I am still using the Mystery Meat setting on my iPod, and not all the way through sampling every song on there. I don't have everything I want on there yet, but what I do have keeps me pretty entertained. So on the way back and forth to the office I hook up the thing to a crappy radio adapter, and sing along. Loudly (as if you didn't know already).
First one on the list this afternoon was one of my own songs. Listening to it, and realizing that I was the person who wrote it, I decided that I'd go with the idea I had for a new site redesign and start on it right away. You can only let procrastination win for so long before it becomes boring, and you become stupid. Now to find a flattering photo to use... good luck and godspeed on that one.
Next was Stewart Copeland's "Strange Things Happen". I had been in the middle of pre-ordering his unreleased book by this same name last night before I was foiled by a glitch on the website, so I was actually heading home to complete that order before my computer packed it in and lost my shopping cart.
I know a whole bunch of folks who are even more thrilled about the release of this book than I am. They have probably already predicted what strange things have happened in the story. After Sting's rather sparse (read: non-gossipy) account of the band's history, and then Andy Summer's more rambunctious joyride through his Police memories, I'm wondering if being last to tell the tale has its merits.
And Stewart talks the way other people write. You can never be sure just what the man will say -- you know it will be absolutely unfiltered, and chances are it will be surprising. But while other people take some time to think up clever answers and spend time thinking about what they are writing, and what they SHOULD be writing, and the best words to say it with... well... that stuff just comes rapidfire right out of his mouth. With no thesaurus-thumbing and really no thinking gap at all. There's barely a chance to really take in the full meaning of what he's just said before he goes on to something else. I'm amazed and impressed with this ability because I've never met anyone like this in my entire life. I wish I could think in words that quickly. But because he talks like other people write... what is he going to write?
Anyway. I've just now finished my pre-order of the book, along with a second readable copy of Andy's "One Train Later" (the autographed one from Luminato is now untouchable). Like the rest of us, Stewart's put out some questionable stuff (and I'm willing to take my licks on that from the nutters -- plus I'm first in line to showcase some of the really horrible songs I'm forced to take credit for myself) but this book is going to be something to really look forward to and devour no matter how it turns out. And there's always the chance of a booksigning tour :)
Would you ever want to be a model? Why or why not?
I actually was a model. Once. It was such a terrible experience that I refused to ever do it again.
I got to dress in all sorts of really neat clothes, but it was the kind of show where the models walked among the seated guests. And these guests simply reached out and touched the clothes, ostensibly for rubbing thumb and forefinger against the fabric to check out texture and content, but it was creepy as all hell. I had no warning at all, they never spoke, there were just hands clutching at me and I was uncharmingly yanked back as if I were a trophy fish, free to move again only when they released me. My instructions were to mingle throughout the room and keep my eyes lifted above everyone, and for God's sake, smile. It was like walking through a forest in the dark, where the trees reached out and grabbed you. I absolutely hated it -- their quietly snide comments, their scrutiny, their unseen hands snatching at me, my skinny teenage body being used as a way to sell someone's overly priced merchandise.
I finished the gig and I got the hell out of there and I never looked back. I was asked to model many more times after that (well before I got chubby from having my kids, during my long-gone days as a flat-chested rake). I don't care what the money was like or how many cool clothes I could have collected, or any of the other things that could be said about the career - I only remember their eyes, and how I felt so lonely avoiding the look in them, and how disgustingly edible their scrutiny made me feel.
I'm much, much happier being a programming, classical-music composing, plump nerd than I ever could have been as a clothes pimp. I am 100% sure on that one. I'm glad there are people out there who do it, and I'd be happier still to know that they enjoy it, but that is one career that is just not for me.
Last Saturday, my husband and I went to Toronto for "Shadow Notes" to hang out for an hour with some famous photographers. One of them happened to be Andy Summers.
The photography panel was made up of Andy, Danny Clinch, and Ralph Gibson (gently moderated by Robert Enright). It was held in the Jackman Hall at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a part of the huge Luminato festival, and it ended up being very intimate and jovial. The theatre was cozy and dark, and there were maybe 100 of us in the audience. The staff had prepared slides of each photographer's work and these were projected above their heads during the entire discussion.
If you aren't into photography (or famous photographers) then you might expect the whole discussion to be completely dry and about boring stuff like f-stops and other slang you have to be a shutterbug to know about. I adore photography and I had no idea what I was in for -- the topics ranged from celebrity photos to zen koans to why digital sucks and everything in between. The three of them were great panel guests and would have been equally entertaining if the topic had been burritos. I was impressed by their willingness to share tips (how to get into concerts to take photos) and what drives them to do what they do (if they don't, they'll go insane).
Andy Summers told his "Every Breath You Take" story, defended digital photography, and explained how he made lists of things to take photos of when on tour with the Police so he wouldn't forget to record everything. One of the audience members (Bruce, who happens to be a friend of mine) asked him about how he views the 'ordinary' now and they all discussed how they see things differently than most people. Andy can take a photo of a bowl on a hotel bed and get art... the rest of us just think "housekeeping!".
Danny Clinch had the most amazing aura, he told some fabulous stories and after the event was over he walked out the front door with a clump of us, to catch his daughter's recital. Ralph Gibson was definitely more traditional in his views and topics and gave a very interesting perspective on digital photography (comparing it, somehow, to using the phone). The moderator participated only to direct questions and he was splendid, letting everyone talk and laughing along with the rest of us.
After the discussion there was, of course, books offered and my husband met all three photographers. He managed to get all of their autographs as well -- neatly stored upside down on a back page of Andy's "One Train Later" book -- and I got an incredible shot of him meeting Andy Summers. Andy's smile was so genuine. And then they rushed Andy out the door, because he is after all Andy Summers, and we collected our coats and books and headed out into the sunshine.
The whole bunch of us (well, almost all of us) met across the street for pub fare. One of the art installations started -- a very loud audio and video decent into hell and fear, apparently -- and was truly a disturbing backdrop to both digestion and discussion. But it was great to hang out with nutter friends again, and dish about book covers and ex-girlfriends and why I embarrassingly can't remember that one guy's name. And then my husband and I walked down to the open-air photo exhibit, giant photos from the panel mounted on freestanding structures among the throngs of people in Yonge and Dundas square, to take photos of the photos (and take photos of me with the photos of photos -- or something).
This weekend is the last of this year's Luminato festival, and if you can make it down to the Harborfront Centre you'll be treated to a free Cirque du Soleil concert. We're going to go if the weather holds... if you're going to be there too, let me know :)
Today is Repeat Day, so we want to know: what song do you have currently have on repeat? Bonus points if you share it with us!
This morning as I drove into work I put my iPod on "Mystery Meat", which basically means I scorn any pre-made playlist I've made and just set it to "Songs". It's the first time I've done so in a very long time and I didn't even skip over any that came up. I was treated to Beastie Boys, Francois Dompierre, a few of my own songs (out of the hundreds I have loaded two of my own came up, probably as a reminder to clear them out), Andy Bell, The Ramones, and Flight of the Conchords. Then Stewart Copeland's (officially Klark Kent's) "Away From Home" came on. I've heard it LOTS of times, probably more times than my kids could stand hearing it. At my house, my Blackberry doesn't ring... my kids say, "Mum! Your phone is making that Stewart Copeland sound!" But I hadn't heard this particular song lately as I have two of his other ones on my favourite playlist instead, and for some reason this morning, it was like I was hearing this song for the first time.
I was laughing hysterically, so much so that I think the car behind me was calling the men in white jackets with giant nets. And I had previously passed her because she'd almost gone right off the road, so you know SHE wasn't in her right mind to begin with, so who was she to judge?
Anyway, I'm huge into the bonus points thing (even though they mean nothing) because I'm a big nerd and need all sorts of external approval, so I've uploaded it to share. I'm not sure it you'll find it as entertaining as I did -- certainly not enough for me to want you to cause any car accidents -- but it's an awesome track and fun to listen to while sipping locally-roasted coffee and trying not to eyeball some death rays at fellow commuters.
Show us your wristwatch.
Yes, they are doing what you think they are doing. And they do it glowing in the dark, too.
Oh, and it gets better: tap the watch and both hands collect at midnight, and then swing together to a random position.
Talk about a conversation starter...
About 15 years ago I started hanging out at a chat site, and I've been a part of the community there ever since. For the most part, we're a pretty cool bunch... I met one of my bridesmaids there and we are still RT friends... and we do stuff like donate huge amounts of cash to specific charities and collect toys for kids at Christmas. I'm a "lifetime" member, and although that means I have a paid and permanent account until the site disappears, that community was a HUGE part of my life for quite some time and will probably continue to be a part of it in some way.
After the honeymoon wore off for the chatting aspect, we all started hanging around a room where posts didn't scroll off. It was more of a corkboard than chat, and because it existed before blogs did, we all posted on a regular basis about our lives and stuff that was happening on the planet. I remember writing a hell of a lot of content and absorbing the responses, a thrill beyond compare. And then one day I realized that I was living my life and writing a corkpost about it... as the event was unfolding. My life was a corkpost. I bolted. And then I came back, with less to say about my life but doing more stuff in it.
Then blogging came along. Fabulous -- and familiar, of course, being a writer and diarist and having been through the whole cork experience. The only difference was that I could post in a blog, and it would not scroll off. I could write and post and leave, at my convenience. Addictive without being an obsession. Perfect for someone like me who has sporadic time slots for writing and surfing and connecting online.
Now there's Twitter. I signed up years ago, shortly after it came out, and sent Tweets and read Tweets and loved the microblogging aspect. I pulled my account when I started getting multiple requests from spammers and there was no way to block them (I believe there is now, though) but I signed back on with a "protected" account not long after that. When I got my Blackberry Bold I installed Twitterberry, and can send Tweets without having to go to my computer (now mostly unavailable to me because I'm either at the office or my kids are using it). Quick and tasty, just the way I like it.
Except: unlike blogging, I am finding that I've reverted to my old cork ways. When I do something, anything at all, I have a short sentence in my head, like a Facebook status update, that would fit in Twitter's limited amount of characters.
Michelle thinks [insert inane nonsense here].
Michelle has finally dragged herself out of bed and turned on her Blackberry for the day.
Michelle is out of the shower and rubbing lotion on her ass.
And this is not good. I can still blog through my Bold and send it to Vox, but it's something I've written about, and requires much more thought and actual brain processing than two thumbs and a synaptic outburst. I think this is a sign: I'll have to pull my Twitter, and bolt, the same way I did from the cork so many years ago. I think I have -- and I think just about everyone else has, too -- so much more to say and share than just short explosions of 140 characters or less.
And most of all, we need to stop living our lives that way, too.
My husband loves coconut. So when I found this recipe the other day, it immediately went onto an index card. Since the office is closed today and I'm at home it was the perfect time to try it out, shove it in the oven (visions of Hansel and Gretel), and take the dog out for a long walk. It's still cooling... but I did get a taste when I checked to see if it was done. Will be perfect with a cup of dark-roast coffee and lots of thick cream.
In February, I was in Second Life and tried to pay my rent. PayPal refused to send me the money that had been deposited in my account -- and then told me it had "limited access" to my account. In other words, I can't touch my own money because they said so.
The reason? "Our system detected unusual charges to a credit card linked to your PayPal account." WTF does that even mean? Well, I'll tell you. It means that they can shut down access to your account until they make you jump through some hoops they've set on fire. When you have emerged on the other side, they still won't let you touch your money. I've verified and done everything they asked, the site says there is nothing left for me to do to let them allow me to have access to my own money, but the account is still locked. Don't tell me to shut my account down -- you can't do that, either, with this "limited access" chained to my account.
I've called their toll-free number and so far my phone timer says it's been a 14 minute wait. I'm taking votes to see who comes closest to the winning time.
I'll also take votes on the year you think PayPal will actually allow me access to my own money again.
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network
Not like it needs to be increased at all, but this one track will probably triple Bret's fan base. His mates might call him Chicken Torso, but this guy with honey on him? He's the mother flippin' rhymenoceros, for reals. I can't wait for next week's episode... will it be the last one ever?
Recent Comments
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Pleasantville said:
Never, never have been asked, wanted to, or thought about modeling and walking through any bar being gawked at has... read more
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shy said:
this is incredible! you have some mad skills! read more
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[this is good]Thanks for the heads up about his book. I don't really follow his career too closely but I've loved him... read more
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yyyyyyyyyyyyikes, sounds like the worst experience ever. at least you got out before you started dating a member of good... read more
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