Last night M asks, as he cooks lentil and chard soup, whether there's anything on the 'tellybox' (this is what people from the 70s call it, I gather). I go look it up. Of course there is stuff on, but most of it, as usual, appears to involve a) football or b) quiz/reality/talent shows designed and presented by obscenely well-paid people which dangle transient fame or potentially-large-but-almost-certainly-small cash sums in front of the kinds of people willing to abase themselves on camera in pursuit of the same. I have zero interest in the former, and the latter make me feel kind of hollow inside.
Well, I said, Miami Vice is on at 9?
Maybe I was still stuck in my A-level reverie. I remember my Geography teacher looking me up and down when I first turned up in the sixth form in my regulation grey suit (the grey was regulation, but the suit itself was up to you) and saying 'how come everyone else looks like they're at school and you look like you're auditioning for a part in Miami Vice?' I was secretly very pleased. Not quite as pleased as I was four years later when I was sitting on the Backs in my dungarees, reading Kate Millett, I wouldn't be surprised, and one of my friends came by and said 'how come everyone else looks like they're at Glyndebourne and you look like you're at Greenham Common?', but still.
Anyway, we watched it. It was kind of shit, of course. Ultimately harmless, probably, though I have even less faith in my 15-year old taste than I used to. And Colin Farrell can't hold a candle to Don Johnson circa '85. At least, so I thought till I did that Google images search.
joella
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The male of the species
I returned my mum's call the night before the night before last. She was still in bed (she works nights). I had a nice chat with my dad.
The night before last she called back, but I was out.
Last night I called. She was out. I had a much shorter chat with my dad.
Tonight, I called. 'She's still not back', he said. I'd forgotten. I thought she'd been at work the previous night, but in fact she is visiting her sister.
My mistake, I said. Do you have anything new to say to me since yesterday?
Not really, he said.
Bye then, I said.
Bye.
Dads are great.
joella
The night before last she called back, but I was out.
Last night I called. She was out. I had a much shorter chat with my dad.
Tonight, I called. 'She's still not back', he said. I'd forgotten. I thought she'd been at work the previous night, but in fact she is visiting her sister.
My mistake, I said. Do you have anything new to say to me since yesterday?
Not really, he said.
Bye then, I said.
Bye.
Dads are great.
joella
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Summer: nowhere near infinite
Like lots of other people, I started the summer with the intention of finishing Infinite Jest by the end of it. It's not going to happen... I am only 400 pages in.
I read like a fiend, but IJ is just so *dense*. I have had to keep taking a break. Interleaved with it over the last couple of months have been the following, all of which are a walk in the park by contrast and which I thoroughly recommend:
joella
I read like a fiend, but IJ is just so *dense*. I have had to keep taking a break. Interleaved with it over the last couple of months have been the following, all of which are a walk in the park by contrast and which I thoroughly recommend:
- Consider the Lobster. Also by David Foster Wallace, but essays rather than a novel. I learnt things about the porn industry from its opener, Big Red Son (originally published as 'Neither Adult Nor Entertainment'), that I really wish I didn't know, so I might counsel against that particular chapter if you are sensitive that way. But the title chapter, plus the ones on 9/11, Tracy Austin and John McCain, are total blinding genius.
- Stieg Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire. I have a weakness for crime novels but I see it *as* a weakness because such books generally deal with crime and violence without doing much (in fact usually doing precisely nothing) to analyse the power structures underlying them. Larsson totally rocks on that front. Both adult and entertainment.
- John Le Carre's latest. I managed my first under-140-character book review on this: Slightly heartbroken at the end of A Most Wanted Man. It seems love will not save the world after all. Not much to add to that, except it's beautifully written and plays you like a pro.
- I think there have been a couple of others, but I forget them now.
joella
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Third Thursday in August
'Can *you* remember getting your A-level results?' said M.
I know he's not actually joking, because I know that he remembers almost nothing about anything. And I can see the advantages of that. As Ani DiFranco wrote about the goldfish, the little plastic castle is a surprise every time.
I can remember getting my A-level results like it was yesterday.
I had two such experiences, as I took General Studies A level in the Lower Sixth, and Maths, Chemistry, Geography and a Cambridge STEP (Sixth Term Examination Paper) in Geography in the Upper Sixth. At least two of these qualifications probably don't exist anymore.
I really enjoyed my General Studies exams. Writing an essay about morals and answering multiple choice spatial reasoning questions was fairly close to my idea of a good time when I was 16. Might still be now, in fact. My boyfriend at the time was in the year above, and took the exact same exam (I took it a year early because I was a geek. I was already a year ahead of myself because I was a precocious geek) at the exact same time. The difference was that he walked out of it early, while I was still chewing my pencil and being thankful I'd revised my Greek gods.
We had to go into school to get our results. By that time he'd dumped me, for a variety of reasons, most (in retrospect) having to do with my non-compliance with 1980s Blackpool girlfriend norms. It was bruising. But it wasn't over. I spent literally hours getting ready. I had my hair in a massive back-combed ponytail with a white scarf round my head, I was wearing copper-coloured eyeshadow and frosted peach lip-gloss, plus a white cotton jersey zip up jacket with shoulder pads and a second-hand black tube skirt. And many, many gypsy-style silver-style bangles. (There are no photos of that day so I can't prove any of this. But I'm ridiculously sure.)
I got an A in my General Studies A level. Like all anxious brainy girls, I never really thought I would. But I wasn't over the moon, as I knew I was *capable* of getting an A. It was more a relief.
I met up with schoolmate S, who wasn't getting any results but came along to hang out anyway, and we went to the Winmarith pub across the road. At some point, E showed up. We pointedly ignored each other for a while, but eventually came face to face.
'You actually look all right', he said, in an 'I'm surprised to find myself not embarrassed at having gone out with you' sort of a way. I presented my new enigmatic 'your loss' look, and put 'I am a rock' on the jukebox. (Again).
E got an F in his General Studies A level.
That day was a turning point for me. Though it still wasn't over.
And yeah, I remember it.
joella
I know he's not actually joking, because I know that he remembers almost nothing about anything. And I can see the advantages of that. As Ani DiFranco wrote about the goldfish, the little plastic castle is a surprise every time.
I can remember getting my A-level results like it was yesterday.
I had two such experiences, as I took General Studies A level in the Lower Sixth, and Maths, Chemistry, Geography and a Cambridge STEP (Sixth Term Examination Paper) in Geography in the Upper Sixth. At least two of these qualifications probably don't exist anymore.
I really enjoyed my General Studies exams. Writing an essay about morals and answering multiple choice spatial reasoning questions was fairly close to my idea of a good time when I was 16. Might still be now, in fact. My boyfriend at the time was in the year above, and took the exact same exam (I took it a year early because I was a geek. I was already a year ahead of myself because I was a precocious geek) at the exact same time. The difference was that he walked out of it early, while I was still chewing my pencil and being thankful I'd revised my Greek gods.
We had to go into school to get our results. By that time he'd dumped me, for a variety of reasons, most (in retrospect) having to do with my non-compliance with 1980s Blackpool girlfriend norms. It was bruising. But it wasn't over. I spent literally hours getting ready. I had my hair in a massive back-combed ponytail with a white scarf round my head, I was wearing copper-coloured eyeshadow and frosted peach lip-gloss, plus a white cotton jersey zip up jacket with shoulder pads and a second-hand black tube skirt. And many, many gypsy-style silver-style bangles. (There are no photos of that day so I can't prove any of this. But I'm ridiculously sure.)
I got an A in my General Studies A level. Like all anxious brainy girls, I never really thought I would. But I wasn't over the moon, as I knew I was *capable* of getting an A. It was more a relief.
I met up with schoolmate S, who wasn't getting any results but came along to hang out anyway, and we went to the Winmarith pub across the road. At some point, E showed up. We pointedly ignored each other for a while, but eventually came face to face.
'You actually look all right', he said, in an 'I'm surprised to find myself not embarrassed at having gone out with you' sort of a way. I presented my new enigmatic 'your loss' look, and put 'I am a rock' on the jukebox. (Again).
E got an F in his General Studies A level.
That day was a turning point for me. Though it still wasn't over.
And yeah, I remember it.
joella
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Staying home, playing out
We spent our holidays at home this year, primarily for financial reasons (roof replacement, window renovation, lodger shortfall) but also because, after a stressful interlude, we have the house back to ourselves for a while, and we wanted to reclaim it. There was a fair amount of reclaiming to do, so we decided to spend the first week dealing with house stuff and the second week resolutely not dealing with anything.
It went pretty well, though we discovered that it takes more time and effort than you would ever think possible to change the colour of a front door from faded, chipped, rattling-paned blue to zingy, glossy, freshly puttied green. It's greener than either of us expected*. But I think it will be fine when we've offset it with some chartreuse foliage. Mmm, chartreuse.
And then I cut down most of the ceanothus - beautiful in May, but a big fat bully the rest of the time - and took it to the tip. And then we cleaned the bathroom to within an inch of its life, and the kitchen to within several inches. Or maybe a couple of feet: the oven was not approached. And then we lay down for a while, rising only for a splendid boozy lunch at Fishers. Boozy lunch! We don't do enough boozy lunch.
And *then*, as I hope the displacement of Ani DiFranco by Mika in my last.fm playlist might indicate, we had visitors. The Finnfans came to stay and we cranked the Oxford-as-pleasure-garden engine up a gear.
It was like a Proper Holiday. We harvested lettuce and gherkins**. We ate lasagne and stewed fruits. We did an epic trek which took in parks South, Headington Hill and University-via-Mesopotamia, the Turf, the Covered Market (for the purchasing of pies and radishes), the towpath, Port Meadow (for the eating of pies and radishes), and the Perch. We called a massive taxi to take us all home because we could walk no further. We went out for pizza and Sambuca. We played late night Jim Steinman**. We applied clay mud masks and sat in deckchairs with slices of cucumber over our eyes while they dried***. Or, if we did not do that, we watched Brazil. We went for afternoon tea in the Old Kitchens at Magdalen College, having first tried to explain to a polite Japanese lady why we were playing Poohsticks on Addisons Walk. We explored the bounties of the Eau de Cologne range carried by Boswells**. Or, if we did not do that, we explored the bounties of the Norrington Room. We went for an early evening swim in Hinksey Pool and made like Putin with the butterfly stroke, only possibly not quite as good. We had a massive fish pie Friday feast, followed by crème brûlée, which M persuaded me to brule with my blowtorch.
Remarkably, we got up early the next day and undertook a joint road trip to Slimbridge Wetland Centre, where we fed geese, admired flamingoes (best done from a distance, they really stink) and fell in love with the rare things with green beaks that honk like pigs. The Finnfans took their leave after lunch, and we wandered a little further, out past hide after hide all the way to the Severn Estuary. On the way we gathered fallen damsons, which are now steeping in gin.
I also got another 80-odd pages of Infinite Jest under my belt, though found that while lying on a blanket by the river, it serves better as a pillow than as a book.
joella
* The colour is called Indian Ivy 5. There will be photos, but it's still not finished and consequently looks a bit shit.
** Appreciate these list items are minority interest. Tho' the rest of you are missing out.
*** I see now the instructions say you should not let them dry out, but that would spoil the fun.
It went pretty well, though we discovered that it takes more time and effort than you would ever think possible to change the colour of a front door from faded, chipped, rattling-paned blue to zingy, glossy, freshly puttied green. It's greener than either of us expected*. But I think it will be fine when we've offset it with some chartreuse foliage. Mmm, chartreuse.
And then I cut down most of the ceanothus - beautiful in May, but a big fat bully the rest of the time - and took it to the tip. And then we cleaned the bathroom to within an inch of its life, and the kitchen to within several inches. Or maybe a couple of feet: the oven was not approached. And then we lay down for a while, rising only for a splendid boozy lunch at Fishers. Boozy lunch! We don't do enough boozy lunch.
And *then*, as I hope the displacement of Ani DiFranco by Mika in my last.fm playlist might indicate, we had visitors. The Finnfans came to stay and we cranked the Oxford-as-pleasure-garden engine up a gear.
It was like a Proper Holiday. We harvested lettuce and gherkins**. We ate lasagne and stewed fruits. We did an epic trek which took in parks South, Headington Hill and University-via-Mesopotamia, the Turf, the Covered Market (for the purchasing of pies and radishes), the towpath, Port Meadow (for the eating of pies and radishes), and the Perch. We called a massive taxi to take us all home because we could walk no further. We went out for pizza and Sambuca. We played late night Jim Steinman**. We applied clay mud masks and sat in deckchairs with slices of cucumber over our eyes while they dried***. Or, if we did not do that, we watched Brazil. We went for afternoon tea in the Old Kitchens at Magdalen College, having first tried to explain to a polite Japanese lady why we were playing Poohsticks on Addisons Walk. We explored the bounties of the Eau de Cologne range carried by Boswells**. Or, if we did not do that, we explored the bounties of the Norrington Room. We went for an early evening swim in Hinksey Pool and made like Putin with the butterfly stroke, only possibly not quite as good. We had a massive fish pie Friday feast, followed by crème brûlée, which M persuaded me to brule with my blowtorch.
Remarkably, we got up early the next day and undertook a joint road trip to Slimbridge Wetland Centre, where we fed geese, admired flamingoes (best done from a distance, they really stink) and fell in love with the rare things with green beaks that honk like pigs. The Finnfans took their leave after lunch, and we wandered a little further, out past hide after hide all the way to the Severn Estuary. On the way we gathered fallen damsons, which are now steeping in gin.
I also got another 80-odd pages of Infinite Jest under my belt, though found that while lying on a blanket by the river, it serves better as a pillow than as a book.
joella
* The colour is called Indian Ivy 5. There will be photos, but it's still not finished and consequently looks a bit shit.
** Appreciate these list items are minority interest. Tho' the rest of you are missing out.
*** I see now the instructions say you should not let them dry out, but that would spoil the fun.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Jetlag dreams
I find myself talking to the landlady of a go-go bar in Oxford on a quiet night when one of the resident dancers hasn't turned up. Apparently these women are very unreliable. So she asks me if I'll do the warm up for the main act, who is the real Bada Bing pole dancing deal.
And so there follow several months where I dance at the same time every week in a tiny room (accessible from an even tinier dressing room, where I smoke roll-ups with the Bada Bing pole dancer and put a lot of make up on), wearing the same dress, which I do not take off and which is entirely unrevealing, to the same song, which does not exist but which can best be described as a cross between Standing In the Way of Control and No More The Fool. I do not use the pole on principle, I am no better a dancer in my dreams than I am in real life (well, maybe a bit), and I get paid in cash that the audience gives to the landlady because there is nowhere in my outfit to stick it.
And I never get busted. This is my secret life until there is a Christmas break, when the landlady is kind of vague about what day she's opening up again. But I pride myself on my reliability, so I am walking round town looking for the alleyway that the bar is down with my dress in a plastic bag, getting a bit panicky because I can't find it and I need to get my make up on before I am on at 9.30. Then I bump into Ex-Schoolmate R and Ex-Housemate S. We have a conversation about the ethics of dancing in bars for money, and then I say I have something to tell them and I'll be back in half an hour.
When I find the bar it has children in it, and I wonder about the ethics of this as well. Then I realise it is under new management, and has in fact turned into a subterranean Chinese children's party venue. It now echoes like a swimming pool and there is lots of screaming.
I feel that I should be pissed off with the landlady for not telling me, but I am secretly relieved that I have got out of the dancing in a bar for money game without letting anyone down. I knew it wasn't really for me.
joella
And so there follow several months where I dance at the same time every week in a tiny room (accessible from an even tinier dressing room, where I smoke roll-ups with the Bada Bing pole dancer and put a lot of make up on), wearing the same dress, which I do not take off and which is entirely unrevealing, to the same song, which does not exist but which can best be described as a cross between Standing In the Way of Control and No More The Fool. I do not use the pole on principle, I am no better a dancer in my dreams than I am in real life (well, maybe a bit), and I get paid in cash that the audience gives to the landlady because there is nowhere in my outfit to stick it.
And I never get busted. This is my secret life until there is a Christmas break, when the landlady is kind of vague about what day she's opening up again. But I pride myself on my reliability, so I am walking round town looking for the alleyway that the bar is down with my dress in a plastic bag, getting a bit panicky because I can't find it and I need to get my make up on before I am on at 9.30. Then I bump into Ex-Schoolmate R and Ex-Housemate S. We have a conversation about the ethics of dancing in bars for money, and then I say I have something to tell them and I'll be back in half an hour.
When I find the bar it has children in it, and I wonder about the ethics of this as well. Then I realise it is under new management, and has in fact turned into a subterranean Chinese children's party venue. It now echoes like a swimming pool and there is lots of screaming.
I feel that I should be pissed off with the landlady for not telling me, but I am secretly relieved that I have got out of the dancing in a bar for money game without letting anyone down. I knew it wasn't really for me.
joella
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)