T13:02:00.000Z

You look lovely. So summery and cool and really very casually elegant, sort of like hippie versions of fairy-tale princesses. In truth, I am a little jealous, and may have to go find myself a floaty white skirt so I can also be summery and cool and casually elegant (of course, once I do there will be no more sun this summer, but my weather cursedness is not the point here). The willowy drape of your skirts covers a multiplicity of figure flaws, and can even be purchased in a length that means you don't really have to shave your legs that day. And you know what else? I can see your thong. Yes, I can! And not because you are wearing your skirt so low that it peeps out the top in a sort of bad-ass way. No, I can SEE it. The whole thing, right through the very thin material of your pretty, pretty skirt. It is turquoise. You know what else I can see? The figure flaws your pretty skirt is meant to be covering up. Like the cellulite on your ass that is exposed by said thong.

So, inspired by yesterday's sunny weather, here are my recommendations for your summer safety...
1) You must make a choice. Either a) buy a summery skirt that has lining, b) buy it in a dark colour, c) go old-school-style and wear a slip, or, d) if you really must have the very thinnest of lawn skirts because you are just sweltering in all 22 degrees of the Scottish summer, buy a pair of flesh-coloured boyshort undies in a nice opaque fabric that will cover your crack. I know they aren't sexy, and there is a good chance that your boyfriend/husband/flavour-of-the-week/cat will laugh and call them granny-pants. Deal with it. Your other choice is to have me start photographing your cellulite and posting it here, okay?
2) Buy a pumice. A what? A pumice. A wee exfoliating stone made to slough off the horrific callouses around your heels that you all decided to show off in your flip-flops/slingbacks/mule loafers. Because you are ruining the 'Oh, I winter in Sicily'-effect of your expensive St. Tropez air-brush session when you are prancing around in sandals that show me how your feet have worn nothing but wellies since two summers ago when the temperature hit 28 and they predicted a heat-based armageddon. Really, with a little warm water and some gentle pumice action they will come right off.
3) Finally, Gentlemen: put your shirt on. I know, it really is sunny. And warm. And I am aware that your yearly holiday is only to Bournemouth for 2 and a half days at the end of July, and it could rain. You need to be aware that your bare chest is not only going to land you in surgery to get rid of your parade of carcinomic glory in about ten years, but there is a good chance that you might temporarily blind someone else, causing them to walk under an on-coming bus. You don't want that to happen. Plus, you look just like a prawn in a frying pan, whitish-grey to start, but so speedily going pink around the edges...

By the way. I have now blogged three days in a row. Shocking.

Choose ME!

2005-06-08T11:48:00.000Z

So, if you read yesterday's rambling, guilt-fuelled post carefully, you will have noticed that last week I put in an application for a flat. Though printed very neatly and filled out in a very correct fashion, it was perhaps a cheeky application. I asked if I could have a dog. I asked if they would take out the carpet in the bathroom. I asked if they would pretty please switch the cooker in the kitchen to gas, as I really don't like electric hobs very much. And then, in case they were still reading, I asked for a 10% rent reduction. And so, last night I got a wildly impersonal voice-mail in which I was informed that the owner preferred another applicant and that the decision was final. Now, you might think I would be disappointed in not getting this flat, but reasonable, as I knew from the start that I was asking a lot. But do you think I would be absolutely gutted, and would then spend half an hour bawling on the sofa and then drink most of a bottle of wine? If you answered 'No, what a childish and spoiled thing to do, you drunk!', then you obviously don't know me very well.

After being mystified as to why I am an hysterical idiot I tried to figure things out a little, and here is my moment of pop self-psychoanalysis. First of all: I was rejected for a flat. They preferred another applicant to me. They preferred someone else to me? What the fuck. How dare someone prefer another person TO ME?! So, as a recommendation to my readers, in case you do prefer other people to me (I don't recommend this, as I am much better), please don't let me know. I will go beserk.

Then, I had some nightmares last night. Granted, they were in large part related to Sin City, which we went to see on Sunday. If you are a comic book anorak I think you should go see it. If you are interested in modernised versions of film noir I think you should go see it. If you are a teenaged boy who doesn't get a lot of tail and wants to see some boobies, you should go see it. If you have a stomach of iron and no problems with depictions of electrocution, inherent human capabilities for evil, or violence against women, I think you should go see it. It really was very good. However, if you are 1) a huge fan of either Elijah Wood on his own or 2) of the Lord of the Rings movies in general, I think you should stay home and watch Flipper or North or one of the Preciouses. Because the movie really was very good, but I am now terrified that Elijah is waiting for me somewhere, very quietly, with his creepy, long fingernails and misguided, hungry wolf-dog.

However, I think the nightmares are only partially Elijah's fault (though if I do ever see him I will blame him entirely, and then run away). It seems to me that they are vaguely related to a series of nightmares I had my last year of undergrad when I had no idea what I was going to do after I graduated, where I would go, and whether or not I would have to live in a box under the freeway. Anxiety dreams, I was told. In one some coyotes came to my parents' house and ate my father and my dog, then turned into lumberjacks and abducted my sister's best friend. It was nice.

And so, the moral of the story is this: if you have a lovely one-bedroom flat with period features, beautiful wood floors, pristine white walls, and lovely big windows, and it is located not more than a 5 minute walk from my current flat, do let me know. I am a nice tenant, despite being self-centred, vain, spoiled, prone to anxiety, and now very afraid of Elijah Wood. Lots of people do prefer me (or so they say). I prefer me. You should too.

Random Nonsense (written in guilty desperation)

2005-06-06T12:46:00.000Z

I really was going to go start the mountain of reading I have, but my guilt (read: desire for procrastination) has overwhelmed me, and so I must write something. And I couldn't wait any longer, or the things I was going to say would no longer be even vaguely relevant.

So, the first excitement of the last couple weeks: My burn. I know, it is horribly masturbatory of me to get so excited about my own wounds, and to hope for brusies with lots of colours and big scabs, but I can't help it. It is the most personally entertaining part of being self-obsessed (oh, and if you are reading this and also have a blog, you too are self-obsessed, so don't feel so high and mighty). For those people I haven't already tortured with endless chat about my burn, I was pouring some boiling stock into a container and spilled a bit. Then I tried to make like the Hulk and bang the lid on. What happened was on par with some of the Hulk's most destructive episodes; I shot the firey container of boiling liquid right at my torso, it exploded everywhere, leaving me with second-degree burns all across the right side of my abdomen. Second degree, baby. True woundage. It is now sort-of healing and looks like a combination of an old sunburn and a bit of mange that inner-city squirrels get sometimes. Really nice.

Anyway, the best thing about the burn is that I think I might have cured my fascination for being Martha Stewarty and making any spare bits of chicken and other animal bits into obscene amounts of stock which fill up the freezer for no good reason.

What should be more exciting (but which actually has concerned me far less) was that I had my viva last Thursday, and escaped through it relatively unscathed. Except for the mountain of corrections that I have to do in the next couple months so I can actually start my next joyful degree. But apparently everyone gets those (if you have recently passed your viva in a festival of adoration and had no corrections, only the obsequious fawning of your examiners, please keep it to yourself).

And that is all. There are other things that happened, like I put in an application for a new flat, and some drinking shenanigans (Foster's by the pitcher is not a good idea, even if it is on special offer), and some cooking and eating and movies. I went home for ten days ages ago, but by the time the jetlag wore off I was no longer even slightly interested in writing about what I had done (mostly gardening, it was nice). Desperate Housewives is over, which is disappointing because now my Wednesdays seem to have no purpose, and also disappointing because the seaosn finale wasn't as good as I expected it to be. Enough now. Perhaps I'll be back in a month or more, if I manage to cut myself quite badly, or if another world leader dies and I can pontificate about how much I loathe his sucessor even more than I hated him. That will be exciting...

It's about religion?

2005-04-20T11:58:00.000Z

No matter how I manage to neglect my blog, did you really think that the election of a new Pope could pass without me making some sort of comment? The election of a new Pope who seems to be (if possible) even more fundamentalist and narrow-minded than the last Pope? A Pope who has publicly denounced homoesexuality as a debauched sin? And said that the Church had better work a bit harder to minimise the participation of nasty, sinful, distracting females in Mass? A Pope who chastised some of the Catholic clergy of Asia for their belief that the existence of other religions was an acceptable part of God's plan?

But the truth is, I don't really have a proper comment. I have been a recovering Catholic for a long time, but unfortunately old habits die hard, and I am in truth just really disappointed that the Vatican has again shown itself to be utterly backward. Oddly enough I went to church this weekend, though not for religious reasons-- I was in Durham, and the Cathedral is so incredible it nearly reduced me to tears (if I worship anything it is almost certainly Medieval architecture. Possibly cheese). I had an extra hour to kill until Jeff was done with his conference, and they had an evensong mass. So I went along because I like choral singing, even if I don't usually much like what they sing about.

This time was no exception-- everyone sang with great gusto and the cathedral remained gorgeous, but the hymns were about sin, the readings were about sin. The blessing, because we were in northern England, was about Newcastle hopefully winning that afternoon's game. Despite my usual aversion to football this was actually one of my favourite bits, because the continual harping about how undeserving we are, and how evil we are, and how God is so wonderful to forgive us for our disgusting ways was as disillusioning this time as it was throughout my entire childhood. And then the organist felt the power of somebody who wasn't JC and started to miss notes before going into what seemed to be the score of Frankenstein-- written by a fourteen-year-old wearing black nail polish. It degraded from there and I was forcibly reminded of why the last time I went to Mass was nearly three years ago.

It was the low-point of a very good weekend, though, and as far as low-points go it was at least vaguely stimulating, even if the stimulation was such that it made me want to scream. And the Cathedral is still one of the best things I have seen, so perhaps I can be as magnanimous as God, and forgive memebers of the churches for their primary sin, which is, of course, being so concerned with sin.

Other exciting things--
Durham has a really naff 'Oriental' Museum. Actually, it has a lot of interesting stuff in it, but is arranged terribly. Apparently they want to change the name, but can't think of anything better. I think just about anything else would be better.
Northern England is not the idyllic land of farmers and ruddy-cheeked towns-folk that I have invented in my mind. It doesn't really matter how many times I venture 'cross the border-- each time I am utterly gutted that they have Burger King and New Look, too.
In an uncharacteristic moment of Martha Stewart-type cleanliness, I tried to bleach the bathtub on Monday. Tried. What I succeded in doing was squirting Cif Lemon onto the bath and forgetting it for about eight hours. I was reminded that night when Jez came out of the bathroom and said, 'I think I just took a bath in Cif Lemon.' His skin has not yet begun to fall off in chunks, but it may only be a matter of time. My penance (self-assigned) is that I will never clean the bath again.

When I Get There, Please Let Me Die.

2005-03-21T15:21:00.000Z

I am utterly horrified by this whole mess with the Vegetable Woman and her new Saviour, George W. Not surprised, of course-- like any rational person I now expect the current White House adminsitration to hop happily onto whatever religious bandwagon will work best for platforming and proselytizing.
In truth, I haven't yet figured out how to put my horror into words, but I assure you-- if I am in that state, and any of you try to keep some rational, loving friend from pulling the plug, when I do die, I will come back and haunt the bejesus out of you.
If you want to be horrified, too: The Guardian's 'Bush Intervenes in Right-to-Die Case'

An Occassion For New Gloves?

2005-03-17T12:45:00.000Z

The Guardian has an article online today about animal rights and sentinence, a topic about which I feel rather strongly. But, as an historian, I was distracted by the author's brief mention of 'the not-so-distant past when Europeans - and some Americans - dressed animals up, put them on trial for heinous crimes and executed them.' I had a moment of annoyance about people's poor scholarship, until I read through the rest of the article. Finally the animal trial reference was explained. Apparently:

'In his book, The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals, 19th-century American scholar Edward Payson Evans chronicles animal trials that took place, mainly in Europe, between the ninth and 19th centuries.
'Evans' account was taken from the earlier published records of one Bartholomé Chassenée, a 16th-century French jurist who made his reputation as counsel for an unspecified number of rats. The rats were prosecuted in the ecclesiastical court of Autun for having feloniously eaten and wantonly destroyed local barley.
'One of the most notorious cases Evans describes was the public execution in 1386 of an infanticidal sow in the French town of Falaise. Having been convicted by a court of law, the sow was dressed in human clothes and executed in the main square by an official hangman who had been given a new pair of gloves to mark the solemnity of the occasion.
'Sometimes the condemned were offered clemency. According to Evans, youth could be grounds for acquittal, as in the prosecution of a sow and her six piglets for having murdered and partly devoured a child. The sow was sentenced to death, but the piglets were acquitted on account of their immaturity and the bad example set them by their mother.'

Ri-ight. This is historical weirdness at its best, so I will ignore the part of my brain that says that the pig almost certainly received a more humane death than most animals in the slaughterhouse today. But, in order to spark some sort of response from my three readers, I am going to ask for opinions on a question that has troubled me for some time: Why is it that when many people hear of the death of a child they are shocked and horrified, but the deaths of young animals don't seem to elicit any sort of response? This is actually a genuine question, but because of that I will not accept a chauvinistic and simplistic 'Because they are human!' as an answer. But do let me know if you have any thoughts.

A few notes on today...

2005-03-09T11:50:00.000Z

There is a new addition to the busking scene on George IV Bridge near the belly dancing store: a trumpeter. Playing Waltzing Mathilda. This was so exciting to me that instead of heading to the library I actually crossed the street to empty all the change out of my wallet. And it was only then that I realised that The Trumpeter not only plays a jaunty instrument, but he has a very charming black lab. So good.

On a less good note, while reading the comments at Manolo's blog I found out that there is to be a remake of Flashdance. Starring Jennifer Lopez. Dear God. I bet Jennifer Beals wishes she was dead, so that she could properly turn in her grave.

Also of interest (though neither negative nor positive, as far as I am concerned): Google is in Gaelic today. I am not sure why.

2005-02-25T10:44:00.000Z

Ah, in case you haven't read dear Orkney Dullard's comment below and checked out Go Fug Yourself, I sincerely recommend you do. This is true snarkiness. The level of snark that I would express if I had time/motivation. Admirable and excellent.

Vicious Cycle

2005-02-24T12:21:00.000Z

I feel a bit guilty for not writing anything recently, and the guilt is compounded when I read the many glorious posts on my favourite blog, Manolo's Shoe Blog. This blog, it is super-fantastic. The Manolo, he is the shit.
However, I feel less guilty because I am don't think anyone is reading my blog. Granted, that might be because I don't write anything. Ah, the vicious cycle.

A few notes on using the telephone...

2005-02-14T16:16:00.000Z

The weekend was a tempestuous mixture of good and evil-- mostly it was fun, but someone also nicked my wallet, which does sort of put a damper on things. However, there is a silver lining even on this cloud (which is quite dark, as I particularly liked my wallet), as one of the finest weekend moments occurred while I was cancelling my credit cards. I dialed 1.800. something-I-can't-remember.5878, which I had written down as the VISA cancelling number. In case you were wondering, this number is not correct. You would actually want to dial 5678, unless you were actually looking to be greeted by a throaty voice saying: 'Heee-llllo, Handsome. Looking for the raunchiest live phone sex? Then hang up now and dial 800.10.10, only 89 cents a minute... Baa-aby. Let's go, hot stuff.' While I was intrigued, it was not by Bambi/Trixie's compliments on my assets, but by the distinct changes in her voice: sort of dead-souled spinster receptionist when giving the numbers and prices, and then completely different (wannabe Bond-girl, really) when she was telling me what a stud I am. It is even more upsetting as even if I had wanted raunchy live chat I no longer have a credit card, and so Trixie would almost certainly deny me her lovin'. Capitalist bitch.

On a vaguely related note, this morning I answered the phone to one of my greatest pet peeves. The conversation went like this:
Dev: Hello?
Stranger: Hello.
Dev: Hello?
Stranger: Yes.
Dev: Can I help you?
Stranger: Who is this?
Dev: I'm sorry, but who is this?
If this person calls ME, in my own home, in what universe do they have the right to ask who I am? I rate this sort of phone activity right up there with the incidents in my early teenage years where a boy would call 'to talk,' but not actually have anything to say, and would just breathe heavily into the receiver, or worse yet, play the guitar.

Other things happened this weekend, including a dinner party, a night out at the pub, a great deal of cooking and dish-washing, a movie, and quite a bit of TV, but I thought I would stick with a theme. Mostly because I am lazy, and can't be bothered to write a blow-by-blow of it all. Just as I assume you wouldn't be bothered to read it.

2005-02-01T11:29:00.000Z

I have been reminded of my failure to mention two additional exciting events of this weekend:
1) The indie creations of Tiny Monkey on Friday night were wondrously supported by the return of Josh on the decks. Unfortunately, Jeff and I left to tend to the washing machine shortly after he began, so I cannot report on the value thereof. It does seem that he got a round of applause at the end-- a vast improvement from Gaia, the previous regular venue, where I think one's sucess is measured by how many underage drinkers vomit alco-pops on the dance floor...
2) It was Bekah's birthday. I may be 4,000 miles away, but it remains a momentous occasion.

Monkey Rock v. Monkey Rule

2005-01-31T13:21:00.000Z

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.

Blog-stipation

2005-01-27T13:26:00.000Z

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.

First Try...

2004-11-11T18:15:00.000Z

After much harranguing from the peanut gallery I have finally given in. And so begins my blog-- perhaps not too fortuitously, as I really have nothing to say after having to charge through the online registration nonsense. Granted, it wasn't exactly complicated, but I am very impatient.