I read this in a book today:
"All men are murderers, Juliet thought. All of them. They murder women. They take a woman, and little by little they murder her."*
It made me sit up, that statement. It made me wonder if that was true or not. I've certainly met my fair share of men who are this kind of murderer. I've definitely felt murdered in this way before. But ALL men?
The character in the book, Juliet, she's pissed off because some knob had a bit of a sexist shot at her at a dinner party and her husband, instead of backing her up, he sat back and made some comment about her tits. Lol. Juliet should have a go in my book, see how she feels. I doubt she'd last five minutes. I'd love to see her face when the lads on the trading floor shouted 'beaver' at her. I'd love to see how she reacted when they whistled and shouted the first time she walked in.
But she does have a point about some men, a certain type of man. The kind who has affairs behind his wife's back. The kind who'll shag you in the toilets while she sits sipping vodka and tonic upstairs. This kind of knob needs to be careful. Women can be murderers too....
*From Arlington Park, by Rachel Cusk (which is a very good read, if you wanna know about it...)
Thursday, 12 June 2008
Sunday, 25 May 2008
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Been around the world....
So I've not had time to blog for a bit. Been travelling. Hong Kong, Chicago, and home via New York.
I love New York City. It was a love affair from the moment I first set foot there, some, well, some years ago. My first trip there didn't end so well, but that's another story, and not one I'm going to go into here.
There's something about being in New York. I've only ever been for short stays, which adds to the magic because you're a bit jetlagged, so it feels like your soul's moved to the right of your body just a step. Not that I believe in that soul shit, but it's the best way I can think to describe it. It's like your brain is set to echo mode. Things take just that little bit longer to happen, or to be processed as happening. Sounds vibrate. Music seems louder and yet further away because your ears haven't recovered from the flight.
Most of all, being in New York is like being in a theme park. It's a city that feels like a reproduction of itself. You've seen the streets and buildings that you pass a million times before, on TV, in the movies. The brown stones with the metal fire escapes cascading down them, they look like they belong in a film studio. The walk and don't walk signs. The trucks with big noses. The steaming grates on the 'sidewalk'.
I love it I love it I love it. I'm gonna move here. I like American men too - the accent just does something for me. But don't tell Jase that ;)
I love New York City. It was a love affair from the moment I first set foot there, some, well, some years ago. My first trip there didn't end so well, but that's another story, and not one I'm going to go into here.
There's something about being in New York. I've only ever been for short stays, which adds to the magic because you're a bit jetlagged, so it feels like your soul's moved to the right of your body just a step. Not that I believe in that soul shit, but it's the best way I can think to describe it. It's like your brain is set to echo mode. Things take just that little bit longer to happen, or to be processed as happening. Sounds vibrate. Music seems louder and yet further away because your ears haven't recovered from the flight.
Most of all, being in New York is like being in a theme park. It's a city that feels like a reproduction of itself. You've seen the streets and buildings that you pass a million times before, on TV, in the movies. The brown stones with the metal fire escapes cascading down them, they look like they belong in a film studio. The walk and don't walk signs. The trucks with big noses. The steaming grates on the 'sidewalk'.
I love it I love it I love it. I'm gonna move here. I like American men too - the accent just does something for me. But don't tell Jase that ;)
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Margaret Thatcher versus the Blow Job
I have a little game for ya. I call it Margaret Thatcher versus the Blow Job.
First, get your friends talking about Mrs Thatcher. The most effective way to do this is to get them in a room, make sure there's at least one loony lefty there, and suggest that old milk snatcher might have done some things good for the country. It never fails. Soon you'll find debate, insults and four letter words (sometimes beer) fly round the table.
Next, say something like 'Fuck this for a game of soldiers. Why we talking about Mrs Thatcher when we could be talking about something more interesting?' Suggest to your friends they start talking about blow jobs instead. Note how they all laugh, and giggle, and start talking about blow jobs.
But then, before you can even believe it, notice how the conversation flows right back to Mrs T.
Mention blow jobs again.
Watch how you end up back on Mrs T.
Do this until you get bored and note the count. That's your score.
My highest was 22. What a night! Lol.
First, get your friends talking about Mrs Thatcher. The most effective way to do this is to get them in a room, make sure there's at least one loony lefty there, and suggest that old milk snatcher might have done some things good for the country. It never fails. Soon you'll find debate, insults and four letter words (sometimes beer) fly round the table.
Next, say something like 'Fuck this for a game of soldiers. Why we talking about Mrs Thatcher when we could be talking about something more interesting?' Suggest to your friends they start talking about blow jobs instead. Note how they all laugh, and giggle, and start talking about blow jobs.
But then, before you can even believe it, notice how the conversation flows right back to Mrs T.
Mention blow jobs again.
Watch how you end up back on Mrs T.
Do this until you get bored and note the count. That's your score.
My highest was 22. What a night! Lol.
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Spaced...
Last night I was so tired I was hallucinating. Who needs acid when you can starve yourself of sleep? Someone once told me that you die faster from lack of sleep than either thirst or starvation and I didn't believe them but I did decide that seeing things was a sign I'd gone too far. It wasn't like I saw goblins or unicorns, just people who weren't really there, but still...
I arrived yesterday in Seattle on a business trip so jetlag played its part, but I added to my own troubles by skipping a night's sleep on Saturday. I wasn't out, or on anything, I just didn't go to bed. Sometimes I do this. It's not exactly a choice. I have nightmares that are terrifying and, after a few nights in a row, I avoid my bed for as long as I can. (Until I start hallucinating.)
Seattle is a trip, it really is, whichever way you look at it. The most surprising thing I've found here is that the major landmark is smaller than I thought it would be. This is at odds with what I expect from landmarks. In my experience, they are always much bigger than you can ever imagine. You always think you're much closer to them than you are because of their sheer bloody size. The number of times I've unwisely tried to walk to places like the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building because I look at them and think 'a few blocks' and it's actually fifty. So when I saw the Space Needle from my hotel last night, I didn't get too excited.
You know that old saying about buildings not being small, but being far away? Well when we went exploring to find breakfast this morning, and walked towards the Space Needle, I realised it wasn't far away; it was small. And there's nothing on it except the viewing deck at the top, where there's bar and restaurant and signs to show you what you can see from the windows. The Needle was built for some expo, as a concept building to represent the the way the world might be in the future. Which is kind of screwy, if you think about it, because why would anyone build a huge structure like that to put a few rooms at the top? Not exactly an efficient use of land or resources.
I've warmed to Seattle. I think it's the kind of place I could spend a lot of time. I've visited Chicago, and New York, and I liked them too but I couldn't go back. There's history there I think would come back to haunt me.
Tonight Jason wants to eat at the top of the Space Needle. I'm trying to think of ways to get out of it. I just don't like heights. Heights, and dreams, I'd rather avoid them. I'm spending the rest of the afternoon pinching myself, and thinking up an excuse about tonight. My arms are a mess from all the pinching, my head from the dreams.
I arrived yesterday in Seattle on a business trip so jetlag played its part, but I added to my own troubles by skipping a night's sleep on Saturday. I wasn't out, or on anything, I just didn't go to bed. Sometimes I do this. It's not exactly a choice. I have nightmares that are terrifying and, after a few nights in a row, I avoid my bed for as long as I can. (Until I start hallucinating.)
Seattle is a trip, it really is, whichever way you look at it. The most surprising thing I've found here is that the major landmark is smaller than I thought it would be. This is at odds with what I expect from landmarks. In my experience, they are always much bigger than you can ever imagine. You always think you're much closer to them than you are because of their sheer bloody size. The number of times I've unwisely tried to walk to places like the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building because I look at them and think 'a few blocks' and it's actually fifty. So when I saw the Space Needle from my hotel last night, I didn't get too excited.
You know that old saying about buildings not being small, but being far away? Well when we went exploring to find breakfast this morning, and walked towards the Space Needle, I realised it wasn't far away; it was small. And there's nothing on it except the viewing deck at the top, where there's bar and restaurant and signs to show you what you can see from the windows. The Needle was built for some expo, as a concept building to represent the the way the world might be in the future. Which is kind of screwy, if you think about it, because why would anyone build a huge structure like that to put a few rooms at the top? Not exactly an efficient use of land or resources.
I've warmed to Seattle. I think it's the kind of place I could spend a lot of time. I've visited Chicago, and New York, and I liked them too but I couldn't go back. There's history there I think would come back to haunt me.
Tonight Jason wants to eat at the top of the Space Needle. I'm trying to think of ways to get out of it. I just don't like heights. Heights, and dreams, I'd rather avoid them. I'm spending the rest of the afternoon pinching myself, and thinking up an excuse about tonight. My arms are a mess from all the pinching, my head from the dreams.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
It's like Frankie Cavanagh.... on acid....
It's a great phrase that one, on acid. People use it all the time and I don't think they consider what they're saying at all.
"It's like the Wombles, on acid." So what would that mean, exactly? Wombling free, they start to tidy up but get so fascinated with one Snickers wrapper they sit and stare at it for three hours and no one can rouse them? Cos that's the kind of thing people do on acid.
People use that phrase when they're trying to describe something or someone who's that little bit wackier, crazier or more fun than what they're comparing them to. But my experience is that people on acid are boring to be around. Sure, they're having a good time, busy in their head with all sorts of crap. They can examine the curve of the back of someone's head for an hour, and go on you about its shape, hypnotised by the golden ratio or some shit. They giggle to themselves and don't share the joke.
I once watched my boyfriend Jase on acid, sitting at his computer giggling at the titles of his junk mail. He kept reading the headers, then collapsing with how funny he thought it was. I have to admit, he did get me going after a while reading all that shit that comes through about bigger penises and more ejaculate, and Nigerian businessmen with money to give him if he would just send them his bank account details and passwords. It was even kind of funny when he decided to google 'Google' to see what would happen. Not much, obviously, but enough to make Jase fall on the floor and laugh for about an hour.
The two worst experiences of my life involved LSD. But I ain't going there here or now or anytime. All I'll say is that this bloke I knew, well, he was like Frankie Cavanagh on acid. And that's pretty mad, by anyone's standards, I got to admit.
"It's like the Wombles, on acid." So what would that mean, exactly? Wombling free, they start to tidy up but get so fascinated with one Snickers wrapper they sit and stare at it for three hours and no one can rouse them? Cos that's the kind of thing people do on acid.
People use that phrase when they're trying to describe something or someone who's that little bit wackier, crazier or more fun than what they're comparing them to. But my experience is that people on acid are boring to be around. Sure, they're having a good time, busy in their head with all sorts of crap. They can examine the curve of the back of someone's head for an hour, and go on you about its shape, hypnotised by the golden ratio or some shit. They giggle to themselves and don't share the joke.
I once watched my boyfriend Jase on acid, sitting at his computer giggling at the titles of his junk mail. He kept reading the headers, then collapsing with how funny he thought it was. I have to admit, he did get me going after a while reading all that shit that comes through about bigger penises and more ejaculate, and Nigerian businessmen with money to give him if he would just send them his bank account details and passwords. It was even kind of funny when he decided to google 'Google' to see what would happen. Not much, obviously, but enough to make Jase fall on the floor and laugh for about an hour.
The two worst experiences of my life involved LSD. But I ain't going there here or now or anytime. All I'll say is that this bloke I knew, well, he was like Frankie Cavanagh on acid. And that's pretty mad, by anyone's standards, I got to admit.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
It wasn't me...
Saw this today in the papers and it caught my attention. Honest guvnor, nothing to do with my good self.
No animals, plants or invertebrate sea creatures were harmed in the making of this blog.
No animals, plants or invertebrate sea creatures were harmed in the making of this blog.
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